Corporate
Man sat at the desk in his Donald Jackson office, mind whirring like a cash
counting machine. It had been over an
hour since the bosslady sent him out of her office. In that time he should have been able to come
up with a clear strategy to take her, and that butcher Pink Slip, down.
So far…
nothing.
So far the
only things he’d been able to keep his overly active mind focused on were ways
to trim hours in his department.
So far the
best he’d come up with netted only a three percent increase in four weeks. Would that be enough?
He slapped
his face and shook his head. Focus! He needed to alert Miss Pension about the
situation. Maybe get the Union
in here to clean up this mess. No. He had time.
If he could just focus on this Corporate Whore situation he’d have it
fixed by the end of his shift today.
What if he
told Tess that he needed her to resign?
Told her that it was all part of his plan for Great American Business
Company. It would free up another forty
hours. What kind of increase would that generate
in the bonus structure? His fingers flew
across the ten key, receipt tape clacking out the callous percentages.
He ripped
the paper from the machine, crumpled it quickly, and tossed it into the
trash. Why was he wasting time with such
thoughts?
Focus! Come on!
Focus.
If Tess left the company then all
her work would be dumped on the others.
One of them would surely crumple under the strain. He or she might ask for a reduction in hours,
or quit outright. That would–
ARRRGH! Focus!
He stood up, grabbed his jacket,
and left the office.
He would go back to his
apartment. He would place a call to Miss
Pension ahead of schedule. He’d get all
available Union members on this.
As he walked to his car the
euphoria of the drug called Bonus noticeably diminished. It was like the moment when prolonged hunger
finally turns to nauseous pain. He
patted the pocket of his suit jacket, almost absentmindedly.
The pouch of money was there. And the syringe.
He felt comfort in this.
Twenty-five minutes later he was
home, phone in hand, knuckles white, several digits of Miss Pension’s special
line dialed in. His breath was ragged in
his chest and cold sweats appeared on his brow, his palms, his feet. Even his upper lip.
He put the
hand set back in the cradle, walked to the bathroom, splashed water on his face,
and rubbed the back of his neck. His
hands started to shake and a chill set in.
He needed to call someone. To get
some help.
This was
going to be rough.
And gross.
This was
going to be worse than last time. This
might kill him.
This was
entirely avoidable.
He needn’t
shoot up. All he had to do was finger
the money in that envelope. Direct
contact with the powder that laced those bills would set him right. Then he could focus on the task at hand. Get a call in to Miss Pension.
No. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t let her see him like this. Addicted.
No he needed to suffer through this by himself. The indignities he was about to face were all
but unbearable. And super gross.
And he
needn’t face them at all. Just one
little touch. Simply run a fingertip
across one of those powdered bills. That
would fix him up. That would stop the
nausea, the pain, the shakes. All of
it.
But it
would start again later. He knew
that. Might as well get it over with
now, right? Suffer the withdrawal. Get clean.
But there was Pink Slip to consider.
He would be too weakened to fend her off. What if she came when he was bent over the
toilet retching? His head might end up in
the bowl. Drowned or decapitated.
He sat on
the toilet seat and rubbed his eyes and tried to think.
When he
opened his eyes again he was on the couch, syringe in hand. Light glinting seductively off the greenish
fluid inside the glass cylinder.
Corporate Man was so shocked by the sudden switch that he nearly dropped
it.
He rolled
the syringe back and forth between his fingers.
This was stupid. He didn’t even
know how to do this properly. How hard
could it be? Just find a vein and go for
it. He shook his head. No. He
was no junkie. He was Corporate
Man.
Cramps
doubled him over and his bowels nearly let go of their festering contents. He itched and he ached and, above all else,
he yearned for that greenish fluid.
Just this
once. Just use it to get well and take
that whore out. Just find a vein and
slip it in and–
A prick of
pain flared in his arm, just below the elbow.
And the needle was in. His thumb
pressed on the plunger and a few milliliters of Bonus scorched his veins. It felt like fire, like electricity, racing
up and down his arm. He nearly screamed,
but the pain was gone almost as soon as it had come.
The
ecstasy, the absolute dirty pleasure of it, raced to every extremity of his
body. It was as if all his cells were
humming, were vibrating like crystals.
His vision blurred, replaced by unlimited golden light.
