Payday.
He still
had two doses left when Corporate Whore handed him his pay packet.
“I’ve
already appropriated the twenty you owe me,” she said. “You can run the numbers and double check
me. No doubt it will be the second thing
you do.”
She turned,
not waiting for a reply, and walked out.
Corporate
Man shut his door and ripped open the package.
Several vials and small bottles spilled across his desk, glittering like
emeralds. His heart sang at the
sight. Then he gathered them greedily,
tucking them away in secure locations.
Once this was done he sat in his chair, got out his syringe, and stabbed
the needle into the rubbery cap of the green bottle measuring out one of the
remaining two doses.
He stuck
his arm, injecting the Bonus, and quivered as it raced through him. He lost track of his body feeling instead
like a jellyfish electrified by its own stinging tendrils. Spasms tossed him about like eddies in a tide
pool. When it was over he collapsed in
his ergonomic office chair, arms spread wide, neck practically pouring over the
back of the seat.
The office
door clicked open and he sat up with a start.
“Oh. So
sorry, Mr. Jackson. Just here for the
trash,” said a vague blur of a man standing in the doorway. “I can come back later.”
“No. No, Uh…”
“Hector.”
“Hector. Yes.
That’s probably right,” said Corporate Man slowly regaining focus. “Been a long week. Just catching a little cat nap.”
“I
understand, Mr. Jackson,” Hector said, approaching the desk. “You work so hard and it’s Friday. Time to relax a little.”
“Boy you
said it.”
Hector’s
face came into focus. In the instant
before the chemical-damp cloth clamped over Corporate Man’s nose and mouth, he
thought he recognized that face.
