There was
something about the Executive Lounge that Corporate Whore found distasteful. Even after the expensive remodel with the
elaborate columns and waterfall walls, an air of judgment still clung to
place. It was like Jack’s ghost hovered
around in here, repulsed by the shady business tactics on display and the
voracious corporate greed that gripped the entirety of Great American Business
Company’s executive team.
The
Waterfall Walls were her idea, parenthetically.
Dual paned, tempered glass, with rivulets of a slightly azure water
endlessly cascading down from the ceiling to the floor. She’d argued for drainage leading to the sewer,
but lost that fight to the recycler-pump pussies. True, the amount they saved on water had a
slight effect on her bonus, but she still felt that the added expense was
worthwhile. Perhaps that Jack-specter
wouldn’t have lingered in a space so blatantly wasteful.
“Is that
you, Whore?” one of the man-zecutives asked from the other side of the
water-blurred glass. They knew she
despised the truncation of her name. She
thought she’d trained them better than that.
Perhaps this one was new. Or
maybe someone felt the need to be made an example of.
“So, what
do you think?” she asked the room as she stepped into the lounge area. There was Mr. Truncator, in the love seat. Young and smug, obviously
overcompensating. “Has the subtle blue
lost its appeal?”
Conversations
in the room halted. The young one looked
around, trying to mask that jittery electric feeling that just lit up his
nerves. When no one spoke up, she
continued, “I think we need a change.
Something to invigorate us.
Something a bit more vivid.”
She slid
between couches and excessively comfortable chairs, oozing indirectly toward the
love seat, toward the young one.
“Perhaps a
shade of sapphire?” one of the older executives suggested.
“That would
be pretty,” she said, settling into the love seat. “Though I was hoping something more symbolic. Something to better illustrate the cutthroat
nature of the business world.”
Somewhere
between the words cut and throat, a literal example of their combination
occurred as Corporate Whore flicked her diamond card beneath the young one’s
chin. A spray of arterial red fanned
across a waterfall wall and ran in red rivulets down the smooth glass.
“Hmm. That does look nice, don’t you think?”
Corporate Whore asked, her gaze fixed ponderously on the dribbling fluid. The young one spasmed on the love seat, waves
of scarlet draining over his expensive suit, mimicking the waterfall walls
quite nicely.
“I think
you may be on to something,” the older executive said, sipping a something dark
and long legged from a brand snifter.
“Though, honestly, I come here for the tranquility. In the board room, perhaps?”
“I think
you’re right,” Corporate Whore said, turning away from the spattered glass
wall. A low gurgle rattled around in the
young one’s throat. All those present
associated the sound with the bonus increase that Corporate Whore had just
netted them. The young one’s portion would be divided amongst them.
Not equally, of course, but it
would be divvied.
“So…” said another executive. “Las Vegas .”
“That’s what they tell me,” the
older executive said.
Corporate Whore had no idea what
they were talking about. Perhaps she’d
missed a memorandum. She hated be
uninformed. Still, she was not shy about
asking the ignorant question. Better
than cowering under the pretense of foreknowledge.
“I’ve been away from my desk,” she
said. “Bring me up to speed on this Las Vegas
situation.” How about that? Not even a question. More like a requisition.
“A retreat,” the older executive
said.
Corporate Whore said nothing. He was obviously fishing for a question about
the nature of the retreat. After her
power play requisition, she was not going to lower herself to subordinate
inquiries.
“Go on,” she said and thought she
detected a slight grimace on the older executive’s face. Nothing overt, just hint about the eyes and
the corners of his sagging mouth.
Another executive chimed in, “It’s
basically a full blown party weekend, plenty of Bonus to keep us lit for a
week, but it’s being organized as a memorial to Jack. Honoring his legacy and such.”
Who organized it, she
wondered. One of these twerpy
suits? Shareholders? She shivered at the thought.
“We’ll also be singling out your
new recruit,” the older executive said.
“Donald Jackson was a real find.
I take it he’s one of us now.”
Corporate Whore nodded, “Hooked and
fully on board.”
“The numbers do attest for his
endorsement of the bonus structure.”
“And the two sick days should illustrate
his chemical initiation.”
“True.”
“We heard he was quite upset.”
“That Pink Slip intervened.”
“What would you expect from a
strong minded business man?” she said.
“Well, if he’s not one hundred
percent convinced yet, he will be after Las Vegas .”
