The Tragic Death of Corporate
Man
a hero for
capitalism;
champion of the
working class
by Tom Landaluce
Section 2:
On the Trail of
Greedy Butt Puppets
2.a.i
Best week we
ever had, Ma’am,” Aaron, the manager, said.
A yellow moustache dominated a large area of his head compensating quite
well for the thin, sickly wisps on top.
“We blew through more product than any of us could have projected. Our guys really put in the extra time and
effort to ensure that all the customers were serviced in a timely manner. I’ve calculated the managerial bonuses. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
The bosswoman’s
nostrils flared and her upper lip quivered as through she detected a foul
odor. Her face had no laugh lines. Oh, there wrinkles, and other indicators of
age, but none of them were related to anything jovial whatsoever.
“Is that so?”
she said.
Aaron
tensed. He detected a tone in her voice,
the one that meant his day was about to become less than enjoyable. She used this tone with him a few times a
week and he never seemed to get used to it.
Sweat matted thin strands of hair to his scalp.
“It’s the
highest bonus we’ve ever received,” he said.
She snatched
the clipboard out of Aaron’s clammy hands and glanced at the week’s
numbers. After thumbing through a couple
of pages she sharply tapped a section.
“What’s your
explanation for that?” she said.
“The
overtime? We did nearly three times our
normal output. I called in everyone I
could and we had to work extra shifts to get all the product out.”
“Overtime hours
count against my bonus, directly affecting my salary. I lost money because your lazy workers
couldn’t get their jobs done on time,” the bosswoman said. When she spoke it was as though her mouth
moved independently from the rest of her face.
“Those workers
scored you the biggest bonus you’ve ever received.”
The bosswoman
titled her head like an older sibling suffering the irritation of explaining
herself to a younger brother.
“They cost me
money. Running up a bunch of overtime to
line their pockets with cash that was rightfully mine.”
“I can’t
believe–”
The bosswoman
held up her hand and silenced Aaron. She
then reached into her pocket and removed a vibrating cell phone.
“Yes,” she
said. After a short pause, she
continued, “Just the usual incompetence…
No, no. I lost interest in the
conversation about fifteen seconds ago.”
The bosswoman
turned her back on Aaron and walked away.
“This is most
troublesome news… No, he’s obviously a screw up, just like his
grandfather… Really? Who is she?
A secretary? And she works for
us, you say? Uggh. Employees.
I yearn for the day when it is economically feasible to replace them all
with automatons… Yes, put out the word.
Let’s go after these two with everything we’ve got.”
2.a.ii
“Wait. How long was I gone?” asked Mr. Jones.
“No one’s seen
you since the turn of the century. Ten
years at least,” said Tanya Jefferson.
They were speeding along the interstate, Tanya glancing back and forth
in the rearview mirrors. “What’s the
last thing you remember?”
“Election
night. Al asked me to check out a
situation in Florida . I was working side by side with him and the
Clintons. They had plans to continue
building up the economy. I try not to
take sides, but that imbecile the Republicans were running encouraged my
participation.”
Tanya cut
across three lanes of traffic, barely making the exit. In her mirrors she saw two brown sedans
attempt the same maneuver. They didn’t
make it. Tanya smiled.
“So what
happened in Florida ?” she asked.
“It’s
hazy. I think they were trying to rig
the election, but I’m not sure if that was simply bait to lure me into their
trap or what.”
“Oh they
rigged the election alright. And that
moron somehow managed to get a second term in office. Coincidentally, the country is now a financial
ruin.”
“I failed,”
Mr. Jones said.
“Hey don’t–”
“No. No. I
went down there to stop that sort of thing and they outsmarted me,” Mr. Jones
said, shaking his head. “How?”
Tanya banked
the car into a dark alley and parked it in a shadowy spot.
“Quick. Follow me.”
They fled the
vehicle, scurried up the fire escape of an adjacent building, climbed through
an unlocked window into a vacant apartment, ran out into the adjoining hallway,
dashed down the corridor, then down a stairwell to the basement garage, crept
over to a nondescript minivan, got in, and drove back out onto the street.
They drove in
silence for some time and it wasn’t until they had traded the minivan for a
pickup truck in a similar series of preplanned steps that Mr. Jones asked the
question that had been burning in the back of his brain.
“Didn’t
anybody else stand up to this? Did
nobody fight back?”
2.a.iii
Tanya took a
deep breath and said, “Some of us. You
have to understand, the players that they didn’t… remove from the game the night
of the election were eliminated after nine
eleven .”
Mr. Jones
furrowed his brow, but before he could ask, Tanya continued, “We haven’t been
able to prove that the attacks were initiated by them, meaning our government
or the corporate conglomerates that control our government, or if it was truly
an act of terrorism by scary foreign guys and the party in power just took
advantage of the situation. What’s
clear, however, is that certain powers were granted to certain agencies in
order to deal with the supposed threat. Those
powers were then, of course, used to force those like us into hiding or, in
some cases, to eradicate us.”
Mr. Jones
shook his head. “Who? Who’d they get?”
“Remember Ben
Buck, the Dollar Man and his sidekick Two Cents?”
“Yeah. Dollar and Cents.”
“Well,
Professor Inflation got a hold of Two Cents.
No one knows what that bastard did to him, but Two Cents has been
worthless ever since.”
Tanya turned
the pickup into a parking lot of a huge grocery superstore. She shut off the engine and said, “We still
don’t know who killed Ben. His brains
were smashed in with the Gold Standard.
Most people think it was a member or the Foreign Market but I think it
was an inside job. Only American hands
can lift the Gold Standard.”
Tanya opened
her door and got out of the pickup. She
motioned for Mr. Jones to follow her.
“Here?” he
asked.
“We need
supplies. I doubt the stuff at The
Office is still good after all this time and we need to lay low for awhile.”
“But
here? This is a Waldos,” he said.
“Yeah, I–”
“Companies
like this are part of the problem.”
“I know,”
Tanya said. “But there are no locally
owned places anywhere near here.”
Mr. Jones made
a reluctant exit and followed Tanya toward the superstore.
“Who else?” he
asked. “Anyone ever locate John?”
“As in John Q
Public?”
“Yeah.”
“No. After his brief return in the late nineties
he fell off the radar again. No one’s
seen him since. Most members of The
Union are unaccounted for or assumed dead.
Miss Pension suffered the loss of most of her family at the hands of The
Crash. She went after that beast and
ended up a quadriplegic.”
As they
crossed the threshold of the Waldos superstore, Mr. Jones wrinkled his nose and
held his fist up to his mouth.
“Oh God. It stinks.”
“They all
smell like this,” Tanya said.
“It’s like…
panic sweat and fast food.”
“With a hint
of cheap plastic and formaldehyde.”
2.a.iv
Tanya led them
through a variety of departments, filling up their shopping cart with various
supplies. The look of disgust never left
Mr. Jones’s face. He overheard a manager
speaking with a very sullen looking employee.
“I’m sorry
Sally, but there’s really no room in the budget for raises. Waldos is what you’d call a ‘penny profit’
organization. With such great discounts
and low prices we really don’t make much money.
Have you looked into government assistance? There are many programs suited to someone of
your income level.”
Sally tugged
at her ear lobe and sighed. “But sir, I
got kids that–”
“The
government will help you with. The
government loves kids. That’s why they
have the programs that they do.”
“Can’t you
just ask H.R.?”
“I do. All the time.
The answer is always the same.
Now don’t you have some Price Drop Downs to get done?”
“Well… yeah.”
“Better get on
it then. I’ve got to cut some hours from
next week’s schedule. Only those that
show me some hustle are gonna be working.”
“Yes, sir,”
Sally said and scurried off. The manager
smirked and brushed the leg of his navy blue pants. He then fiddled with the cuffs of his scarlet
shirt and checked to make sure his vest was still a smudge-free white.
Mr. Jones
stood in the aisle, his face expressionless except for his eyes, which failed
to mask a seething anger. The manager
finally noticed him and said, “Welcome to Waldos, sir, where we’re dropping
down prices. Is there anything I can
assist with?”
Mr. Jones
cocked his head to the side.
“Don’t do it,”
Tanya hissed in his ear. “We’re trying
to keep a low pro–”
“I’m not sure
you can,” Mr. Jones said.
“Oh, well I’d
like to try,” said the manager, smiling.
His eyes did not smile with the rest of his face.
“Would you,
truly?”
The manager’s
eyebrows narrowed.
“I sure
would,” he said.
“That’s
wonderful,” said Mr. Jones, walking toward the manager. “How about you start by giving that poor woman
a raise?”
The manager’s
smile vanished.
“I’m afraid
that’s none of your concern,” he said.
“Company
policy, I’d imagine,” said Mr. Jones.
“That’s
correct.”
“Is it company
policy–”
“Don’t do
this,” Tanya said.
“–to hire
everyone at part time status to avoid offering them health care benefits but
then ask them to work extra shifts so you end up getting a full forty out of
them, but then never have to actually qualify their status to full time so they
don’t receive the benefits of that designation?”
The manager’s
jaw released and his mouth gaped for a moment.
“I… I… That wasn’t even what we were discussing.”
“Yes it was,”
Mr. Jones said. “She was asking for a raise and you told her that the company
was too poor to afford it. I doubt a
quarter more an hour would sink the Waldo fleet of… How many stores is it now?”
“Eight
thousand three hundred and twenty-two,” Tanya said.
“Christ. That many,” said Mr. Jones, stunned by the
figure. His gaze hardened. “I’ll bet Sally’s still making minimum wage,
too.”
The manager
straightened his shoulders, set his jaw, and said,” Now that is untrue. Sally’s been with us for nearly three years
and has received her annual percentage increases.”
“And what
percent is that? Two percent?”
“I’m not at
liberty to say,” the manager said, averting his eyes.
“Wow. Less than two. So either one percent or,
worse, a half a percent. That’s
despicable. What do you make a year?”
“I’m not at–”
“Liberty
to say,” Mr. Jones cut in. He leapt
forward and grabbed the manager by the shoulders and yelled, “I bet it’s
considerably more than minimum wage.”
And then a
strange moment occurred between the two men.
A slight pause where neither man struggled. Not to escape the other’s grip; not to
maintain a grasp upon his opposite.
Mr. Jones broke
the silence.
“You make 140K
a year,” he said.
The manager’s
eyes went wide. He opened his mouth but
no words came out.
“Plus store
performance bonuses,” Mr. Jones added.
“A percentage of sales less overtime hours, payroll totals, and
insurance costs.”
The manager
yanked free of Mr. Jones’s grip.
“They reward
you for exploiting your employees,” Tanya said.
“How… How did
you–” the manager stammered.
The sudden
flood of financial knowledge shocked Mr. Jones as well. He turned to Tanya, his eyes wide and
confused.
“Don’t you
know who this is?” Tanya said, abandoning her plans for keeping a low
profile. “This is Corporate
Man. ”
“Oh God, you’re from Corporate?” the manager
said.
“No,” said
Tanya, shaking her head. “Corporate Man. Capitalism’s hero. Champion of the working class?
“I don’t know
who that is or what this is or what
your two are trying to pull, but I don’t like it. I’m calling the head office.”
“Yes, that’s
right,” said Mr. Jones, recovering his focus.
“Better call in, protect your position.
After all, you’ve got plans to buy another vacation home with the
salaries you steal from your employees.”
2.a.v
“I do not
steal!” the manager yelled. “I worked
very hard to get where I’m at. I’ve got
a family to support and… and–”
“A lifestyle
to maintain?” Mr. Jones said.
“That’s not
fair!”
“To you or the
laborers beneath you trying to eek out an existence?”
“Stop it!” the
manager shouted.
Mr. Jones set
his hand on the manager’s shoulder and said, “I know you worked hard and
probably made a lot of sacrifices.”
“I have. I really have,” the manager said, his voice
wavering on the edge of cracking.
“Worked too hard. She always said
I worked too hard. Now I’ve got alimony
instead of a family.”
“That doesn’t
give you the right to exploit these people,” Tanya said. “No matter what this horrible company will
allow.”
“And it’s not
too late to change,” said Mr. Jones.
“You could be a stand up guy. A
hero to your employees instead of a villain.”
“I… I want to be the good guy,” the manager said.
“We can
help. What’s your name, son?” Mr. Jones
asked.
For a moment
the manager could not recall. When he
did answer, the response was more of a question.
“It’s Matt.”
The he
repeated his name with more conviction, “Matt.”
“Well, Matt,
it’s good to meet–” But Mr. Jones stopped.
The little button on Matt the Manager’s vest, the one proclaiming “America ’s
Super Store,” was flashing back and forth between blue and red.
“Uh… Tanya?”
“I see it,”
she said. “Looks like someone’s been
monitoring poor Matt and didn’t like what they heard.”
“Oh no. This is bad, isn’t it?” Matt the Manager
said. “Why’s it doing that? Why’s this stupid button blinking?”
The sound of a
helicopter, faint at first, grew gradually louder until it landed on the
roof. A few moments after the rotors
went silent two burley men in white, short-sleeved shirts with pale blue ties
came walking toward Matt the Manager.
They wore mirrored sunglasses and coarse black hair sprouted from their
swollen forearms.
“Sir, you need
to come with us,” one of them said. The
other glanced around and fingered his earpiece.
“What? Where?” Matt the Manager said.
“The CEO is in
the upstairs office. He’d like to see
you.”
“That was
fast,” said Tanya.
“He’s here?”
Matt the Manager asked.
“I believe
that was the implication of my previous statement,” the man said.
2.a.vi
Matt the
Manager’s head dropped. He shuffled
toward the office, flanked by the two men.
Tanya and Mr. Jones followed. The
two men ushered Matt the Manger into the office then turned to stand guard at
the door; a beefy blockade to prevent Tanya and Mr. Jones from gaining audience
with the CEO.
“Just where
might you be headed?” the large man said.
“To see the
CEO,” said Mr. Jones.
“Oh, I get
it. You’re a comedian. Well, piss off funnyman.”
“And if I
don’t?”
The large man
flung one of his meaty hands out and grabbed Mr. Jones by the shirt and yanked
him forward so they were face to face.
“I might have
to get rough,” the large man said. A
grin spread across Mr. Jones’s face.
“You find that amusing, do you?”
Mr. Jones
raised and eyebrow and said, “No. I find
it interesting that your salary is almost fifteen thousand dollars more a year
than your buddy here and you’ve been with the company for less than two years.”
The large man
did not flinch at this information. But
the other large man did. He lifted his
hand off his ear piece, and ran his sausagey fingers through his bristly crew
cut.
“Move. Along,” the large man said.
More
twitchings shook the other large man. He
opened his mouth, hesitated slightly, and had nearly closed it again when he
said, “That better not be true.”
“Pay him no
mind,” the large man said.
“How much you
make?” the other large man asked.
“Let it go.”
“Not a chance
in hell. I’ve been with this outfit for
over a decade. I better be making more
money than you.”
The large man
glared at Mr. Jones and then said to his companion, “You make more than
me. Now drop it.”
“What do you
make?” the other large man asked.
“We aren’t
allowed to discuss it. As per company
policy.”
“You do make more, don’t you?”
“And he’s
bedding that girl from corporate that you have a crush on,” Tanya said.
“Kristi?” the
other large man yelled.
“Now that’s a
damn lie,” the large man said.
“And they
laugh about your puny salary,” Tanya added.
“You son of a
bitch!” shouted the other large man.
Before the large man could get in another word the two were grappling on
the floor in one beefy, hairy mound of man.
Mr. Jones and
Tanya walked into the office of the CEO.
2.a.vii
The bossman
opened up a chat window and typed <well?>
The response
was swift <nothing yet. alerts are out over all twelve districts. no
sign>
<and the
other corners?>
<south and
west report negative results. east side
has yet to provide an update>
That bitch, the bossman thought but did
not type. Then he typed it and added an
mf and a few other expletives that he would never allow himself to send across
the company intranet. He deleted the
remark, closed the chat window, then pressed a button on his desk phone.
“Get me that
bitch on the East Side .”
There was no
reply. Oh yes. That’s right.
Ms. Adams had defected to the other side and this morning’s temp had
already quit. Quit or had been fired, he
couldn’t remember which. He looked at
the buttons on his phone. There was a
grouping of four; separate from the standard numbers and interoffice speed
dials. They were designated N, E, S,
W. The bossman scowled for a moment and
then pushed the E. A ringing tone came
from the speaker.
“Incorporated
Business Corporation Incorporated.”
The bossman
cleared his throat and said, “Don’t jerk me around missy. I need to speak with your boss right now.”
“Sorry,
sir. She’s in a meeting,” the cheerful
voice said.
“No she’s
not. She has the same job as I do and
there are never any meetings. And, if
there were a meeting, I would be there.
And if it were a meeting that I was not required to attend then it would
be something that she could get out of without any issue.”
“Which branch
are you from?”
“Not that it
matters, but the North Side,” the bossman said.
“Thank you,
sir. That will be just one moment.”
There was a
slight pause.
“Yep. She’s in a meeting.”
“Stop it. Right now.
I am not amused by this whatsoever,” the bossman said. He enjoyed using the word whatsoever. Not as much as using abbreviated curses in a
chat window, but it was still a bright spot in any conversation when it presented
itself.
“I can put you
through to her voicemail,” the cheerful secretary suggested.
“Do not! You
will transfer me to her cell phone.”
“I’m sorry,
sir, only a privileged few have access to that number.”
“And I am one
of them.”
“Oh. Well congratulations sir. How thrilling for you. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Yes.
Transfer me to her gd cell phone!” the bossman said. And though he loved abbreviated curses in an
online forum, he loathed it when they slipped out in an oral conversation.
“I’m sorry,
sir, I must have misunderstood you. I
thought you said you have access to the number.”
Then bossman
clenched his jaw. When he finally spoke
his voice was considerably louder than before.
“I am authorized to call her cell. I’m just… away from my desk right now. So put me through.”
“Sir,” the
cheerful voice said, becoming slightly less cheerful. “The line we are speaking on is an office
line. Direct from your desk phone to
that of my boss, routed to my phone because she is otherwise occupied.”
“Just call
your boss. Tell her it’s me. Then put me on the line with her,” the
bossman yelled.
“Please hold,”
the cheerful voice said, her tone bordering on curt. There was no hold music. Instead, the bossman had to endure nearly
four minutes of corporate back patting and messages intended to bolster
enthusiasm in the company. The bossman
felt his enthusiasm for the company waning.
“What?” a
gruff female voice said, finally interrupting the corporate propaganda.
“Fire your
secretary,” the bossman said. “She’s
incompetent and kept me on hold for nearly five minutes.”
“Actually, it
was four. And the bulk of that time was
just me… leaving you on hold. The call was transferred to my phone over
three minutes ago,” the bosswoman said.
“I hate you.”
“No. You’re just jealous of my success.”
“Are you
saying you’ve located the bull?” the bossman asked.
“Sadly,
no. And I’ve been too busy firing people
over it to look into the matter myself.”
“Then file
your negative sighting report, damn it.”
“I don’t like
negative reports on my record,” the bosswoman said.
“It’s an
information update advising the other branches that you have not located the
bull yet. IE… Search results negative.”
“Still sounds
bad,” she said. “Now, I really must
disconnect. I haven’t finished counting
all of my bonus money yet.”
2.a.viii
“Once we get
this upgrade installed we’ll be back in business,” the CEO said. He held a power drill with a very aggressive
bit. In his other hand was a clunky
metal box. A tangle of wires sprouted
from one side and a toggle switch stuck out on the other.
Positioned on the
desk in front of him was Matt the Manager.
Matt was on his hands and knees, navy blue slacks around his ankles,
bare ass in the air.
“Will this
hurt?” Matt the Manager asked.
“Oh most
certainly,” the CEO said. “Didn’t you see the size of this thing? Still, no pain, no subordination, right?”
Matt whimpered
and said, “I suppose… Isn’t there some other way?”
The CEO
scowled.
“Listen
Matthew. You need to ask yourself if you
want to be a part of this company?”
“Oh, trust me,
I am,” Matt the Manager said.
The CEO
continued unimpeded, “And if the answer is yes then what sacrifices are you
willing to make to be successful? How
can you work more efficiently, save the company money, and broaden our market
share?”
The CEO set
the metal box on the desk, gripped Matt’s left butt cheek, and test fired the
drill. Matt flinched at every successive
whir.
“I thought I
was doing all that,” Matt the Manager said.
“I keep my payroll low, full-time personnel to an absolute minimum. I always–”
“You are in
need of retraining. And a software
upgrade. Please… just try to enjoy it.”
Mr. Jones and
Tanya stood in the doorway, mouths agape.
“Are you also
suppressing the urge to vomit?” Tanya asked.
The faces of
the CEO and Matt the Manager snapped toward the door like two startled
teenagers caught by un-knocking parents.
The CEO hissed
like a cat.
“This isn’t,
uh… We weren’t,” Matt stammered. “It’s
all office related.”
The CEO
stopped hissing, his face suddenly the epitome of calm.
“That will be
all, Matthew. Please pull up your pants
and wait outside. I’ll print out some
instructions so you can finish the upgrade at home.”
Matt the
Manager scrambled off the desk, fumbled his pants into a less incriminating
position, and fled for the door.
2.a.ix
“And you must
be my… next appointment?” the CEO said.
“Not in your
sickest, most demented dreams, you perv,” said Tanya.
“We don’t have
an appointment.”
“No
appointment?” asked the CEO.
“No, but it
looks like your schedule just opened up.”
“Ew. Don’t say opened up. Not after what we just saw.”
Mr. Jones
continued, ignoring Tanya’s comment, “We’re here to talk to you about certain
company policies that Waldos not only urges its managers to employ but actively
trains them in as well.”
“So you don’t
have an appointment?” the CEO said.
“Didn’t we
cover that?” asked Tanya.
“Well, I’m
sorry. If you have no appointment, I can’t
see you.”
“You’re here
with us. Right now,” said Mr. Jones.
“I’m very
busy. Call my secretary,” the CEO said.
“Yes. We have an appointment,” said Tanya.
“Oh
wonderful,” said the CEO. “Please, sit
down. Let’s get started.”
He slithered
behind the desk into a leathery, well cushioned office chair and gestured for
Tanya and Mr. Jones to take the plastic, quite durable seats opposite him.
“I prefer
standing,” Mr. Jones said.
The CEO
shrugged and then wriggled against the plushness of the chair. He strained slightly, as if searching for the
most comfortable position. His eyes
glazed over and the adjusting ceased.
“I appreciate
your point of view, but I think you fail to see the big picture,” the CEO said.
“I haven’t
explained my point of view yet,” said Mr. Jones. “Don’t try to placate me.”
“It appears as
though there’s been some miscommunication.”
“We have yet
to begin communicating.”
“How about we
take it again… from the top?” the CEO said, locking his hands together and
setting them on the desk. Mr. Jones
shook his head and grit his teeth.
“The treatment
of your employees is deplorable. Your
management staff is encouraged to–” But Mr. Jones did not finish. He caught sight of the CEO’s golden wasp
cufflinks and froze. His vision became a
harsh, monochromatic amber yellow and he no longer saw the office or the CEO.
2.a.x
He saw a vertical
grid of hexagonal cubicles. In the
hexagons, visible through a hazy but translucent film, were human forms. Their heads were housed in large cylindrical
containers complete with blinking lights and a scattering of wires connecting
the cylinders to the hexagonal walls.
Through the film the blinking lights looked like fuzzy, tennis ball
shaped stars.
Men and women
in expensive suits with golden wasp cufflinks escorted men and women in far
less expensive clothing through a series of velvet ropes to the cubical
wall. Helpful signs, hastily painted in
black on white paper, provided instructions with equally helpful arrow shapes.
Corporate
Philosophy Seminar and Reeducation ®
Modern
Business Tactics and Thought Processes ¬
Complimentary
Lunch Cafeteria ¯
Coin Op
Bathrooms
“The training
is intensive, I won’t lie,” a woman with far too many teeth, which were also a
bit too white, explained to a man in a brown polo shirt. “It takes the better part of a week, but thanks
to our Corporate Mind Hive you will receive two years worth of knowledge and
information within that short period of time.
Results guaranteed.”
The man in the
brown polo looked apprehensive.
“Is the process
safe?”
“Of course,”
the abundantly toothed woman said, adjusting her cufflinks.
“I’ve heard
that some people are brain damaged by the training. And that a few have failed to survive
altogether.”
“If that’s
true then they must have been sorry businessmen. Not suited for management. Let me ask you this, Mr. Lowry. Are
you a poor businessman? Do you want to
fail?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then why are
you worried? You’ll be fine.”
“Do I really
have to be naked in there? In all that
goopy stuff?” he asked.
“I think
you’re asking the wrong question. It
should be, ‘Do I get to be naked in there?’
Am I right?”
“Uh,
okay. Do I get to be naked in there?”
“Yes,” she
said with great enthusiasm.
“Okay, then why do I get to be naked in there?”
“Because it’s
fun and it feels good.”
“It has
nothing to do with process? The science
of it all?” he asked.
“That’s an
excellent question. Now, let’s get you
into one of the Mind Hive Pods.”
She rushed the
man in the brown polo toward an open, hexagon in the cubicle wall and ordered
him to strip. The man unbuttoned two of
the three buttons on his shirt, the third existing in a constant unfastened
state as per the mandates of its particular style. He gripped his shirt collar and looked around
nervously.
“Hurry up,”
the woman with far too many teeth said.
When her demand was met with more hesitation she turned toward the wall,
opened up a small cabinet in the space between Mind Hive Pods, and pulled out a
black and yellow striped cattle prod.
She brandished it about in a manner that would be described as “threatening”
by some and “motivational” by others.
The business end of the device crackled with white hot sparks.
The man in the
brown polo whipped his head back and forth, searching frantically. The woman with the mouth full of teeth and
the hand full of authority motivated the man in the brown polo. He yelled and grabbed at his backside.
“Okay,
okay. Just quit with the – Ow!”
She prodded
him again, this time in the chest. The
man tried to dodge but she hit again and he skittered toward the Mind Hive Pod.
“That’s
enough!” a deep, booming voice called out.
The smiley woman whirled around, cattle prod burning through the air
like sparklers on the 4th of July.
The man in the brown polo exhaled and his shoulders slumped forward.
Corporate Man
dropped down from above, necktie fastened in a stately Windsor knot and billowing
like a cape behind his dark suit. He
crashed into the cattle prod bearing woman with his fist. A sprinkling bright white chickets tinkled across
the floor. The next time the woman
smiled there would be noticeably less teeth in her mouth, but still far more
than average.
2.a.xi
Normal vision
returned. The CEO was waving a hand in
front of Mr. Jones’s face.
“Apparently,
we have a breakdown in communications,” the CEO said turning his attention to
Tanya. “Perhaps we should reschedule.”
Before Tanya
could respond, Mr. Jones leapt onto the desk, grabbed the CEO by the wrists,
and slammed the two golden wasp cufflinks together. There was a static pop, a crackle of sparks,
and a hollow exhalation of breath escaping the CEO’s mouth. A smell like burnt hair crept into the room
and a wispy trail of smoke bled up from somewhere on the CEO’s scalp.
“What did you
do?” Tanya asked.
“Shorted his
programming.”
“He’s a
robot?”
“No, but those
cufflinks are wired to his nervous system and run all the corporate protocols,”
Mr. Jones said.
“How did you
know to do that?”
“Oh… I
remembered it. Junior Executive and I
once infiltrated the Corporate Mind Hive.
This woman was about to put him into a pod that would restructure his
brain to the preferred corporate model.
After I knocked out some of her teeth we–”
Tanya huffed
her disapproval and scowled.
“Don’t worry,
she had enough to spare. Anyway, we were
swarmed by Mind Hive security. Junior
was the one who saw it first. All the
guards wore the golden wasps as well. I
think he was trying to rip a pair off a guard’s sleeve and during the struggle
the cuffs clanged together and the guard shorted out. There’s a monitor center that takes over when
someone in the field goes down like that.
You’ll see it with our friend here in a–”
“LET’S DO A
TEAM BUILDING EXERCISE,” the CEO said raising up quickly in his chair,
seemingly alert.
“He’ll shout
corporate jargon while tech support attempts a reboot.”
“SHELF TALKERS
ARE AN EFFECTIVE WAY TO
REACH OUR CUSTOMERS.”
“See,” said
Mr. Jones.
“THE COMPANY’S
SUCCESS DEPENDS ON YOUR ABILITY TO WORK TOGETHER AS A TEAM,” the CEO called out
after a moment.
Tanya’s
face pinched and she shook her head. “Aw
god. Make it stop.”
“I
don’t know if I can.”
“Can
we slap him or something,” Tanya asked.
“Don’t
see why not.”
“PLEASE
FOLLOW THE PLAN-O-GRAM TO ENSURE OPTIMAL MECHANDISING DISPLAYS,” the CEO
continued.
Tanya
smacked his face.
“USE
YOUR SCRIPTING–”
Slap!
“IDENTIFY
AREAS OF OPPORTUNITY– ”
Slap!
“AN
EFFICIENCY EXPERT–”
Slap!
Slap! Slap!
“I’M
SORRY BUT HOURS HAD TO BE TRIMMED. WE
ALL HAVE TO MAKE SACRIFICES IN ORDER TO EXCEL.”
Tanya
raised her hand again, but Mr. Jones grabbed her wrist and, like a boy
detective solving a great mystery, he said, “Hey, have you noticed that every
time you slap him he immediately begins another line of corporate jargon? He
doesn’t even leave a pause.”
“Yeah,”
said Tanya, eager to find out what Mr. Jones had discovered.
“So
stop hitting him,” Mr. Jones said.
Tanya
slumped in a chair and folded her arms.
“GOOD
WORK TEAM. WE’RE FIVE PERCENT ABOVE
PLAN.”
2.a.xii
The
bossman was fuming. He shouldn’t be
fuming. After all, the bull had been located. A tech support agent doing a standard system
reboot on a short circuited CEO had made the ID and sent out the alert. He should be elated. And he would’ve been if it wasn’t for that
bitch from the East Side Branch. In
accordance with a request that her search report be brought to him the moment
it was finally filed, a subordinate brought him the print out. It was submitted two minutes after the tech
support agent created the sighting alert.
It
read: East Side
Branch is happy to report that a successful search for subject: the Bull has
been completed. Subject was sighted at
Waldos, store number 459, in the manager’s office with a malfunctioning CEO and
the North Side Branch’s former secretary, Ms. Adams. East Side Branch is therefore happy to report
a successful search for subject: Ms. Adams as well.
The
bossman spasmed with a deep, broiling rage every time he thought of the report;
which was quite often. His office had
born the brunt of his fury and would require several days of clean up, repair,
and re-filing.
2.a.xiii
“What are you
looking for anyway?” Tanya asked. Mr.
Jones was rifling through the desk where the defunct CEO was still seated.
“I don’t know,
actually,” Mr. Jones said. “I don’t even
know why I shorted the CEO out like that.
Kind of going on instinct here.”
“Why not
search him?” Tanya said, pointing to
the CEO. “He’s bound to have something
important on him somewhere.”
“Yeah, but is
that a search we really want to conduct?
You saw what he was up to when we walked in here.”
“Gross.”
“Exactly. Still…” Mr. Jones sighed and then checked the
CEO’s pockets. “Hey, do I have a tie
somewhere? You know, a special kind of–”
The CEO
lurched forward, biting at Mr. Jones’s hand.
Mr. Jones jumped back, yanking his hand away, and let out a startled
yelp.
The CEO made
no further movements, and everyone remained frozen as seconds slid by like
glaciers. Tanya and Mr. Jones shared an
exasperated look and then inched toward the CEO, advancing slow and cautious.
“Sorry. I couldn’t help myself,” the CEO said. His voice sounded different, strained and
bubbly like sweaty flaps of skin clapping together. “A detainment team will be here shortly, but
I wanted to be the one to confront you, Corporate
Man. ”
“Who are you?”
Mr. Jones said.
“What? You don’t recognize me? How depressing. We’ve shared so many good times together,”
the CEO’s mouth said, though it seemed to open and close independently of its
jaw muscles and tongue. The CEO’s eyes
were rolled back in his head, the blood-shot whites twitching, the eyelids
fluttering.
Mr. Jones held
his hand out, palm toward the CEO as if sensing something. He grimaced and shuddered. After another moment his eyes snapped open
and he said in a low, breathy growl, “Greed.”
“Wonderful,”
the Greed said with the CEO’s mouth.
“Anyway, that was fun. Pleased to
see you, but you know, money to make, taxes to dodge. Must go.
Oh… and you can die now.”
The CEO rose
up out of his chair, held aloft by a sticky looking, pinky-white tentacle. The tentacle drew back and then swung the CEO
forward like a club. Mr. Jones and Tanya
dove out of the way and the CEO’s body bashed into a filing cabinet. The tentacle drew back again and swung,
missing the intended targets again and upended a potted plant that sat in the
corner. There was a flurry of violent
swings, like a cat struggling at the end of a leash, but Mr. Jones and Tanya
managed to avoid the attacks. The CEO’s
face slapped against the surface of the desk, his head rebounding with a
disgusting fleshy knock.
On the next swing
Mr. Jones pinned the CEO’s body against the desk and when the tentacle pulled
back it found little give and yanked harder.
On the third of such yanks the tentacle pulled itself free from the
CEO’s backside. There was a sucking,
schlooping noise and a horrible reek.
“Don’t let it
get away!” Mr. Jones called out, but it was too late. The thing had slipped out of the room.
“Hey, don’t
look at me,” Tanya said.
“I wasn’t.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how’d
you expect me to stop it? No way was I
grabbing that slimy, stinkin’ thing.
What the hell was that anyway?”
“He’s called
The Greed.”
“I know who
The Greed is. I’ve never seen him like
that before.”
“He’s a living
embodiment of that desire,” Mr. Jones said.
“Just his proximity is a taint that most cannot resist. This must be a new, mutated form.”
There was a
commotion in the hallway, just outside the office door.
“Looks like he
wasn’t lying about the detainment team,” Tanya said.
“We need to
go. Now.
You see another way out of this office?”
Tanya pointed
to the floor. “Not that I want to, but
we could follow that trail of slime The Greed left. He didn’t use the door.”
2.a.xiv
The slime
trail led to a hidden access panel in the corner of the far wall. It wasn’t difficult to locate the secret switch
as The Greed’s residue was splattered all over a concealed lever built into the
paneling.
“Ah, god. You touch it,” Tanya said.
Mr. Jones
rolled his eyes and shook his head in way that parents and teachers often
reserved for children. He pulled the lever
and immediately wished he’d insisted that Tanya do it. The slime was not only unpleasant to the
touch, but it felt like diseased water and cold sludge in his mind.
The panel
opened onto a dimly lit corridor. Naked
light-bulbs burned a sickly-brown dot-to-dot trail down the narrow hallway;
patches of The Greed’s slime pooled randomly on the floor reflecting the dirty
light.
Mr. Jones
snapped the secret lever off the wall and then he and Tanya slipped inside,
shutting the panel behind them. They
raced after The Greed in a cautious rush.
The corridor
twisted and turned, dropped down steps, climbed ladders, and connected to other
corridors through elevators, doors, and even a rusty, overzealously-greased
escalator before it finally dead ended at a concrete wall.
“Great. What happened? Did we take a wrong turn?” Tanya said.
“No, there’s a
puddle of goo right here on the floor.
Maybe he slipped down a drain or something.”
“There’s no
drain in this floor,” Tanya said. And
then a big plop of boogery gunk dripped from the ceiling and onto her
shoulder. “Oh that better not be–” she
started but another wad of nastiness wriggled down the nape of her neck.
Tanya
squirmed, jumped to the side and shouted, “Hell no! Is that–”
“Afraid so,”
Mr. Jones said. There was a small, wet
length of cord dangling from the ceiling.
He tugged on it and an attic-like doorway opened up. A ladder unfolded into the chamber. They climbed up the steps into a small office
where they found a pool of slime at the base of small desk. From there a set of wet footprints led toward
the door, fading near the exit.
“The Greed’s
found another host,” Mr. Jones said. “We need to find it.”
“Hey, we need
to find a bathroom first so I can wash this nasty stuff off my neck. Where are we anyway?”
Mr. Jones
leafed through some papers on the desk.
“Looks like
some sort of fabric or crafting store.
Tanya grabbed
one of the papers
“Jolene’s. Yeah, big chain store. Arts and crafts and sewing things.”
“The Greed
would take root in the greediest person it could find. Could be a manager or a district rep who keeps
an office here.”
The two
followed the disappearing set of footprints out onto the sales floor.
2.b.i
“SYNERGIZE IS
THE BEST WAY TO OPTIMI–” the CEO’s voice froze and a series of lights flashed
behind his eyes. There was a clicking
whir emanating from somewhere beneath his nose.
After a few minutes the lights ceased their flashing and the whirring
noise abated.
A team of
field tech boys stood gathered around him.
They wore thick black-framed glassed and employed severe parts in their
slickly combed hair.
“Got him,” one
of them said. “He’s back online.”
“Run a
battery,” said another one. He was
dressed differently from the others.
They wore collared, short-sleeved shirts the color of Post-It notes,
thin black ties and black pants. He
sported a black blazer with large elbow patches the same pale yellow as the
shirts.
One of the
tech boys reached for a black attaché, opened it, and pulled out what appeared
to be a miniature car battery and an equally diminutive set of jumper
cables. He attached a yellow and black
clamp to the battery terminals while another tech boy popped open the buttons
on the CEO’s shirt.
“Wait, what’s
going–” the CEO began, but the tech boy pounced, clamping the alligator teeth
of the jumper cables on the CEO’s exposed nipples. After that the CEO’s conversational
repertoire was reduced to screams and shrieks.
“Is… Is that
what’s supposed to happen?” asked another tech boy, this one wearing a
sleeveless collared shirt in the pale yellow shade and black shorty-shorts
instead of the long slacks.
The tech boy
in the blazer grinned and said, “Oh yes.”
“When… When do
we… take those things off,” the tech boy in the shorty-shorts asked, his face
squirmed with the CEO’s every howl.
“When the timer
goes off, newbie,” said one of the other, standard issue attire tech boys. A ding sounded from the attaché and a dot
matrix form printed from it’s side.
The CEO
stopped screaming.
“See.”
The tech boy
in the blazer looked over the printed form.
“Hmmm.”
Shorty-shorts
asked, “What’s that form tell us? Does
it have the results of his diagnostics?”
“That is its
secondary function,” the blazered tech boy said. “Primarily, it contains hardcopy data of
everything his body witnessed while he was offline.”
“What’s
wrong?” a standard tech boy asked as the scowl on blazer’s face deepened.
“It’s The
Greed,” he said. “Things just got
interesting, boys.”
2.b.ii
“Why’s it so
hot in here?” Tanya asked.
“Yeah, I
know,” said Mr. Jones. “I’m sweating.”
“Hey. Is it always this hot in here?” Tanya asked
one of the Jolene’s employees nearby.
The lady was stocking obnoxiously small packets of notions from an
obscenely large cardboard box. She
tugged on her forest green polo, scratching at the embroidered Jolene’s
logo. Her blue-white, cottony hair
frizzed fromthe humidity of her scalp sweat and her face flushed a rashy red.
“The air
conditioning is broken again,” said the cottony haired woman.
“Yeah, I’ll
say,” said Tanya. “When is it supposed
to get fixed?”
“Oh, about
three weeks ago.”
“Three
weeks. Are you kidding me?”
“Gosh no, I’d
never insult a guest,” she said glancing at the box of notions sitting on a
cart, still unworked.
“Honey, you
aren’t insulting me. But this
ridiculousness with the AC is not only insulting, it’s dangerous.”
“You look like
you’re ready to pass out,” Mr. Jones said.
“I’ve come
close a couple of times, but I haven’t gone down yet,” the cottony haired woman
said. “I can’t afford to. Regina
passed out three times and she was let go.”
“They fired
her?” Tanya asked.
“Oh yes. Keep in mind, she was given several warnings
not to do it again and… well, she went and did it again. So I guess it was her fault really.”
“No. That’s bullshit,” Tanya said.
“What’s your
name, sweetie?” Mr. Jones asked.
“Margaret,”
the cottony haired woman said.
“Margaret,
who’s your manager?”
“Tina. She’s probably up at customer service. By the registers.”
“Can we bring
you a glass of water?” Tanya asked.
“Oh we’re not
allowed water on the floor,” Margaret said. Her tongue made pasty smacking sounds against
the roof of her mouth when she spoke and small sweat beads bedazzled her brow.
“I’m getting
you some anyway,” Tanya said and stormed off.
“I better get
back to work,” said Margaret and she turned back to her box full of notions.
Mr. Jones grit
his teeth and marched toward the front of the store. The manager was nowhere to be found so he had
one of the sweaty checkers page her.
In a few
moments a haggard looking, middle-aged woman with sweat matted hair and pit
stains soaking through her polo, scampered to the front.
“Hi, Tina,”
Mr. Jones said, his voice failing to disguise his anger. “I’m a concerned party and I was wondering
about a couple of things. The first of
those things being the very uncomfortable temperature in this place. The second is the limited access to water
that you allow your employees.”
Tina shook her
head and grimaced. After a drawn out,
calming breath she said, “Are you from corporate?”
“I am not
affiliated with Jolene’s in any way.”
“Well, unless
you’re from the head office and are here to personally oversee the so-called
repair of our air conditioning system, I don’t care what your concerns
are. If, on the other hand, you’re a
loyal customer and find the heat unbearable, then I apologize and assure you
that we are working on it.”
“That’s a hell
of an attitude.”
“Don’t blame
me. Corporate won’t let me simply call
in a repairman.”
“Are you
saying that all of this,” Mr. Jones said, gesturing toward and through the air,
“isn’t your doing?”
“You got that
right. I don’t make policy. And I sure as heck wouldn’t adhere to any
mandate to keep the heating and cooling systems in a constant state of
non-repair to cut expenses. I sweat just
as much as the other employees. Keeping it
cozy for the sweater set is one thing, but this sort of heat poses serious
health risks as far as I’m concerned.”
“And the
water?” Mr. Jones asked.
“What water?”
said Tina.
“Exactly. These employees don’t have access to water
while they’re working.”
“Yeah. Ridiculous, I know. Talk to Sean.”
“Who’s Sean?”
“He’s our
resident douche,” a young girl behind the register called out. Tina shot her a glare, but smirked at the
same time.
“A
douche? As in… bag?”
“That’s the
one,” the young girl said. Then she and
the other ladies up front started giggling.
“District
Operational Supervisor. D.O.S. He likes to tell the newbies D.O.S. for
dos. As in, dos and don’ts and if you
have any questions about what you should and should not do… go to him. Molly made the leap from dos to douche within
the first week of employment. Which is
probably why I keep her around. Lord
knows I don’t get much work out of her.”
“And where is
this douche?”
“Can’t
say. Just try to think of something
douchey a douche-bag supervisor would do and that’s probably what King Douche
is doing.”
2.b.iii
Where did all
these wrinkles come from? The question,
in one form or another, had stirred in her mind daily for the past few years,
each and every time she looked in the mirror.
She’d adhered to all the latest beauty regimens. Avoided sunlight, moonlight, and fluorescent
light. She’s injected the toxins of
almost all stinging, hive-building insects into her face and rubbed gallons of
honey across her cheekbones, forehead, chin, and neck.
And still the
wrinkles creased her face.
She hadn’t
smiled in months for fear of those lines.
What were they called? Crow’s
feet? She even avoided crows in hopes of
warding off certain facial destruction.
Perhaps she should carry small scarecrows in her purse to–
Bzzz Bzzz
Bzzz.
Her desk phone
broke her train of thought. It would
take her twelve days to remember the scarecrow idea.
“Yes,” she
said, fingering the speaker button.
“We just got
word ma’am–”
“I’m terribly
busy right now.”
“But The Greed
is–”
“As fat as he
ever was, I’m sure.”
“No. We have–”
“Please stop,”
she said, shaking her head slightly, though not too much or else gravity might
work another crease into her face.
“He’s
tracking–”
“I don’t
care.”
“Corporate
Man!”
“What?” Her eyes flared wide.
“You heard
me.”
A scowl bit
down between her eyebrows.
“I’ll be right
up,” she said.
Corporate Man. He’s the one that’s responsible. Her descent into wrinkled, aging spinsterhood
traced directly back to him and his stupid fist. She had believed him to be dead. Apparently she’d been misinformed. Good. Very good.
She’d get an opportunity for revenge after all.
She smiled.
Her mouth had
far too many teeth in it.
Two small,
invisible crows landed at the edges of her eyes.
2.b.iv
“Are you the
douche?” Tanya asked
“Excuse me?”
the man said. “What are you doing in
here? Didn’t you see the ‘closed for
service’ sign?”
“Yes I did
and–”
“And you’ll
just have to wait to pee pee, won’t you?” the man said. He turned his attention
back toward the bathroom stall he was squatting in front of, raised a
carpenter’s square to a sidewall, and squinted like an artist eyeing the
proportions of a nude model.
“No. I won’t.
I’m covered in something nasty and need to wash. Also, I don’t think I’ve peed since the hospital
so my business here is compulsory. On
top of that, I’ve been circling this bathroom for twenty minutes looking for
the douche bag in charge, hoping the maintenance man would hurry up and finish
with the bathroom so I could attend nature’s call.”
“That’s quite
the life story. Now get out.”
“What are you
doing? You aren’t even fixing anything.”
“Oh yes I am,”
said the man.
“Yeah? And what would that be?”
“Our budget.”
“Your budget?”
“Yep.”
“In the
toilet?” Tanya said, putting her hands on her hips.
“It sure has
been. But once I trim a few unnecessary
costs, we’ll be back in the black.”
“Oh god. You’re the douche. The D.O.S.”
“District
Operational Supervisor. Uh huh.”
“We were
racking our brains trying to think of douchey things you might be up to and we
thought up some pretty douchey stuff. And
now, here you are.”
“Yes. Now there you go,” he said, pointing toward
the door.
“So… just out
of curiosity, what are your doing to cut costs.
And just how extraordinarily douchey is it?”
“I have no obligation
to explain myself to you, but your over use of the word douche has put me
somewhat at ease so I’ll explain. Also,
I do like to show people how budgetarily clever I can be.”
“Thrill me,” said
Tanya.
“Well, the
bulk of our clientele and the majority of our employees are female and, as your
intrusion into this facility illustrates, your gender tends to use the restroom
an awful lot,” the D.O.S. said.
“Buddy, you’re
entering dangerous territory here.”
“Oh… Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“Was it the
bathroom comment of the use of the word ‘bulk’ when referencing women? I know you tend to be sensitive about your
weight.”
“Oh! You did not just–”
The D.O.S.
shook his head and waved his hand back and forth dismissively.
“Doesn’t
matter. The way I figure it, if I reduce
the amount of available toilet paper I can trim three percent off our operating
costs. So I’m proposing the installation
of dispensing machines which will provide only one square of toilet paper per
person.”
“But that’s–”
“Oh I know
what you’re going to say. ‘One square is
not enough for number two.’ But when it comes to that, a guest may simply exit
the stall and reenter for another piece of paper. Or, if corporate really wants to invest in
this idea, there are machines that can detect malodorous emanations and
dispense up to five squares.”
The D.O.S.
smiled.
“No, what I
was going to say was that dispensing machines would cost more than the amount
of money saved on the toilet paper.”
The D.O.S.
shook his head, ever so slightly, and said, “See. That’s why you aren’t a high ranking
corporate official. The expenditure for
the dispensing machines would be allocated under the remodeling budget and
would, therefore, not count against the store performance statistics.”
“Can you excuse
me for a minute?” Tanya asked.
“Certainly. I’ve got a lot of measuring to do.”
“Yeah. You do that.
I’ll be back directly.” Tanya shook her head and mouthed the words
“douche” and “bag” as she went back to the sales floor.
2.b.v
The light was
vivid and primary. Like the glow of the
4th of July or the pristine sheen of the 1950’s. Clean and pure, but ultimately
unsustainable. A collection of brightly
garbed masked men and women sat gathered around a conference table.
“Motion
denied. Again,” said Ben Buck, the
Dollar Man.
“We haven’t
even taken a vote,” said The Elephant.
“Sure we
have. The last five times you brought it
up. We voted. All neighs except for your sad, lonely yay.”
The Elephant
glared at Donkey then tugged his golden belt buckle up over his ever swelling
belly and pinched at the scarlet spandex molesting his porky thighs. He’d have to design a less constrictive
uniform soon. This one made him seem all
love-handley and paunchy.
“The Union
gives off the impression that we support labor unions and–”
“Oh, Christ
stop!”
“–and we all
know what havoc the unions have wrought on our economy over the years,” The
Elephant said.
“Listen to
you,” Donkey yelled. “You sound like
some fat-cat corporate tycoon just looking to squeeze more revenue out of the
little guy.”
“That’s
business. You make it sound–”
“Low? Dirty?
God look at you. Elephant and
aptly named. You’re getting fatter all
the time.”
“And you’re an
ass,” The Elephant said.
“Quiet. Both of you,” Miss Pension said, fidgeting
with her mauve colored domino mask.
“We’re supposed to be helping.
The Greed’s out there again and we’re bickering with each other like a
bunch of–”
“Republicans?”
“Screw you,
Donkey!” The Elephant yelled.
“Yeah, I’ll
bet. And with all the illegal immigrant
workers you support I’ll bet you’ve got a Tijuana
connection where you can get just that.”
The Elephant
bellowed and slammed his fist against the conference table. His belly, thighs, back-fat, wobbly triceps,
and double chin jiggled with aftershocks.
“That’s
it. Elephant Charge!” he called out and
ran toward Donkey.
Donkey
sidestepped the charge in one quick, hopping movement, positioning his hands on
the ground and thrusting his legs in the air.
“Burro Kick!”
he shouted as both feet slammed into The Elephants hindquarters.
There was s
thudding, slapping sound and The Elephant pitched forward into a filing cabinet. There was a crash of metal and paper
documents exploded into the air and scattered across the floor. Donkey streaked toward The Elephant and
leaped into the air, cocking his fist back.
“Donkey
Punch!”
The Elephant
pivoted and called out, “Ivory Tusks!” as he jabbed his rigid fingers up into
Donkey’s gut, knocking all the air from his lungs. Donkey writhed on the ground, gasping.
A shadow
seeped into the pristine light like a cloud obscuring the sun, spoiling an
idyllic picnic. The Elephant advanced,
wiping sweat from his forehead with a thick, meaty hand. A sticky substance clung to the back of his
fingerless, spandex gloves, leaving thick tendrils like melted cheese between
his face and his fingers.
“It’s him!”
Ben Buck, the Dollar Man cried. “The
Greed’s here. He’s got The Elephant!”
2.b.vi
“Jonesy.”
“Huh,” Mr.
Jones said, his memory fading. The
sickly gloom of the craft superstore fluorescents seeped back into his field of
vision; antiseptic and sterile.
“Found
him. He’s in the bathroom.”
Mr. Jones’s
shoulder dropped and his head lulled.
When he spoke, his face made no attempt to hide the sour expression.
“Really?”
“Yeah. So we gonna go get him or what?”
“In the
bathroom? No thanks. I’ll wait until he comes out.”
“I don’t think
he’s coming out for a while.”
“A further
indicator that I do not want to go in there.”
Tanya shook
her head and put her hands on her hips. “Are
you seven? He’s not in there shedding a
brown pound, he’s taking measurements.”
Mr. Jones
cocked his head to the side and flared his eyes. “Like that’s better.”
“Oh. I see.
We’re in junior high now. I’m the one that gets to make the juvenile
comments, remember? He’s in there
measuring stuff as part of his douchey cost cutting initiative. So grow up and let’s go get him.”
Mr. Jones
sighed and they marched toward the restrooms.
2.b.vii
The D.O.S. had
three pages of notes, measurements, and figures jotted in a spiral
notebook. He really should have some
sort of palm-pilot-black-berry-i-phone-blue-toothy electronic device with voice
recognition software to act as secretary and make notes for him. He’d send a requisition to corporate as soon
as he was done here.
He made a few
more calculations and mocked up an algebraic formula to include in his report
making sure it looked complex and therefore quite impressive to the board
members that would be approving the funding for his plan. He’d probably get a huge bonus out of
this. Just the thought of all that extra
money caused a flutter of butterflies in his stomach. He imagined those butterflies to have
greenback wings and the sensation increased.
Or perhaps it was cramping.
Either way, he liked it.
2.b.viii
“So where is
he?” Mr. Jones asked.
“He was right
here,” said Tanya. “Look. His tools and charts and notes are still
laying around on the floor over there.
Hey! Hey douche. Where are you?”
Tanya kicked
open the only stall door that was closed.
The D.O.S. was sitting on the toilet, a look of pleasant comfort on his
face, pants resting on his shoes.
“Oh god!” Mr.
Jones cried out. “You said he wasn’t–”
“Hey!” the
D.O.S. shouted, snapping out of his blissful trance. “Occupado!
Occupado!”
“Pull up you
pants,” Tanya said. “We need to have a
little chat about your business practices.”
“First,” the
D.O.S. said, “we don’t discuss corporate policy with out guests, the press, the
competition, or our employees. And two,
the thing I need to have requires that my pants be down, and from the aggressive
sensation in my bowels, it’s not at all little.”
“That’s
nasty.”
Mr. Jones
shook his head, took a calming breath, and then said, “Listen up douche bag
we–”
“Why is
everyone saying that today?” the D.O.S. said.
“We know
you’re harboring an enemy of the people and we intend–”
“What I’m
harboring is a couple of tacos, last night’s cheese pizza, some bear claws and
a pack of corn nuts,” the D.O.S. said.
“Dude. Sick,” Tanya said.
“As for ‘enemy
of the people’ if you’re still here when this bad boy crowns I imagine you’ll
be at odds with whatever comes out.”
“Okay, stop
it. Seriously. Or I’m gonna throw up,” Tanya said, backing
away.
There was a
moment, silent and still, where neither of the bathroom occupants spoke or
moved. A frozen piece of time in which
those involved weighed their options.
Finally, the D.O.S. shrugged, hunched his shoulders, and started
grunting.
“Get him off
the toilet. Quick!” Mr. Jones shouted,
jumping into the stall and grabbing the D.O.S.’s arms.
“Not on your
life,” said Tanya.
“If he shits
The Greed into the sewer system we’ll lose his trail.”
“Fine by me.”
“I need your
help.”
Tanya gritted
her teeth and then lunged forward, clamping her hands around the D.O.S.’s
ankles. She shook her head violently and
shouted, “Why do I gotta get the legs?”
A symphony of
grunts and groans, accompanied by squelchy, slurping, sucking noises, echoed
through the bathroom as the combatants strained and flexed.
Amidst the
clamor a soft, timid voice chimed, “Is the bathroom ready for–”
But the old
woman proffering the question never finished her inquiry. Her breath caught in her throat and she
covered her mouth with a white gloved hand.
She could not fathom what would cause such terrible noises. It sounded like an orgy of fantastically painful
bowel movements. When she saw three
pairs of legs protruding in spasms from one stall she bolted from the room,
eyes pinched shut, hands waving frantically at the side of her head.
2.b.ix
Mr. Jones and
Tanya wrenched the D.O.S. from the toilet seat and dragged him, bare assed, out
onto the bathroom floor. A trail of foul
slime traced his journey along the tile.
“Isn’t this
one a real piece of work?” a deep burbling voice said with the mouth of the
D.O.S. “Absolutely no consideration for
the well being of others. Anything for
that almighty dollar. But you know the
best thing? There are thousands more,
just like him, all across the city. And
I can move through them all.”
A terrible
gurgling boil sounded in the pit of the D.O.S.’s stomach. He thrashed and writhed and his body began to
bloat. His shirt stretched taught across
his expanding torso.
“Oh shit,”
said Mr. Jones. “I think The Greed’s
planning an explosive exodus.”
“Aw god,
no. Count me outta this,” Tanya said,
tossing her arms into the air.
“We can’t let
him go.”
“Oh yes we
can. He’s
about to let go and I want no part of that.”
“Get back over
here and help me,” Mr. Jones yelled.
Tanya cringed
and moved back toward the D.O.S. A belch
ripped from his mouth and she jumped back, shaking her hands as if flinging
away something foul and watery.
“Come on. Don’t get all timid on me,” Mr. Jones said.
Tanya bit her
lip, charged forward, and grabbed a hold of the D.O.S. His body shuddered and the gurgling sound
intensified. The seems of his shirt tore
in slow succession as the stitches gave way.
“Oh lord,
Jesus,” Tanya shouted.
“Point his ass
toward the corner. Away from the
drains,” Mr. Jones said.
The two
maneuvered the D.O.S. so that his backside faced the tiled corner. The possessed executive struggled against
them, bucking and frothing and swelling.
Then he stopped moving, except for his lips which quivered slightly with
a small tremor. The tremor became a
shake and the shake turned into a spasm which racked his entire body.
The D.O.S.
opened his mouth wide. The sound was
like walruses mating in a tub of pudding.
Mr. Jones and Tanya closed their eyes, flinching away from the impending
catastrophe; Tanya screaming about the nastiness of it all. Then a deep hiccupping wretch belched from
the D.O.S.’s esophagus and a fire hose of vomit spewed from his mouth.
“AH! Ah god it stinks. Ah god!” Tanya yelled.
The vomit
splattered against the wall behind them but did not leak down to the
floor. Instead, it slithered upward into
a vent and slurped through the grilled opening.
And was gone.
Tanya yanked
the D.O.S. away from Mr. Jones, discarding the limp form roughly into one of
the stalls. She yelled, shook her arms,
and kicked her legs. The she took a deep
breath, repeated the exercise, and stomped into an open stall.
“I need to
pee!”
2.b.x
The tech boys
stormed into the bathroom like a swat team.
Each movement practiced to perfect reflective action, their formations
models of efficiency, tested in computer simulations thousands of times.
“He’s there,”
said one of the boys in the standard, black and pale yellow field tech uniform as
he pointed to the slumped D.O.S.
The boy wearing
the black blazer with the significant elbow pads, scratched at his stubble-less
chin. “They’ve been here too,” he said,
“and so has The Greed.”
“How can you
tell without running a battery?” the tech boy in the collared, sleeveless, pale
yellow shirt and black shorty shorts said.
“Easy. Use your nose. That smell of covetous sweat, dirty money,
and exorbitant filth is The Greed’s signature scent,” the blazered tech boy
said.
“Oh. Is that what that is? I just thought it meant that someone dropped
a deuce,” said shorty shorts.
“That’s
because you’re new, newbie,” said a standard issue tech boy.
“Wait,” said shorty
shorts, “how did we even know to look in here?”
A standard
issue boy rolled his eyes and said, “Easy.
Our system monitors all our people in the field. We ran a search for any operative whose
bodily readouts were instable. This guy
pinged something fierce.”
“Looks like
they escaped into the ventilation system,” the blazered tech boy said, pointing
to the grating on the wall. Viscous,
gelatinous ooze dribbled from it’s horizontal slits.
“Sick,” said
shorty shorts.
“Yes. Sick indeed,” said blazer. “In you go, newbie.”
“What? Why’s it gotta be me?” asked shorty shorts.
“I thought we
went over this already,” said blazer. “Because
you’re new.”
Shorty-shorts’s
shoulders slumped. His head fell forward
and he kicked the tile floor as he made his way over to the ventilation access;
a chorus of jeers and laughter salting his little figurative wounds.
2.b.xi
“Good god, how
long is this vent shaft?” Mr. Jones said.
“There’s no way we’re still inside the Jolene’s complex.”
“I case you
hadn’t noticed,” Tanya said, “I am currently on my hands and knees, crawling
through a greasy, foul smelling, bodily secretion. I’m using all my mental energy to convince
myself otherwise so I don’t have time for your petty little wonderings. In fact, you don’t really need to speak again
until we’re out of this stinky, claustrophobic hell. And preferably… after I’ve showered.
Tanya and Mr.
Jones continued on in silence.
2.b.xii
The bossman
was having trouble keeping his car at an acceptable rate of speed. He prided himself on traveling at least twice
the speed limit of whatever roadway he found himself traveling on. At the moment, that would have been sixty
miles per hour, but for some reason the teenaged punk in front of him was
topping out at thirty-five. Worse, when there
was no possibility of passing, the prick slowed down to twenty. The bossman though he saw little beedy
bastard eyes in the kid’s rearview mirror, eager to spot the brimming hostility
of the following vehicle’s pissed off driver, taking pleasure, no doubt, in any
irritation he created.
The bossman
wished he had the self control to deny the teenager this joy, but every time a
passing opportunity opened up, peach-fuzz would hit the gas and the bossman
would reflexively pound the steering wheel.
Why did someone to whom pubic hair was still a novelty have a faster car
than him? The bossman punched his
dashboard. He wouldn’t even be out here
driving around if his office wasn’t such a mess. Still, it might afford some benefits. Should a
report come through concerning Corporate Man, he would be in a better position
to–
The street
opened up into two lanes. The bossman
swerved into the vacant one and slammed on the gas. His pubescent tormentor matched his
acceleration until they caught up to another car. One which happened to be in the bossman’s
lane, forcing him to slow down. He
glanced over and saw the young boy, and his pack of acned passengers, cackling.
“Asshole!” the
bossman yelled.
The teenager
slowed his car down, matching the pace of the vehicle currently blocking the
bossman’s forward progress. A
thunderstorm of abuse rained down across the bossman’s innocent, though not
quite unsuspecting, car’s interior.
2.c.i
Felix prided
himself on the tidiness of not only his store, but of his personal appearance. He’d inherited the shop from his father and
his father had taught him that, in the jewelry business, there was no
compromising when it came to appearances.
“Think of
yourself like a well cut gem,” he’d say.
“Precision and clean lines. Maybe
a little sparkle.”
Felix had
always taken this to heart. He shaved
every morning and then again on his lunch.
He had his hair cut once a week.
His office contained an extensive wardrobe of fine suits should he ever
wrinkle or, god forbid, spill something on himself during the day.
He preferred
that his customers share, if not an equal appreciation at least a general
tendency toward, neatness. So it was to
his absolute horror when he found himself confronted by the extraordinarily
foul couple at his counter. They stank
like number two and looked as if they slept in buckets of the colonel’s special
recipe.
And where had
they come from?
The door chime
hadn’t sounded in its soft crystalline way and Felix had been Windexing counter
displays near the store front when these creatures had suddenly clamored toward
him from the rear of the store, babbling about greed and the relief of their
hellhole.
Oh god. The horror of that mental image.
Still, a tidy
appearance was only part of a good jeweler’s demeanor. Organizational skills, attention to detail, a
great sense of style, and a confident, pleasant disposition. Which meant he had to lead with politeness.
“Good
afternoon and welcome to Felix.” His father had named him after the store. “I
apologize,” he continued, still the epitome of pleasantry, “but I didn’t see
you come in”
“Yeah, you
wouldn’t have,” the woman said, shooting a dirty look at the even dirtier man.
“Are the two
of you in the market for an engaging piece of hand embellishment?” Felix
said. He loved that question. It seemed a shame to waste it on a pair he
would undoubtedly be asking to leave the shop sooner rather than later.
“I don’t know,
honey,” the woman said, “After all this time are you finally gonna pop that
question and make an honest woman out of me?
Or are we gonna continue with this filthy life of sin?
Felix
blushed. It must be the stink and the
grime. In all his years he’d never asked
a married couple if there were looking for an engagement ring.
“So… what’s
your deal?” the man asked, planting himself well within Felix’s bubble of
personal space. “These diamonds come
from war ravaged regions at the expense of the innocent? Some of this gold fall off a truck? Or are you pushing low-quality merchandise as
high-grade jewelry?”
“I never!”
Felix said, hand covering his heart as he gasped a shocked intake of breath.
“Well he chose
you for some–”
“Oh Corporate
Man,” a woman, one of Felix’s regulars, called out from the other side of the
shop. She was a leathery, tanning-bed
addict, with chemical blonde hair. Her
fingers were adorned with large carat rings, the nails long and salon
pampered. Though she was far from
elegant, she was always pleasant. But
today, Her voice was low and gurgly.
Felix would have to sanitize any of the areas she frequented to avoid
whatever plague she’d had the misfortune to be stricken with. And what was this she was insinuating about
him being a corporate man?
“The shop is
privately owned. My father–” Felix
started.
“He’s talking
to me,” the dirty man said.
“Sir, did you
intend to visit the optical boutique downstairs or something? Clearly she’s–”
“You see,
Corporate Man,” bleach-blonde leather-skin said, “greed exists not only in the
proprietors but also in the clientele.
This woman has closets full of jewelry, expensive clothes, and all the
finer things. She’s never worked a day
for any of it and she always wants more, more, more.”
The noises
coming out of the blonde woman’s throat were nothing short of nauseating. Felix felt a pang in his stomach and fretted
over the possibility of having his neat and tidy demeanor stripped away.
The filthy
couple lunged at blonde/skin but she dodged them and dove behind a necklace
display case. There was a ghastly
chortling noise and a stench that only sewer rates might find appealing.
Felix went
green.
A giant,
greasy, almost translucent, mucousy, greenish-brown, slug-like, wormy thing
streaked across the jewelry store floor leaving a thick, sticky trail. The filthy couple made half hearted attempts
to grab the thing and then chased it out the door.
The thought of
touching that thing sent Felix into the restroom to be sick.
2.c.ii
Shorty shorts
tech boy was no longer crawling through the endless ventilation system. He was curled up, on his side, whimpering and
fetal. The shorts he once took pride in
were soaked through with some sort of foul gel.
They were no longer a source of accomplishment and dignity, but a mark
of amateurish shame.
He sniffled
and cried and wished he were back home with his parents, gaming online, sharing
adventures with his real friends. His
cyber friends.
2.c.iii
Tanya and Mr.
Jones trailed The Greed worm out of an upscale mall complex, into the city
streets, and right into a Price Killers Wholesale Superstore.
“We can’t keep
doing this,” Tanya said. “Track him,
confront him lose him, and track him again.
What’s our goal here?”
“I know, I
know. But I think I have a plan
now. Find the section with the kitchen
items. Cling-wrap and tin foil and such. Get some bags and then find me. I’ll locate The Greed.”
“Alright fine,
but if I happen through ‘bath essentials’ on my way to find you, I’m getting us
a couple bars of soap and an economy sized can of deodorant spray.”
2.c.iv
Shorty shorts
tech boy was crawling again. If he ever
got out of this hell-of-endless-vents and recounted his harrowing tale, he’d
explain that his courage redoubled when he thought about what his online
avatar, Mantech, would do in a situation like this. He wouldn’t crumple up and quit. He’d press on.
Of course,
short shorts tech boy would be lying. The
thing that actually motivated him into resuming forward movement was the scary,
growling sound he heard in the passage behind him which he promptly scrambled
away from, mewling and sobbing. He’d
also peed his shorty shorts, but he felt confident that no one would notice
with all the other foul grimes and jellies that already coated his lower half.
2.c.v
“Are you
positive,” said the woman with far too many teeth.
“One of my
scouts just reported from Price Killers, he’s tracking them through the
low-price warehouse right now,” a voice full of crackle and static responded
The woman with
far too many teeth always used the speaker phone option on her cell phone. She feared the radiation from mobile units
would accelerate aging. What she what
she had not accounted for was that in her efforts to decipher the garbled
speech coming from her phone, she would often scowl. This caused two deep furrows to cut through
her brow. Over time this left her with a
permanent set of vertical wrinkles.
“Do not
engage,” she said, fighting the urge to grin and allow all her teeth to
show. “I’ve got the helicopter on stand
by. I’m on my way.”
She wasn’t
supposed to be using the tech boys for this kind of work, by they were out in
the field, nearest to Corporate Man’s current location, and she didn’t want to
risk losing him. She wasn’t authorized
to commandeer the helicopter either and landing in on the roof of a Price
Killers in the downtown area would, no doubt, cause a shit storm. But once she had Corporate Man, all would be
forgiven.
2.c.vi
Felix was
sweating. He hated sweating. He’d once asked his father if beads of sweat
might be a good thing, like little body diamonds. His father explained that sweat drops would
be akin to cubic zirconium, not diamonds.
Felix then ran squealing to the shower and had refrained from strenuous
exercise ever since.
He considered
closing his shop after the incident with the dirty couple and the… Actually, he
couldn’t bear to acknowledge the thought of the thing that had squirmed around
his sales floor. But by the time he’d
composed himself and come out of the restroom, the store was crawling with
sharply dressed tech boys. Felix was
horrified that so many people were seeing his business in such a state.
And it made
him sweat.
“Copy. We will maintain surveillance but not
engage,” said a tech boy wearing a black blazer with pale-yellow elbow
pads. He slid his slick, gadgety
looking, Post-It yellow phone into the chest pocket of his jacket and made some
smart looking hand gestures. Three of
the other tech boys snapped to attention and then ran out of the store.
Blazered tech
boy glanced around. Was he assessing the
situation and deciding what to do with his remaining operatives or was he scrutinizing
the condition of the sales floor?
“Alright boys,
we need to finish up here, and fast. I
have no doubts that we’ll all be seeing some real action and soon.”
There was a
burst of nervous hurrahs from the standard tech boys. Then one of them gestured
toward Felix and said, “What about him?
Do we need to run a battery?”
Felix felt his
ass clench.
“He’s not one
of ours, but be sure to issue–”
There was a
loud crash and a dripping, putrid smelling tech boy with black shorty shorts
and a sleeveless, collared shirt of indeterminate color, fell through the cold
air return in the ceiling at the back of the store and slammed onto a glass-top
counter. It did not break. Felix only dealt in quality.
“I made it
out! I’m alive!” shorty shorts said,
bounding around the store. Droplets of
grayish contaminants flew from fingertips spattering the display fixtures.
“You reek,”
said blazered tech boy.
Shorty shorts
stopped dancing. His eyes narrowed as he
examined the store.
Oh god, even
this filthy thing was passing judgment.
“How’d you
guys get here?” short shorts asked.
“Duh. In the van,” said a standard tech.
“Then why’d I
have to crawl through that corridor of hell if you already knew to come here?”
The tech boy
in the blazer stepped up to shorty shorts, leaned forward, and said, “Cause
you’re the new guy, newbie. And because it’s
funny. Now come on, let’s close it up
here and get to where the action is.”
2.c.vii
The tech boys
flitted around the Price Killers Discount Superstore like stealth ninjas. They’d located both targets then tailed
codename: Corporate Man and codename: Business Woman throughout the sales
floor. Codename: Corporate Man harassed
several store employees and even a few customers pushing carts, heaped to
overflowing, with discount goods.
Codename: Business Woman appeared to be… shopping.
2.d.i
The Greed was
well hidden this time. Mr. Jones had
already confronted several likely host candidates but none of them seemed to
house The Greed. Where could he be? From a few scattered memories, Mr. Jones
recalled past encounters with this entity of avarice but this creature seemed
much more advanced. From what he’d seen
so far, each new host seemed to be a platform for The Greed to illustrate just
how extensive his influence was; how deeply embedded in the American people
he’d become.
So who would
it be? Which person here was different
from the previous hosts?
And finally,
Mr. Jones knew. There was a boy, maybe
eight years old, with an armful of toys, filling his mother’s shopping cart. He didn’t seem to care which toy, there were
many duplicates in fact, just that he get as many as he could.
Mr. Jones
looked around for Tanya and spotted her in the perfume section. She reluctantly joined him when he motioned
her over.
“He’s in the
kid,” he said, and gestured toward the boy.
“What? No, I don’t believe that. Then he’d be in every kid in the world
because they all want everything.”
“Maybe he
is. Look at our society. Look at the rampant commercialism in kid’s
entertainment. We’re creating a populous
engineered to act as hosts for The Greed.”
Tanya shook
her head and said, “Uh uh. That’s just
sick and wrong.”
“I think I
know a way to get him out of the boy,” said Mr. Jones.
“Yeah, I want
no part of that.”
“Would you
just trust me, I think I’ve done something like this before. Back in the 80’s. You have the bag?”
Tanya held up
a box of zippered freezer bags.
“What is
that?”
“Bags. You said to get bags.”
“I meant big
bags. Extra durable garbage bags. How are we going to–”
“They’re moving,
Jonsey,” Tanya said, pointing to the boy and his mom.
Mr. Jones
swore and then hurried along after them.
He grabbed the boy by the shoulder, and spun him around.
“I know you’re
in there,” Mr. Jones said.
The boy
smirked and when he spoke it sounded like gravel in yogurt and smelled like
rotten fruit. “Of course I’m in
here. I was trying to be obvious. We can’t play this cat and mouse game
forever, after all.”
Mr. Jones
stepped back, a look of concern and puzzlement spread across his face.
“Yes,” The
Greed said. “Do you recall yet? Our previous encounters? Or are you still going on blind instinct and
half remembered flashes?”
Mr. Jones
clutched at his temple, rubbing his eye and the side of his forehead. There was a sharp, panging throb beating
through his brain.
“Go on. Procede as you had planned. Let’s play out parts and see how it turns out
this time.”
Mr. Jones
grunted and fought to clear his head.
“You… don’t have to be like this,” he said.
“Yes,
yes. And what comes next?”
“You… What…”
“I think
you’re supposed to appeal to the boy’s sense of valor,” The Greed said.
And then it
clicked. Mr. Jones remembered. The light went deep orange and the edges of everything
glowed a whitish, violet neon as if lit by a black light.
Halloween 1982.
2.d.ii
Corporate Man became aware of The Greed
infestation while investigating Halloween Wholesale Ltd, a company that dealt
exclusively in holiday related merchandise.
Incidentally, HWL would one day be responsible for bringing color
coordinated Christmas lights to Halloween, Valentine’s Day, the 4th
of July, St. Patrick’s Day, and Easter.
They have yet to crack the Thanksgiving market.
After a merry
chase, Corporate Man tracked The Greed into the Jorgeson Bluff neighborhood,
one of the largest trick-or-treat destinations in the city.
Back then,
when The Greed traveled from person to person, he didn’t invade their bodies,
per se. His presence already existed
within the host and his manifest-psyche (what would one day become his
gelatinous slug-like sewage form) had yet to become a physical thought-form
projection of himself, so it drifted superficially from one carrier’s mind to
another.
Ironically, he
was a slipperier catch in those days, but his host minds were generally quite
obvious.
Generally.
The kid was
wearing a Rocket Man Rik spacesuit. It
was his third such costume of the evening and he’d been revisiting the houses
that gave out full-sized candy bars or lesser candies in fistful quantities. He planned to store the candy and sell it
school when everyone had eaten the last of their Halloween goodies.
“What are you
supposed to be?” the infected, Rocket Rik wearing boy said.
“I’m Corporate
Man,” said Corporate Man. “A hero for capital–”
“Never heard
of you. Your cape looks more like a
tie. Should be Nerdman.”
“And you look
like a greedy little boy who’s taking advantage of the generous people in this
fine, upstanding neighborhood.”
“Shut up,
Nerd.”
The white
stripes running down the sides of the boy’s space suit glowed a brilliant
blue-white that was so bright in the orange, atmospheric haze it made Corporate
Man’s eyes ache.
“You aren’t
adhering to fair business practices and at such a young age I feel you may
never escape corruption.”
The boy’s
voice became harsh and garbled. When he
smiled his teeth were a dull sickly green.
“I get them younger and younger these days. Can’t you see the futility of your efforts,
Corporate Man?”
“I’ll give up
on the American people when I’m dead,” said Corporate
Man.
“If that’s
what it takes,” The Greed said.
He
pounced. His glowing space suit left
light traces in the air, his movements becoming a luminous blur. Corporate Man sidestepped and batted the
child aside. The boy stumbled and
crashed into a mailbox, opening a gash above his eyebrow.
“Is that what
you intend to do, Corporate Man? Beat up
this small boy? Why don’t you break his
nose or fracture his legs to teach me a lesson?”
Corporate Man
took a step back and gritted his teeth.
“Oh, don’t
think we’re done fighting just because you’re conflicted about hitting me,” The
Greed-boy said. He lunged forward,
swinging. Corporate Man blocked the
punch and dodged a swift kick from little-boy legs.
“Don’t give
in. Fight it,” Corporate Man said.
“What on Earth
are you talking about,” said Greed-boy as he attempted a leg sweep.
“Life’s not
all about money and how much stuff you can accumulate.”
“Oh, dear
me. Are you trying to reach out to the
little boy I’ve inhabited?” Greed-boy asked.
He shook his head.
“Pathetic. Simply pathetic.”
Greed-boy
charged forward, lowering his head like an enraged bull. Corporate Man spun away and locked his arms
around Greed-boy’s neck.
“Fight it,
damn it. Fight! Can’t you see that you have more than enough
already?”
The Greed-boy
struggled, but Corporate Man maintained the headlock.
“All the money
in the world can’t buy happiness. You’ll
end up isolated and alone.” Corporate
Man tightened his hold. “Share. Be giving and generous. That’s the way. You’ve more than enough candy to go around.”
“Hey! Hey, check this out,” a voice called from
across the street. “Dude’s beating up a
little kid. Trying to steal his candy.”
Corporate Man
looked up. A teenager with glowing red
hair and a bright skull painted on his face was motioning in Corporate Man’s
direction. He wore a black body suit
with the bones of a human skeleton emblazoned upon it, glowing in that black-lit
blue-white.
“Dude, that’s
totally bogus. Let’s kick his ass,” a
larger teenager said. This one was
dressed like a devil. There were five
boys in all. Corporate Man dragged
Greed-boy away from the pack and continued his attempts to reach the mind of
the child inside.
“Dude! Dick’s trying to get away. After him!” called out devil teenager.
“Fight The
Greed, boy. Reject him!” Corporate Man
yelled.
“Uh oh,
Corporate Man, it looks like you’ve made some friends.”
“Oh shit. Uh… shit,” Corporate Man said, picking up the
boy and running. The teenagers broke
into a sprint. “Come on kid. Do you think your rocket man guy would be
such a greedy bastard? He’d be ashamed
of you if he saw you. You aren’t fit to
wear his uniform.”
A spasm shook
the boy’s body and a loud gurgle belched from his mouth. It smelled like asparagus and wet dog. The teenagers were almost upon them.
“You have to
decide. Who are you? The Greed or a space hero?”
The boy’s jaw
flew open. Corporate Man twisted away
from the gaping mouth, angling it toward the teenagers. A dirty, milky blast of fluid erupted from
the boy’s gullet, spraying the angry, teenaged mob.
2.d.iii
“What’s this? What’s he doing?”
Tanya
shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s done this a couple of times. Just kind of blanks out. Stares off into space for a minute. Never seen him do it for this long.”
“Well, it’s
shit,” said The Greed with the boy’s mouth.
His voice was noticeably less gurgly.
“I was making a point and about to do something really cool and now…
What? I just have to sit here like a
turd in a toilet, hoping for a flush so I can get on with it?”
“If the shoe
fi–”
“Don’t. Don’t even say it. I’ve got scores to settle with you too,
woman. It’s just… If we get into now and
he wakes up while I’m distracted, I’ll miss my big moment.”
“What a
shame,” said Tanya.
“Damn
right. I’ve been planning this for a
couple of decades now.” The Greed leaned
his boyish host body against a store display.
“Oh well. I’ll just have to wait
then.”
Tanya,
likewise, leaned against a shelf.
After a moment
The Greed said, “What’s with the freezer bags and the body spray?”
“I don’t
know. It was his idea,” Tanya said. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to wait around
either.”
“Looks weird
is all.”
“You know
what… Let’s just pass this time in silence, shall we?”
2.d.iv
Waiting for
news, and all the dashboard boxing, had left the bossman with an appetite. He pulled into a Super King’s Biggie Burger
and ordered a giganto meal. He was
especially looking forward to the pound of fries. The food at SKBB was lackluster, but for
three and half bucks he got the aforementioned pound of fries, the giganto
burger (which had a total of four buns, three quarter-pound patties, and two
varieties of flavored processed cheese melted over every single slab of meat-like
substance), and a thirty-two ounce soda.
For a quarter more he could upsize to the sixty-four ounce drink. As a bonus for upsizing his burger would come
with three slices of bacon, tenderly strewn across the melted cheese of every
burger patty.
Nine slices of
bacon!
It was quite a
bargain and well worth the stomach cramping and horrendous gas he’d suffer
through later.
He paid for
his meal at window one and waited his turn at window two. His mouth salivated and his butt
flinched. Then his phone beeped,
alerting him of a text message.
Now? Really?
Just when he was about to get his gloriously colossal giganto
burger? Great. It was going to be a confirmed sighting of
the illusive codename: The Bull and it would ruin the lovely meal he’d
cultivated here.
He read the
text message.
East Side Branch is happy to
report continued success in the monitoring of the whereabouts of subject: the
Bull. Current position: Price Killers
Wholesale Superstore. Additional monitoring
success for subject: Miss Adams. The
former secretary of Northside Branch continues to accompany primary subject.
The bossman
was still yelling the word “bitch” in rapid fire succession when the SKBB
employee opened window number two. After
she handed the giganto meal to the bossman she went to the restroom and
cried.
2.d.v
The orange
Halloween haze and black-lit colors faded from Mr. Jones’s sight leaving him in
the fluorescent ache of the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore. The Greed-boy leaned against a store display,
tapping his foot and rocking in an agitated manner.
“Finally,”
said The Greed-boy. “You know, you
should get yourself checked. Zoning out
like that in the middle of a fight.
Gonna get you killed some day.”
Mr. Jones
glanced around. His eyes were confused
and lost until he spotted Tanya and her box of freezer bags. Then the clarity returned.
“Leave that
boy alone, Greed,” Mr. Jones said.
“Ah yes. That’s it,” said The Greed-boy, the deep
gurgle returning to his voice. He
sauntered forward a couple of steps.
“The boy is mine and will be for his entire life.”
“Fight him
boy. Cast him out!”
“Arrghh! No!” yelled The Greed-boy.
“Be like… Dick
Danger,” Mr. Jones said spotting the rocket man image on the boy’s shirt. “Be a hero.
Be upstanding and honest.”
“Arrh. Oh no.
What’s happening to me?” The Greed-boy screamed, clutching at his lower
abdomen. “I can’t stand it. It’s… It’s… not working this time.”
The Greed-boy
stood upright and smirked with the boy’s mouth.
“Fight him
boy. Fight,” Mr. Jones tried again.
“Do you even
know what kind of space ranger Dick Danger is?” asked The Greed-boy, the gurgle
in his voice slightly diminished. “He wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of
any situation in order to get what he wanted.
He’s not like the upstanding, noble heroes you used to get. After all these years, the heroes these kids
look up to are more like me than they are like you.”
“I… I…” Mr. Jones
stammered.
“Wait, wait,
wait,” said Tanya. “This? This is that big moment your were blathering
on about while Jonesy was in his trance?”
The Greed-boy
smiled, and with a low, gurgle-choked voice he said, “Not exactly. It went a little more like this.”
The possessed
boy raised his arms and a dozen nearby Price Killers Wholesale Superstore
customers lifted off the ground, a dirty, translucent, slimy tentacle jammed up
their backsides. They swayed back and
forth, held aloft like filthy puppets.
“I’m deep into
most of America
these days,” The Greed-boy shouted over the rising screams of the un-puppetted
shoppers. “Look around your Corporate Man. It’s my kind of world and you’re just an
insignificant clean spot waiting to be stained.”
More customers
throughout the superstores rose up from the ground. Cracks fissured through the concrete floor
and beastly greed-tentacles erupted all around.
The Greed-boy waited just a moment longer, for effect, and then he
started swinging Price Killers Wholesale Superstore patrons at Tanya and Mr.
Jones; like a sludgy octopus deftly wielding people-mallets.
2.d.vi
“Move! Move!
Move!” the blazered tech boy shouted, motioning his agents through the
entrance to the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore. “Scout team reports major activity with our
targets. Head directly to the back of
the store. Double time it ladies. This is our moment to shine.”
The standard
issue tech boys charged onto the sales floor shouting various peppy slogans.
“Let’s show
‘em what we’re made of!”
“Death before
dishonor!”
Of the boys at
the head of the charge, only one managed to squeak out an “oh crap” before
being pummeled by a greed-puppetted patron.
Unconsciousness took them immediately.
The tech boys
in the middle of the pack were able to scream multiple variations of “oh crap”
as they slid to a stop, more than eager to turn back. A few even called out for their mommies as
they were beaten limp by the bodies of compromised customers jammed on the ends
of wild swinging greed-tentacles.
Those bringing
up the rear of the charge scattered without any physical damage, but more than
one would suffer the dishonor of discharging a few involuntary squirts of urine
into his pants as he frantically sought shelter.
The scene was
too much for the fragile mind of shorty-shorts tech boy. He completely lost it and ran screaming. But,
without his wits, he ran headlong into the heart of the superstore, not out.
2.d.vii
The woman with
too many teeth was so happy it was pissing her off. It felt like all of her teeth were trying to
jam themselves into one gigantic Cheshire grin and she knew this was wreaking
havoc on the wrinkle-less parts of her face.
As for the areas already plagued with age lines they were, no doubt,
suffering utter catastrophe.
Still, she
could not help it. Her tech boys had
ferreted out Corporate Man and she was moments from landing on the roof of the
Price Killers Wholesale Superstore.
2.d.viii
“Move it you
teenaged fucks!” the bossman shouted.
What was wrong
with the youth of today? Were they all
pussies? In his time there were only two
ways to drive a car: fast and faster. He
was certain that this had not changed, that kids today still felt that the
accelerator belonged on the floor. So
how did they instinctively know to slow down when they were in front of him?
He should
never have chanced driving past the highschool on his way to the Price Killers
Wholesale Superstore. Now he had three
jackassed teens boxing him in, all exploding with laughter whenever he pounded
the dash or screamed expletives at them.
2.d.ix
Blood streamed
down Mr. Jones’s face but it was impossible to tell if it was his blood or
blood from the customers that The Greed had pummeled him with. Mr. Jones had taken at least six good, hard
hits from these patron fists. His vision
had gone blurry on the second shot when the forehead of a fat woman slammed
into his left temple. The next few
swings either missed or glanced off his body, but a third, direct hit, left him
with a high pitched ringing sound in his ears.
Mr. Jones
scurried along the floor, The Greed’s fists hammering all around him destroying
store shelves and merchandise displays.
When he reached the checkout stands, Mr. Jones groped for a donation
jar, the image of the bald little girl was the last thing he saw before a
large, well-muscled man who’d been stocking up on body building supplements,
connected with Mr. Jones’s face.
2.d.x
Tanya dodged
another patron-fisted attack as she made her way to Mr. Jones. The impact with the body builder had nearly
taken his head off and he was rolling around defenseless. She dove over a swinging tentacle and ducked
as a mustachioed man whipped overhead.
The Greed was
cackling and shouting words of triumph as his customer capped fists grew ever
redder.
Tanya tried to
tug Mr. Jones to his feet, but he flinched and rolled away from her. He was clutching his chest. Was he having a heart attack? Or was he holding on to something? Tanya grabbed him again and rolled him
over. His hands, knuckles completely white,
were clenched around a plastic donation jug full of loose change and small
bills.
“Jones! Are you okay?
Jones! Hey Jonesy. What’s with the donation jar? Is it part of your plan to take out The
Greed? And what about these baggies?”
Tanya lunged to
the side, narrowly avoiding a bloodied up Price Killers customer. Mr. Jones was not so lucky and received a
shoulder and an elbow to the upper abdomen and crotch, respectively.
Mr. Jones
gasped and moaned and groped for his injured parts.
“Sorry, Jones. Let’s get you out of the line of fire,” Tanya
said, dragging him under a cash register.
“What’s with the jar, Jonesy?”
The sounds
that came out of Mr. Jones’s mouth were nothing close to intelligible; not even
close to English. The confused look in his
eyes was enough to convince Tanya that her partner had taken too much of a
pounding to recall what, if any, significance the donation jar actually held.
One glance at
the sad little girl pictured on the jar left Tanya with a pang of guilt;
ashamed that material goods were more important to most people these days than
they well being of a fellow human. At
least some had cared enough to donate.
Tanya’s eyes flared briefly. Then
she wrestled the jar from Mr. Jones and charged out into the chaos of the superstore.
2.d.xi
A helicopter
landed on the roof of the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore and the woman with
too many teeth got out. She ducked her
head and made her way to the rooftop door that exists on all large corporate
structures for just such helicoptered-in visitors.
2.d.xii
The remaining
conscious tech boys regrouped in the superstore restrooms. The blazered one barked orders but most of
the orders had to do with going back out onto the sales floor and none of the
standard issue techs were willing to do that.
2.d.xiii
The bossman’s
car screeched to a halt at the front entrance to the Price Killers. There were streaks of automobile paint
scratched down the length the driver’s side and broken bits of taillights
lodged into the front bumper. The
bossman exited the vehicle, a huge, satisfied grin on his face, and thoughts of
those teenaged bastards trying to explain to angry parents just what had
happened to their speedy little cars drifting pleasantly through his mind.
2.d.xiv
Tanya fought
through the tangle of flailing greed-tentacles, dodging the abused fists as
they made every attempt to level her.
It was as if
The Greed knew she held something toxic to him and was herding her as far from
his central host body as he could.
Tanya pressed onward.
2.d.v
Mr. Jones
found himself in a slouched position beneath a cash register. His eyes couldn’t seem to agree as to what he
should focus on. He was also having
trouble keeping his head from rolling around on his neck.
2.d.vi
Shorty shorts
tech boy had not stopped screaming. From
the moment he ran onto the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore sales floor he’d
been in constant shriek. The Greed’s
tentacle arms had yet to touch him though many a narrow miss had contributed to
shorty shorts’s prolonged squealing.
2.d.vii
The woman with
too many teeth opened the door from the special stairway and stepped onto the sales floor where she
was immediately struck with a Price Killers Wholesale Superstore customer and
knocked unconscious. She lost another
handful of pearly white teeth in the collision but still had more teeth than
the average person.
2.d.xviii
The bossman
was on all fours, speed crawling through the debris and unconscious shoppers
strewn about the superstore. A steady
stream of one syllable expletives beginning with the letter “F” poured from his
mouth.
He crawled
right past Mr. Jones.
2.d.xix
“Greed!” Tanya
called out when she was finally within sight of The Greed-boy’s body. She trudged forward. He didn’t seem to pay her any attention, but
an increased flailing of his tentacle limbs advised her of the contrary.
She ducked and
dodged and scooted and spun and dove and even cart-wheeled her way closer.
“Greed!” she yelled. When he ignored her again Tanya yelled
another grunting scream, grabbed a handful of change from the jar, and pitched
the coins at The Greed-boy.
She was hoping
the minor nuisance would possibly gain his attention. What she didn’t expect was for the coins to
sizzle and hiss, like holy water on a vampire, when they struck his body.
The Greed
bellowed like an elephant as the coins embedded in his flesh and slowly burned
their way deeper. His flailing tentacle
limbs stiffened, flexing straight. A
creamy, gelatinous, poopy ooze bubbled from the coin wounds.
Tanya hesitated
for a moment and then flicked a dime at one of The Greed’s nearby
tentacles. It struck, embedded, and
hissed; melting the flesh like gasoline on a Styrofoam cup. She tossed a quarter at another tentacle and
the effect was twice as violent.
A smile spread
across Tanya’s lips and when spoke, her voice was loud and authoritative.
“You people
should be disgusted with yourselves.
Look how far The Greed has gotten into you. Literally.
It’s sick. You’re overly
concerned with material goods, possessions, and getting more, more, more. There are little girls like this out there
who are in need.”
She hoisted
the donation jar above her head and jittering vibrations pulsed through The
Greed’s tentacle limbs.
“She needs a
heart transplant, people. How many
discount televisions and gallon-sized jugs of Muscle Fuel do you really think
you need in comparison to that? Perhaps
all of you need a new heart.”
There was a still
moment in which Tanya doubted whether her words had produced any practical
effect. And then one of the tentacle
arms popped, vaporizing in a whiff of reddish, copper-scented dust. The bludgeoned woman at the end of the
tentacle dropped twenty feet to the concrete floor of the Price Killers
Wholesale Superstore where she writhed in both physical and emotional agony.
A series of
similar metallic explosions, with a cadence not unlike a bag of popping corn,
echoed throughout the store as The Greed’s limbs self-destructed.
“I’ve still
got the boy,” The Greed-boy gurgled, his body spurting nasty fluids from the coin-sized
wounds.
“I’ve got a
whole jug of change here, Greed. I’m
willing to bet it will drive you out.
And there are a few bills in here too.
If a quarter donation inflicts more damage than a dime, think of how
severe the effects of a buck or a fiver will be. Oh.
Look. Someone was charitable
enough to donate a twenty.”
Tanya grabbed
the twenty from the jar and waved it back and fourth, taunting The Greed like a
matador teasing a bull.
2.d.xx
Mr. Jones had
found his feet once again and was stumbling about the store. Sifts of red dust kept getting in his eyes
and he coughed when he breathed it in.
He didn’t know
why, but he desperately wanted to find a plastic bag.
2.d.xxi
The tech boys
were still huddled in the bathroom, sitting in various corners, as far from the
toilets as possible. A scout, venturing
as far as the door whispered in a hiss, “Something’s happening. Those poopy worm things are popping.”
“Then let’s
get out there,” the blazered tech boy yelled.
The tech boys jumped to their feet, ready to charge the door.
“Wait,” said
the scout, “there’s some kind of brown dust.
When the things pop it leaves clouds of the stuff.”
The standard
issue tech boys halted and looked around at each other, fairly certain that no
one would be venturing out until the poop-dust had cleared.
They all
returned to their various corners and took up brave, seated positions once more.
2.d.xxii
The bossman
held a flannel shirt he’d swiped from a discount bin over his face. He was not about to inhale this stuff. The dust stung his eyes and he contemplated a
detour through the athletic department to check for swimming goggles, but it
was taking far too long for him to locate codename: The Bull – aka Corporate
Man – as it was. Think about what the
possible composition of the brownish dust might really be seriously unnerved
him.
And then he
spotted his target.
The bossman’s
eyes flared. This allowed more of the
reddish-brown dust to land on his exposed eyeballs causing excessive blinking
and tears. He should have narrowed his
eyes. The desired effect would have been
similar and far more appropriate considering the airborne circumstances.
Corporate Man
was near the woman, subject: Ms. Adams.
He was stooping, trying to pick up a box of, what looked like, freezer
bags. She was waving around a twenty
dollar bill in a manner that was quite tawdry.
Both had their
backs turned toward him.
This should be
easy.
There was a
cessation of those strange exploding sounds, the ones that signaled the eruption
of greed-tentacles, and released this dreadful dust. But then there was another sound. A deranged wailing, war cry of a sound.
The bossman
turned and the last thing he saw before three of his ribs snapped was a
terrifying image of a pasty, bare legs, pumping madly as a screaming man-boy
wearing shorty shorts crashed into him.
2.d.xxiii
Mr. Jones held
the package of freezer bags, but he was still unsure of their intended purpose. Tanya was nearby taunting an oozing boy with
a twenty dollar bill. Somehow this
seemed more comprehensible than his need for freezer bags. A screaming sound turned his attention for a
moment and he swiveled just in time to see two people occupy the same
space. One clad in shorty shorts, the
other in an expensive looking suit.
Apparently the
price of the suit did not matter in the end, offering up little protection
against the flailing, unclothed legs.
The suited man crumpled, gasping and clutching at his side. The shorty short boys barely stumbled and
continued forward in a terrified panic.
He was headed
right for Tanya.
2.d.xxiv
In his blind
panic shorty shorts tech boy could only process so much information. Most of his thoughts centered on a place
called “away” and the quickest possible manner in which to get there. Was that a mannequin displaying a nice suit
that he’d just run into? Since when do
mannequins swear and cry out in pain?
Oooh. A dancing lady. And she’s giving out money.
It is
scientifically proven that, even in a blind panic, most teenaged boys are
genetically programmed to notice the female form above all else. With blood already speeding through the veins
it is much easier for that adrenaline filled fluid to veer southward into the more
erogenous zones.
Science has
yet to realize that a woman dancing with money, showing intent to reallocate
said funds, is the most fundamentally erotic image housed in the male psyche,
dating back thousands of years to a common fantasy, shared by most men of the time,
involving the employees of the oldest profession offering up a refund to a
particularly gifted patron.
2.d.xxv
Tanya heard
the strange screaming but did not dare risk a look over her shoulder to see
what it was. A thudding sound, followed
by gasps of pain, confirmed her suspicions that another of The Greed’s human
fists had fallen to the floor.
“You touch me
with that twenty and it will kill the boy,” The Greed-boy said, his host body
still dribbling a nasty gel-paste where the charitable coins had lodged.
“Somehow I
doubt that,” said Tanya.
“You’ll have
to get close to me to use it,” said The Greed-boy. “You can’t pitch a bill like a coin.”
“That won’t
be–” Tanya started, but a foul smelling, wild-eyed teen snatched the twenty
from her hand as he screamed past her.
He looked down at the money as if confused by its sudden appearance in
his hand. When he looked back up he was
only a step away from The Greed-boy.
Both boyish
forms shrieked like girls and held their hands up in preparation for the
imminent collision. Only one had a
charitable twenty dollar bill in his hand.
There was a noise that sounded like a bug zapper, a dry belch, and an
M-80. Following this improbable noise
was a burst of brown light, reddish dust, and sticky tendrils, as if someone
set off charges in a rotten pumpkin full of iron rich dirt.
When the cloud
of debris settled, Tanya could see the two boys lying on the ground, covered in
dust and sticky strings. Three brownish
slug creatures the size of large sausages slowly inched away from the point of
impact. They looked like a mix of
gelatin and fibrous ground beef.
Mr. Jones
stepped forward with a freezer bag and captured the fleeing slug creatures. “Well, I guess these freezer bags of yours
were an appropriate size after all,” he said.
“I think we
need to get out of here, Jonsey. You
okay to walk?”
“I’m fine,”
said Mr. Jones. “In fact, I’m more than
that. Everything’s so clear now. I think… I think I’m Corporate Man
again. Let’s go get my necktie cape.”