The Tragic Death of Corporate
Man
a hero for
capitalism;
champion of the
working class
by Tom Landaluce
Section 3:
Breakroom meeting and
the economic ills.
3.a.i
Everything was
antique gold and soft sepia. His vision
seemed scratchy, like an old film, and audio ambiance sounded as though it came
from a record player; needle down on dusty vinyl.
A light breeze
was on the air, bringing scents of freshly mown grass, apple pie, kettle corn,
and crisp dollar bills. He was wearing a
suit made of high quality linen which he found very comfortable in the warm
summer sun. He stood on the roof’s edge of
a small savings and loan in a great American town and adjusted his tie.
The breeze was
picking up.
Corporate Man
reached into his suit pocket and retrieved a gadgety device made of gears and
levers, housed in a small glass tube.
This miniature stock ticker produced a tiny tape which allowed him to
monitor trading. He was waiting for his
stocks to increase in value, as he knew they would. Should be in about four minutes from now.
He surveyed
the landscape of the picturesque town and noted the malt shop across the
street. Business there was booming these
days. He’d have to stop by for a treat
once he’d finished his business elsewhere.
His necktie
lengthened and the breeze became a gust.
The four minutes had passed.
Stocks were up. They would remain
up for the remainder of the week. This
was good. He would need his special
necktie in the coming days and it never seemed to work properly when the stocks
were down.
He checked the
ticker tape to confirm his portfolio’s peak and then stepped off the edge of
the savings and loan, his necktie fluttering over his shoulder, stretched out
behind him like a cape.
Corporate Man
rose up into the sky amongst the puffy white clouds and disappeared in the
circle of brilliant summer sunshine blazing over the small American town.
3.a.ii
“So I thought
you wanted your neck-cape-thing.”
“Huh. Wuh?”
“Yoohoo,
Jonesy? Off in la la land again?” Tanya
asked.
“Kind of. And call me Corporate Man,” Mr. Jones said.
“No
thanks. I’ll stick with Jonesy.”
“But–”
“No. You put on your costume and your special
necktie and then I might call you Corporate Man,” Tanya said.
“Come on,
Business Wo–”
“Ah ah
ah. Tanya’s just fine for now.”
“Until you’re
in your costume I suppose,” said Mr. Jones.
“Oh, hell
no. You think I’m wearing that thing
again? My boobs aren’t nearly as perky
as they were in the nineties and there’s a bit more than muscle to my thighs
these days.”
Mr. Jones
thought for a moment and then he grinned.
“I see you
recall it then.”
“Yeah. Wow.
What an outfit.”
“Well, it was the nineties. Everything was skimpy-bad-girl garbage back
then.”
“Hey, one
man’s trash is another man’s–”
“Prostitute?”
“I wasn’t–”
“No, no, trash
is right. And that’s where that costume
is staying,” Tanya said.
Mr. Jones
looked out the window of the nondescript automobile and thought back to better
times. It was dark outside. After Pricebusters and The Greed they had
fled the superstore and made their way to a safe house, one of many that Tanya
kept throughout the city. After some
long deserved showers they’d picked up one of Tanya’s emergency cars at a local
garage.
“So I thought
you wanted to go get your special tie.”
“Yeah, I do,
but without a current portfolio it won’t do me much good,” Mr. Jones said.
“And you can
get this at a Shepley’s?”
“Well,
no. But I know they’ve got a big
electronics department there. I’ll need
something high tech. Something… gadgety.
3.a.iii
The woman with
more teeth than the average person woke up in the back of an ambulance. The handsome EMS man
rushed over and examined her vital signs.
She tried to smile at him but her face hurt all over.
The sensation
was more than familiar.
“I collected
these for you,” the EMS man said, holding up a baggy of
small, white, rock-looking items. “I
thought they were yours but you don’t seem to be missing any teeth.”
She touched
the man’s thigh and took the bag of teeth from him gingerly. She would heal. She would heal and she would bed this man. Then she would make bullets from her lost
teeth and shoot Corporate Man in the face.
3.a.iv
“We should
find a… container of some sort.
Something a little stronger maybe.
And more opaque,” Mr. Jones said as they walked through the Shepley’s
towards the electronics department.
“And why is
that?” Tanya asked.
“Well… The
Greed. He’s twitching.”
“What?”
“Twitching.”
“I heard that
part. I’m not deaf. What I didn’t understand was your statement. I thought we already dealt with The Greed,” Tanya
said. She grabbed Mr. Jones by the
shoulder, stopped him in the aisle, and took a good look at his face. His eyes were dancing back and forth. He was either hiding something or very
embarrassed.
“Out with it,”
she said.
“The Greed,”
his said, shoulders slumping. Then he
pulled a zippered freezer bag from beneath his shirt and held it in front of
him.
Tanya leaned
forward to get a closer look. “What’s
that you got – Ah!” She jumped about
four feet. “Is that what I–”
“Yes.”
“Why the
hell–”
“Cause, we’ll
need it.”
“What for?”
“You’ll see.”
“Nasty.”
“I know.”
“That, right
there, is nasty.”
“I know.”
“There’s food
in this place. It’s part of a grocery
store.”
“Yeah. Got it.”
“You sure
do. And the bag you’ve got it in… is
clear.”
“Yep. And it’s twitching.”
Tanya
froze. Her face was almost completely
devoid of expression. Unless of course
the expression was meant to convey that she had, in fact, heard the previous
statement but was clearly choosing to ignore it and not believe it at the same
time.
“Twitching?”
she finally said, her teeth never quite unclenching.
“Yeah, I
know. Nasty,” Mr. Jones said, mocking
her tone.
“Why?”
“I think it
senses someone really greedy in here.”
“Aw god, not
this again,” Tanya said, turning away and putting her hands on her hips.
“No, not like
that,” said Mr. Jones poking at the sausage-sized slug-lumps in the freezer
bag. “In this de-powered state it only
senses those that are truly connected to all of this.”
“All of what?”
“You know, the
big guns. The corporations and the
politicos that pull our economic strings.
We can use these pieces to go on the offensive. To track the bastards down.”
Tanya sighed
and shook her head.
“Yeah, okay,
whatever. Just don’t ask me to hold, or
touch, or even look at that bag.”
3.a.v
The tech boy
wearing the blazer with the elbow pads held his hand up for silence. The standard issue tech boys ceased their
whooping celebrations and looked to their leader with jubilant faces.
“We’ve come
through hell,” said blazered tech boy and a chorus of cheers exploded from the
standard techs. When the commotion
settled he continued.
“Never have we
faced such a beast as we encountered today.”
More
cheers. This time, blazered tech boy
raised his voice to speak over the uproar.
“And never has one of our own confronted such an adversary. Met it… and triumphed!”
The cheers
were deafening. Standard techs popped
cans of soda and dumped them over each other’s heads, slamming the empty cans
against the walls and the floors of the break room space.
Blazered tech
held his hand aloft and silence, again, gripped the room. He paused for a long moment and then jerked a
pair of black slacks over his head like a barbarian warrior hefting an enemy’s
head over a crowd of blood thirsty followers.
The techs
screamed and yelled and even managed to break a chair or two.
“Bring forth
the conquering hero!” blazered tech boy called out.
A gap split
the crowd of frenzied techs and shorty shorts tech boy was brought forward,
held aloft by two standard techs. They
set him at the feet of the blazered tech boy who lowered the slacked until they
almost touched shorty shorts’s forehead.
The cheers
were like thunder.
3.a.vi
Tanya and Mr.
Jones hadn’t had much luck finding a container for The Greed sausages. They’d tried kitchen storage, automotive, and
even gardening. Still, nothing. Nothing that seemed suitable anyway. As they stood in the toy section, however,
things began to look up. Various
spaceships, swords, ray guns, and toy cars could easily house the leftovers of
The Greed.
Mr. Jones was
favoring the ray gun.
Tanya
professed her admiration for a pink unicorn.
Mr. Jones suspected her of putting him on, but on the contrary, Tanya
really did like the bejeweled unicorn.
Not because she admired its girly qualities, she simply loved the idea
of befouling a stereotypical girl’s toy by cramming it full of nasty greed
pieces. She also liked the idea of
forcing Mr. Jones to carry around something so pretty and sparkly.
“That’s not
the point, Wendel,” a woman’s voice barked from the next aisle. “The point is that your crew is slow and
needs a little incentive.”
“My crew is
not slow. Management is asking the
impossible,” Wendel said.
“According to
corporate, they are below the per-hour rate on number of cases thrown.”
“Who says?”
“Corporate.”
“What’s that
mean?”
“Someone, a
panel or a group, from corporate researched it and came up with the figure.”
“Those numbers
are either generated from asking an experienced freight worker to throw as fast
as he can for fifteen minutes and then averaging his time across eight hours or
by measuring a quantity of freight that is extremely easy and quick to throw
and calling that the average.”
“So. What does that matter? It is still the average that corporate demands.”
There was an
audible, exhausted sigh from Wendel before he continued. “Measuring fifteen minutes of work against
eight hours is like apples to oranges.
The human body can’t work at sprint speed for eight hours. It’s too much to ask.”
“Not according
to this paperwork. And going forward
everyone will be wearing one of these during their shift.”
Tanya and Mr.
Jones shared a confused but intrigued look and then walked around the corner in
time to see the black-haired manager slip a little collar over Wendel’s
neck.
“This has to
be illegal,” Wendel said.
“Why?” said
the black haired manager as she checked the connections on the collar. “Everyone has given consent.”
“Yeah. Cause you said they could wear the collars or
find another job.”
“Yes,
voluntary. Like I said.”
“Not by my
definition.”
“It’s
simple. I see someone dragging their
heals, I zap ‘em. I see someone chatting
up a fellow worker. Zap. Checking out a hot piece of tail walking
by. Zap, zap, zap. Just you watch, our productivity numbers will
show positive change.”
Wendel shook
his head. “How about you throw freight
tonight and see if you can make those numbers and then we–”
Wendel went
stiff; his eyes wide and bottom lip quivering.
The sounds that came out of his throat were chortled and thick.
“Still disagree
with me?” the black-haired manager asked.
Wendel shook
his head, the gesture over exaggerated to leave no uncertainty in his
response.
“Good,” she
said. “But you and the crew better work
while I’m zapping you. None of this
freezing up, like you’re enjoying the pain, crap.”
She walked
off, passing by Tanya and Mr. Jones without even noticing them. When she got to the end of the aisle she
triggered the switch again and Wendel, who was
standing there doing nothing, went rigid and chortley again. Then, at a noticeably quickened pace, he
resumed his work.
“Are we gonna
get her?” Tanya asked.
“No,” said Mr.
Jones.
“Oh come
on. She’s gotta be the one making your
sausage thing twitch.”
Mr. Jones
glared at her and said, “How about we make that the last time you phrase it
that way? And no, not even a
shudder. I think that woman’s just a
sadist. All that performance efficiency
crap must be a cover, an excuse to inflict pain.”
“You’re saying
she’s probably wearing vinyl panties and has a cat-of-nine-tails in her
locker?”
“Wouldn’t
doubt it,” Mr. Jones said. “No, someone
else is making The Greed remnants jump, but the movements are weakening, now.”
3.a.vii
The bossman
leaned against the pharmacy counter of the Shepley’s department store. His mood was murky, like the bottom of a
lake.
Three ribs.
That shorty
shorts pansy had broken three of his ribs and the freak’s flailing elbow had
severely blackened one of his eyes. To
add insult to injuries, his car had been stolen while he was getting knocked
around inside the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore. Then he had to walk to the hospital. This was not only due to lack of car, but
with the amount of seriously injured Price Killers patrons the paramedics were
hauling off, it would have been a long while before they had room for him. H then had to take a cab to a different
medical facility for a similar reason.
“That’s all?”
the bossman asked when the pharmacist handed a small, white paper bag over the
counter. “There should be a big bottle
of stern painkillers to go along with whatever antibiotic crap they’re making
me take.”
“Nope. None on this prescription,” the pharmacist
said.
“You gotta be
kidding me.”
“No joke.”
“Is there
another order back there for me?”
“Nope. But the back aisle has some pain relievers.”
“What? Advil and Tylenol? I need something hardcore, like Vicodin on
steroids.”
“I wouldn’t
recommend mixing Vicodin with steroids,” the pharmacist said.
The bossman
glared at the pharmacist, grabbed the little baggy of impotent medication, and
stormed off.
3.a.viii
Tanya and Mr.
Jones were in the checkout lane of the Shepley’s electronics department waiting
to buy the toy raygun and PDA that Mr. Jones had selected. He held the baggy of greed-links up to his
face and said, “Well, they’ve stopped twitching.”
Tanya reached
up and yanked his hands down, then looked about to see if anyone had seen.
“Dude, did you
turd in a bag?” a moppy-haired, never-seen-an-actual-ocean surfer guy
said. He brushed his bleached locks out
of his eyes, leaned down, and peered into the bag. After a moment he said, “Dude. You did.
Oh man. Totally sick. And not sick as in man that’s sick. Just plain sick. Hey, why carry it around
with you? And why walk around a
supermarket with it? Oh, and dude,
seriously, as a side note, based on what I’m scoping in that baggy there,
something’s seriously wrong with your bowels bro.”
“Would you
like to go ahead of us?” Mr. Jones asked, his gesture indicating that the
surfer-man should move forward.
“Awesome,” he
said, swaggering toward the awaiting checker.
“I’m haulin’ a couple more things than you, though. You just got that toy gun, the PDA thing, and
your poop bag. But heck, not gonna be
one to look at a gift horse you know.”
The surferish
guy began a round of pleasantries with the checker. Tanya and Mr. Jones shared a look, the silent
conversation between them being a shared consensus that, perhaps, The Greed
pieces should remain tucked away until they took up residency in the toy gun.
“Seriously,” the
pseudo surf boy was saying to the checker.
“Nastiest thing I seen all week.
Check it out when he comes through.
Make you wanna hurl. But hey, be gentle
with him. Dude’s sick, yo. Needs to see a butt doctor or something.”
3.a.ix
He stood in
the shadows, his body stoic and rigid, silhouetted against the lights of the
city outside the tall triangular window at the end of the expansive room on the
top floor of the towering building. His
building. Dark and ominous. It wasn’t the tallest of the skyscrapers in
the city. Not officially. If underground floors were counted, however,
it would dwarf all others.
Word of The
Greed’s recent encounter with Corporate Man had reached him and, had there been
anyone in the room with him at the time, they may have seen a flash of white in
the darkness as he smiled.
He moved to a
console that jutted from the wall. It
activated in response to his proximity.
All of the buttons and lights and screens glowed a deep, evil red.
It was time.
He fingered a
black toggle switch that stood in a red, illuminated circle. The clacking sound it made was deep and
echoed throughout the room. The amount
of money he had paid to get that sound just right was staggering. Large red letters flashed across a man-sized
display screen.
ALERT. ALERT.
ALERT.
And then
smaller letters appeared beneath.
The
Crash. Confirmed.
Mr.
Outsource. Confirmed.
Professor
Inflation. Confirmed.
Before long
they would all confirm. He moved away
from the console to an imposing, black office-chair. It looked like some sort gigantic, wicked
beetle, mounted not like a hunting trophy, but like an insect specimen skewered
on a sharp needle. He sat, wriggled into
the chair’s squishy interior, stroked his luscious moustache, and tugged at the
tuft beneath his bottom lip.
The Big Bossman
was pleased.
3.a.x
Everything
looked grainy, like footage from a cheap camcorder in the early days of video
technology. Harsh shadows dominated the
urban landscape and there was a squealing hiss and a hollowness to the air.
A huge,
hulking form lurched into view, disturbing the static stillness and a barrage
of battle sounds erupted like heavy thunder as the hulking form was surrounded
by smaller, scuttling forms. Bursts of
light snapped and popped around the large man-shape as a small man wearing olive
green and a black beret flung some sort of small objects.
The other
scuttling people wore brightly colored costumes though something dulled the
hue, like a set of grade-school watercolor paints mixed with dirty black water.
The hulking
man thing knocked the scuttling forms away with a sweep of his giant arm. Then he pounced, clamping a beefy hand around
the small olive green man’s chest. The
beast yanked on one of the small man’s arms until the shoulder dislocated. The small man screamed and the huge behemoth
roared and yanked harder, unrooting the small man’s arm, tearing it from the
joint. The hulking form tossed the
broken man aside and bludgeoned the other scuttling man-creatures with the
dismembered appendage.
A man wearing
a fedora and a black domino mask swung down from a fire escape and called out,
“Donkey! Elephant! Formation six. Miss Pension get Two Cents out of there, he’s
getting pummeled. Ben, put a tourniquet
on Commander Credit’s arm!”
Donkey and The
Elephant took up positions on opposite sides of the behemoth as Miss Pension
darted into the fray and grabbed Two Cents before he was struck with the bloody
arm again. The Elephant charge the giant
man-thing head on while Donkey rushed the thing’s blindspot and kicked. The Elephant took a couple of rough shots,
but Donkey’s kicked succeeded in unbalancing the hulking creature.
“Bull Market,
Fair Wage! Now!” the man in the fedora
called out.
Two more
scampering brightly clad men rushed in toward the massive man-beast. Fair Wage swung a hefty plank of wood,
connecting squarely on the big thing’s nose as Bull Market punched its
midsection.
At first the
hulking brute seemed stunned, but when Fair Wage pressed for another attack the
thing struck out at blinding speed, knocked the smaller man to the ground, and
stomped on him. Bull Market doubled over
and bellowed. His blunted teeth cracked
and thick hair sprouted through his skin like deadly grass. Beneath the hulking beast’s foot came the
sounds of grinding bones and Fair Wage’s muffled screams.
“I’ve got him, John,” a voice rang out as
Corporate Man jumped down from a building near the man in the fedora. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, but
whenever The Crash is on the scene, my necktie cape seems to malfunction.”
Corporate Man charged
forward and slammed into the massive leg of The Crash, toppling the hulking
man-form and freeing a very broken Fair Wage.
The Crash rolled up and slammed a giant fist into Corporate
Man.
From the fire
escape the man in the fedora called out a few more orders and then spoke into a
wrist watch, “John Q Public to Business Woman, do you copy?” Business Woman, where are you?”
“Right here,”
a crackling voice came through the right watch.
In the street a woman with bold slacks and noticeable shoulder pads in
her dress jacket round house kicked The Crash in the face. Before he could shrug off the attack,
Business Woman dealt another snap kick to its sternum and then to its knee.
The Crash fell
hard.
Miss Pension
distributed a flurry of solid punches to the thing’s face and Ben Buck the
Dollar Man leapt on top of The Crash and battered its midsection.
“Let’s wrap it
up people,” John Q Public said. “I want
a–”
A hairy bear
shaped thing slashed Ben Buck’s side open and turned on Miss Pension, snarling
and gnashing. The Crash rolled up onto
its feet and grabbed Corporate Man by the necktie.
“What’s going
on down there? Report!” John Q Public
shouted.
“It’s Bull
Market,” Business Woman said, rushing to aid Miss Pension. “I don’t know what happened to him. I think he’s gone Bear!”
3.a.xi
Mr. Jones
started from his sleep. He massaged a
knot in his neck that had formed while sleeping upright against the seatbelt in
the moving vehicle.
“We’re about
three miles away,” said Tanya from the driver’s seat.
Mr. Jones
nodded and tried to shake off the grogginess and the unpleasant after images of
the dream; of the memory. He pulled his
PDA from his pocket, accessed the internet, and checked his newly purchased
stocks.
“There’s been
a two percent growth in my portfolio already,” he said. Then he clicked a few buttons, bought some
more stocks, and put the PDA away.
Tanya pulled
the car off the highway and into a scenic turn out. They were fifteen miles north of the
city. The countryside was rugged and
mountainous. A river cut between the
jagged faces and the road mimicked its path, occasionally crossing from one
side to the other via bridge.
“I never
understood why you kept your hideout way up here,” Tanya said as they got out
of the car. The steady sound of rushing
water echoed between the gorge walls.
“Simple. Why would anyone look for ‘corporate man’ out
in the countryside? They’d expect a
downtown office or something.”
“Would’ve been
more convenient,” said Tanya.
“Yeah. I was a little arrogant and over confident
about my abilities back then. I didn’t
think my necktie-cape would falter and assumed I could always fly right into
town whenever I needed.”
“Sucked
against The Crash as I recall.”
“Which you
eagerly pointed out to me back then,” Mr. Jones said. Then his eyes squinted. “It’s funny you mention him. I was just dreaming about 1987.”
“Oh god,”
Tanya said.
“Yeah I
know. That was a bad one. When he tore off–”
“No. My outfit.
Those shoulder pads.”
Mr. Jones
smiled and shook his head. “Did you ever
wear anything that wasn’t embarrassing a decade later?”
“I liked my
first outfit, back in the forties. It
had a classic, clean look to it. Or maybe I’m just being nostalgic for that era
since it was all so new for me. With so
many women entering the workforce because of the war, it was only natural that
a counterpart to the great Corporate Man manifest herself. The early sixties also had some charm to it,
fashion wise.”
They made
their way down a narrow dirt path that dropped rapidly through the rocky
terrain toward the river. It culminated
at a cluster of jagged slabs about thirty feet above the water. From their they climbed over the sharp stones
to some large boulders near the river’s edge.
Beneath an outcropping, visible only when standing a few yards away, was
the opening to an abandoned mine shaft.
Six inches of water obscured the floor of the entrance. In the spring, during heavy run off, it might
be completely submerged.
Tanya and Mr.
Jones crept into the mine shaft, forced to duck low as it was only four feet in
height at its tallest. Once inside, the
shaft rose sharply and climbed into the darkness. Tanya pulled out her cell phone and used the
illuminated display to light the way.
The corridor
eventually leveled off and then bored directly into the mountainside. Wooden support beams jutted into the path at
uneven intervals. After several hundred
feet the corridor stopped at a wooden door with wrought iron hinges and
plating. Absent, though, was anything
resembling a door knob.
Mr. Jones felt
along the wall until his fingers found a slight lip in the stone. He pushed forward and the rock
depressed. He then slid the false panel
to the side revealing a green, spherical button. The button flared with a brilliant glow as
soon as the rock panel locked into an open position.
Mr. Jones
pressed the button.
It blinked off
and on and then a loud click sounded deep within the granite followed by a
steaming hiss. The stout wooden door
fell away and a series of lights sputtered to life inside the doorway revealing
a small room within.
Tanya and Mr.
Jones went inside.
3.b.i
He was a
small, runty man with a pencil-thin moustache, small bottle-cap glasses, and a
very dedicated comb-over. He walked
through the airport with an irritated determination. It was years since he’d been called back to
the States and he wasn’t happy about the urgent summons from the Big Bossman.
What did the USA
have to offer? There was no business
here anymore, he’d seen to that. And
what was with that name? Mr. Outsource? He hadn’t used that codename since 1990. He was the Outsourcer now and the Big Bossman
knew it.
“Sir, would
you please remove your shoes?” a pleasant voice at the security checkpoint
asked.
“Not for you
or any of the thousands of women I’ve bedded in my time,” he said.
The woman
rolled her eyes and stifled a gag and ignored the spreading warmth invading her
southern regions.
“I’m
sorry. It’s policy,” she said.
“Well, I’m
sorry. I refuse,” said the Outsourcer.
“I’ll have to
alert security,” she said, squeezing her thighs together.
“Go for it,”
said the Outsourcer. “I’ll tell them the
same thing.”
The woman
pressed an alert button then fanned herself with a clipboard and said, “They’ll
be with you shortly.”
The Outsourcer
cringed at the use of the word shortly.
Then his eyes narrowed and he asked, “Aren’t you security?”
The woman
ignored the question and pretended to sort some papers. Soon, two large men sporting muscles that
strained the stitching of their uniforms approached the Outsourcer.
“You need to
remove your shoes. Sir,” one of them
said.
“Not going to
happen. Not for you or any of the
thousands of women I’ve bedded in my time,” the Outsourcer repeated.
The two men
shook their heads, stifled laughter, and ignored the spreading warmth invading
their southern regions.
“You’ll have
to come with us then,” they said and each took a hold of one of the Outsourcers
wrists as they escorted him to a secure room.
Forty minutes
later the door opened and the Outsourcer stumbled out. His mood had worsened. Sweat covered his brow and his steadfast
comb-over was now a wispy tangle of stray plumage. His shirt was untucked, his glasses askew,
and his shoes were in his hands.
Someone would
pay dearly for this.
3.b.ii
Mr. Jones
stood unmoving. This time, though, he
had not slipped into another trance.
Instead, he was both surveying the state and inventory of his secret
hideout and basking in a warm nostalgia of fond experiences.
In the small
room was a desk console featuring an old computer screen sunken into a slanted
panel with dozens of glowing, blinking, or otherwise brightly colored buttons
arranged on a vertical strip alongside the monitor. A round speaker was embedded below, its black
metal cover popping upward like a bowl sized tea strainer.
Mr. Jones
reached forward, turned a small whirring crank for a few moments to charge the
computer battery, and slid open a panel at the bottom of the slanted console
revealing an odd keyboard with chunky, tan-colored keys. He touched the escape button and a loud
ratcheting sound purred beneath the contraption. After a minute or two a blinking green square
appeared in the upper left corner of the black screen.
After a brief
pause Mr. Jones typed: CLOCK IN
A scroll of
green characters, a mix of letters, numbers, and punctuation marks, rolled up
the screen. Then a series of prompts
appeared, each displaying a code and a percentage that began with one percent
and climbed steadily to one hundred.
Tanya shook
her head and muttered, “God, Jonesy, how about an upgrade?”
“Hey, this
stuff was state of the art,” he said.
“Yeah, in
nineteen-eighty whatever. That outdated
PDA thing you bought is lightyears ahead of this technology.” She slumped against the wall and then sat on
the floor.
Twenty minutes
later the computer program was up and running.
Mr. Jones typed c: and pressed enter.
The flashing prompt moved down a couple of lines and resumed blinking at
the end of a list of characters.
C:/>
Mr. Jones
keyed in opening procedures at the prompt and the screen displayed a few lines
of code and another prompt.
C:/OPEN>
He typed
d:security and the prompt changed again.
D:/SECURITY>
Then he typed
unlock doors. This sort of computer work
went on for a long while with Mr. Jones eventually powering up the generator,
turning on the lights, opening the water pipes, testing the plumbing that fed
the sink, toilet, and showers, and conducting power to various electrical
appliances housed within the secret base.
Tanya was more
than forthright with her opinions about his antiquated system during this time.
Mr. Jones
ignored the snide remarks, focusing on his keystrokes. Eventually he opened a small door at the back
of the security/entrance room. It led
into a narrow hallway with one door at the far end, another centered on the left,
and two more on the right.
“The toilets
should be working,” Mr. Jones said as he walked toward the door at the end of
the hallway. Eager to relieve her
strained bladder, Tanya jumped up, raced into the hallway, and went to the door
on the left.
3.b.iii
It was called The
Office and it served as the secret headquarters for Corporate Man, as well as
frequent meeting place/weekend getaway of The Union, for a number of decades.
As previously
mentioned, there were four doors off the main hallway, five if you counted the
door coming from the entranceway. All
the doors were swing hinge instead of the much desired, and space efficient,
pocket doors. There was a practical
reason for this. An open door provided a
simple but effective way to hide a secret access to an escape tunnel and there
were two such passageways in The Office.
To the immediate left of the entrance door, obscured dim light, dull
wall color, and left inswing was a square panel affixed with magnets for easy
entry and speedy replacement. The other
escape tunnel was tucked behind the door leading into the walk in closet off
the master suite.
These tunnels
were employed on numerous occasions during financial downturns, economic
instability, and interoffice romance terminations.
The first door
on the right side of the hallway led into a spare room complete with bed,
nightstand, and closet for the occasional guest. A slim door in the far corner accessed the
utility room where, among other things, the generator, furnace, and massive
computer data bank were housed.
Door number
two in the main hall went into a large storage area of Union supplies. Spare costumes, gadgets, and various paper
products consumed the bulk of the space.
At the very
end of the hall was the door to the master suite. Corporate Man’s bedroom away from home. His bed and aforementioned walk in closet were
to one side and the master bath, complete with deep soaker tub, on the other.
The final door
of the main hallway, the one centered along the left hand wall, led to The Breakroom. A kitchenette sat along the far wall with
tables and chairs to one side. On the
other was a spiral staircase a small bathroom with shower stall. The staircase climbed up to the tower where
the telescope and infamous copy machine awaited. The plumbing in the bathroom suffered
terribly during The Elephant’s tenure as did those trying to eat their lunch in
the next room. This begs the question:
Why are toilets always installed in spaces adjacent to those designated for
employee rest and food consumption?
3.b.iv
Should he wear
the cape he wondered as he looked himself over in the wardrobe mirror, should
he wear a costume at all? Did anyone
wear costumes anymore?
Professor
Inflation had been too busy this past decade to consider a change in his attire. In the seventies he’d worn a stuffy sweater,
thick glasses, beard, and corduroy pants.
The palette of which he kept warm and natural. In the eighties he’d donned a white lab
jacket, safety goggles, and a host of neon undershirts. This failed to portray the sort of professor
he was, but it was the eighties and accuracy and depth were not in fashion. Back in the sixties he’d gotten away with a
cape and tight, form fitting clothes. He
had even managed to pull off wearing pinks and purples and mauves.
Retro was back
in wasn’t it?
Perhaps he should break out the cape. For nearly two decades he’d been in expensive
suits. Wasn’t it time for a change? Shouldn’t he try to bring some of the flash,
some of the fun, back to inflation?
Professor
Inflation picked up a white suit jacket and considered a pink undershirt, but
just for a moment. He quickly cast them
aside and continued rummaging through his closet for something perfect to wear.
3.b.v.
Tanya sat at
the table in the corner of the room designated: The Breakroom. It had been decades since she’d been inside
the secret hideout of Corporate Man. She’d stayed many nights at The Office during
the sixties and seventies and not in the guest room exclusively.
She reminisced
on all the wild Christmas parties they’d held in this place and she smiled as
she looked across the room to the staircase that climbed to the lookout
tower. John Q Public and some unexpected
photocopies crept into her mind.
“Penny for
your thoughts,” Corporate Man said as he walked into the room.
He was in
uniform now; collared shirt, black suit jacket, slacks, and expensive, polished
shoes. Around his neck hung his special
necktie/cape and concealing his face was a pair of black, thick rimmed glasses. He also carried a briefcase, essential to any
man of business.
“Can’t buy
anything with a penny anymore, Jonesy,” she said.
“Ah ah,” he
said, “You promised to call me Corporate Man once I was properly attired.”
Tanya looked
him up and down and smiled. He was Corporate Man now, there was no
doubt, and she found that the sight of him filled her full of hope and
eagerness for enterprise.
“You’re
right. Corporate Man. So what’s our next move?”
“Well, I
though we’d put out a call to all of our old Union allies and then make every
attempt to reclaim market share for the good guys.”
Tanya retained
her smile though a bleak sadness tugged away inside her. Not many of their former teammates were in a
position to answer the call. Most were
immobilized. More than a few were dead.
Corporate Man,
as if reading this in her face, said, “I know that in my absence there are some
positions that have become… vacant. So I
think I’ll endeavor to make a few promotions if I’m able. In the meantime, you have full reign of The
Office. If you need me, I’ll be in the
tower.”
He nodded and
then turned to the staircase and went up.
Tanya bit her
lip and tapped her foot, the movements rapid and impatient. She stood and then sat back down with a
muttering sigh. A moment later her
fingers were drumming on the table, her head shaking back and forth, trying to
rid herself of the idea. Finally, she
let her shoulders slump and stood again.
She walked out into the hallway, turned toward the master bedroom, and
walked to the second door on the right.
The Union
store room.
She looked
herself over, ran her hands over her bust and hips, and took a deep breath
before she walked inside.
3.b.vi
A red light
blinked on the vibrating mobile device attached to his hip. He knew without looking, that the Big Bossman
was summoning. After enjoying the motion
of the device for a few heartbeats he turned it off and went about his
business.
Currently, he
was in a sweatshop, but not one on foreign soil. There were many like it all across the
country, taking advantage of a willing, immigrant workforce. No one seemed to care about the working
condition of these “illegals.” In fact,
the “Made in the USA ”
brand which adorned the products they slaved over, was seen as something of
renown; a great good.
And should his
workforce be discovered by some pious organization or individual, little
protest will be made of the substandard working conditions of his employees, so
great will the uproar be over their non-citizen status.
In the old
days he was a strong presence in the business community. Out in the open and even lauded. Recently, with all the outcry for human
rights in this nation, his persona found the underground better suited to his
business.
They called
him Apathy. Able to exploit employees
caring not for their health or insignificant lives. He’d been a captain of industry and they’d
titled him appropriately. Captain
Apathy. Though not as outwardly
prevalent these days, his method and moniker had become more general, and of
higher rank.
Perhaps now,
with this summons from the Big Bossman, a man he not only knew quite well but
had played a part in his rise to power, Apathy would once more find himself in
the public eye.
3.b.vii
The spiral
staircase terminated at the door to the lookout tower which sat several hundred
feet above the main floor of The Office.
Flanking both sides of the entrance were bench seats, a nice respite for
those whose physical condition was not suited to the long climb.
Opposite the
entrance was a large curving glass window that overlooked the valley and the
city below. The exterior of the glass had
been camouflaged by various means throughout the years. Most recently was a see-through screen with
granite texture printed on the outside which made the hillside look like an
uninterrupted slope of stone boulders and craggy rock if seen from the road
below.
Near the
window sat a large telescope which had been employed for all manner of purposes
from science to surveillance to juvenile curiosity.
A massive
computer console dominated much of the space serving in communications, basic
research, and business strategizing. In
the corner opposite this electronic beast lived the infamous copy machine which
was sometimes tasked with the chore of duplicating necessary paperwork. A half-moon couch and coffee table occupied
the center of the area.
Corporate Man
sat at the console. He’d just finished
sending out the last of his work requests when the tower door opened.
“How’s it
going up here?” Tanya said. But, when
Corporate Man turned it wasn’t Tanya that he saw.
It was
Business Woman.
She was dressed
in dark blue slacks and a matching jacket with a white collared shirt. Her shoes were black and dressy, but flat
heeled and practical. Her black belt had
a chunky silver buckle.
She held a
black domino mask in her hands.
“I don’t think
I can wear this,” she said, casting the mask onto the coffee table. “I’ll have to alter this suit jacket,
too. It’s from the late eighties or
early nineties. Can you say shoulder pads? Uggh.
What were we thinking wearing shoulder pads? I ripped them out.”
“It’s… You
look…” Corporate Man stammered. He
cleared his throat and said, “It’s good to have you back onboard, Business
Woman.”
3.b.viii
Franklin Buck
sat at a desk in the study of his five bedroom, two and a half bath, three car
garage home, of which he was the sole occupant, and gazed out upon the bubbling
water feature perched in the center of his richly green, obsessively manicured
lawn. In front of him was a laptop. The screen displayed a document which was almost
entirely white with the exception of one typed sentence.
My father was a business superhero named Ben
Buck.
It was
Franklin who had found the body.
A sudden beep
and a clicking whir sounded from his belt buckle, snapping Franklin
from his fugue. He pushed himself away from
his desk and examined the dollar bill shaped accessory. A small green light was blinking from behind
the serial number. He looked closer and
noticed that the number was positioned above a small window and that they green
light was actually coming from text that scrolled across a miniature screen
inside this window.
Our economy is in ruins and our nation stands upon the brink of
financial collapse. It is time we stand
up to those responsible. I ask that you
join me as I take up this task. All
members of The Union who are willing, please report to The
Office immediately. I understand that
not all of us are alive or able so I extend this offer, this plea, to the
descendants of our lost members or to anyone reading this transmission who is
willing to assume the mantle and fight against The Great Recession that not
only burdens our country but endangers the global economy. Please answer the call.
- Corporate Man
He would
answer the call.
3.b.ix
The Elephant
sat in a well cushioned chair in his office, eating his third pint of peanut
caramel triple chocolate cluster ice-cream.
He sipped a diet cola from a crystal flute and watched pro-wrestling on
the enormous flatscreen mounted on the wall.
His Union Belt
buckle had, long ago, collapsed under the strain of his ever growing
girth. It now lay resting in a storage
unit that rivaled The Elephant’s house in square footage.
He would not
be answering the call.
3.b.x
Donkey’s hands
were shaking, even before the belt buckle had sounded. He was always sick with nervous tremors
theses days. How had he come to
this? He used to be so strong, so
cocksure. Now he sat in cramped offices,
feverishly tracking the movements of his opposition, always trying to
anticipate their next scheme yet always taken off guard by the seemingly inept
brilliance of their public forays and the utter incompetence of their
constituents.
He had no time
for the Union , did he?
The Elephant’s
people were trying to shift blame for the economy onto his leader. For eight years they ran this country into
financial ruin and now they asserted that the new administration was not only
at fault for failing to reverse the damage in a fraction of the time, but was
actually to blame for the monumental deficit.
And that red
state, tea-bagging crowd was buying it.
No, he
couldn’t abandon his post now. He must
wait and fend off whatever attacks the opposition launched. Unless…
Perhaps
Corporate Man could aid him in his endeavors.
Shouldn’t he at least read the alert?
Maybe The Union were assembling against The
Elephant’s people.
Yes, he should
answer.
Wait…
Could this be
The Elephant’s latest ruse? A trick to
divert Donkey’s attention?
It would be
just like that big bastard.
Donkey would
not be answering the call.
Would he?
3.b.xi
She was tall
and strong.
Currently.
He was short
and feeble.
For now at
least.
“Hey, guess
what?” she said, not really asking a question and not waiting for a reply. “Our belt buckles have activated. You know, our Union belt buckles.”
He looked up,
his eyes sallow and tired though an ember of hope twinkled deep within them,
and said, “Really? After all this time?”
“Yep. I think he’s finally come back. In fact, I’m more than fairly certain because…
Well because the message is from him.”
He turned
away, a smile spreading across his face, and relaxed into his chair.
“Well then,”
he said. “We’ll have to get dressed up,
won’t we?”
She clasped
her hands and made excited, girlish noises.
“Yes, yes,
yes,” she said. Then she paused, a look
of concern suddenly arresting her face.
“Do you remember how to get there?
The Office I mean.”
He nodded.
She relaxed.
The twins,
Supply and Demand, would answer the call.
3.b.xii
Corporate Man
sat at the console in The Office tower lost in thought and reminiscence. Business Woman had gone back downstairs to arrange
things before the others started showing up.
He stood and went to the half moon couch, sat, and stared at the wall of
photographs nestled between the computer console and the bench seating. There was FDR after his recovery and a rare
snap shot of Jimmy Carter, barefoot, in overalls, wearing a straw hat.
A buzz from
the console brought him back to the present, and back in front of the computer
screen. A green button flashed,
signaling the incoming video transmission.
Corporate Man
pressed the button.
“Hey! See there?
I told you it was him. Hey
Corporate Man, it’s me. Bill,” said Bill
Clinton. He wore a dark red, satiny
robe. It was open in the front and an
ample amount of chest protruded, adorned with a heavy, gold chained
necklace.
“Gosh, you’re
right,” said a man stepping into frame.
Corporate Man could not understand the man’s attire.
“Al, how’s it
going? And what are you wearing?”
Corporate Man asked.
“Oh, it’s
going alright,” Al Gore said. “And this
is an Earth friendly suit made of unbleached bamboo fibers with solar panel
inlays.”
The off-white
suit had dark shoulder pads made of tiny rectangles. A chest-plate of the same material draped his
upper torso. He wore a pair of thick,
white-rimmed glasses that seemed a little too large. Light emanated from the frame, illuminating
the lenses.
“The paneling
powers these state of the art iGlasses.
I can access the internet and make calls and take pictures and face–”
“Al,” came
another voice from off camera.
“Oh, sorry,”
Al said. “We got your alert and wanted
to wish you luck. Also, we though you’d
like to meet the new Commander in Chief.
He’s a big fan of yours by the way.
This is President Obama.”
A man dressed
in red white and blue basketball uniform, circa 1976, complete with headband
and shorts that were far too short, walked into view on the screen.
“Call me
Barack,” he said. “I just want you to
know that we support your efforts. Any
assistance you can offer the country at this point would be a big help.”
“Thank you,
Mr. President.”
“Barack.”
“Barack. I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all
any of us can do,” said the President.
Corporate Man
spoke with the three men for a few more minutes, accepted Al Gore’s offer to
update the computer equipment at The Office, and then signed off.
There was
another beep from the console, this time the signal came from the rest stop
vending machine. He checked a number of
security cameras to verify that no one else was within sight of the machine and
then flipped the toggle to activate the vending machine’s intercom.
“Do you
require some assistance with your snack purchase?” Corporate Man asked.
“Only that I
wish for verification that no worker was exploited during the manufacturing of
this product, the ingredients are–”
“Junior? Is that you?” Corporate Man said, interrupting
the sequence of the password verification.
“Affirmative. But it’s Senior Executive now. I’m reporting for my shift and ready to clock
in sir.”
3.b.xiii
The bossman
was sweating. His side ached and the
over-the-counter pain killers were doing nothing to dampen the pain from his
broken ribs even after he’d exceeded the daily limit by more than a few
dosages. Still, nothing. He should have been at home in bed, recovering,
but he knew that that East Side bitch never took days
off, never slept, so he was determined to push through the pain and find a way
to best her.
The sweat,
however, was not a result of his physical discomfort. Perspiration came because of the alert he’d
received from the Big Bossman. On a
normal day he would have been unnerved by correspondence from the big guy, but
contact so soon after his failure at the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore
seemed far too coincidental. He needed
to be careful. He was, most assuredly,
being monitored.
There was a
buzz from his intercom. This had a three
fold effect. One, a yelp burst forth
from the bossman’s lips. Two, a close
call as some pee tried to escape into his pants. Three, a lurching jump that shifted his ribs
and sent a fresh surge of pain through him.
Also, there
was an increase of sweat, but since he was already sweating, this did not count
as four.
“Yes,” he spat
into the machine.
“Emily from
Human Resources is on line one.”
“Tell her I’ll
have to call her back,” he said. The
bossman reached for some papers to shuffle in order to provide the illusion of
industrious activity, but this was not his desk and so nothing was where he
thought it ought to be. This was not
even his office. His was still under
repair due to his last rampage.
The bossman
scowled and considered damaging this office.
The effort would require a great deal of movement so he thought better
of the idea. And the receptionist on
this floor seemed competent enough.
He wiped sweat
from his brow then rose, gingerly, and shuffled into the private bathroom all
upper level executives enjoyed. He
washed his hands and face and took another handful of pain pills.
3.b.xiv
Senior
Executive was still walking through the corridor that led from the entrance
inside the rest stop vending machine to the stairwell at The Office. The trek was over two miles. In the old days there were bicycles for Union
members or their guests. In the eighties
those bikes were replaced by a set of go-karts.
Unfortunately, the batteries of the karts had not survived the passage
of the last decade and the bicycles had been removed from the corridor to make
room for the go-karts.
And so he
walked.
Perhaps he
should’ve purchased a few snacks from the machine before climbing into it.
3.c.i
All was clear
and vivid, but it seemed dark just the same.
It was as though the shadows were black ink and everything was outlined
with the heavy weight of a broken quill pen or a thick brush.
The light behaved
in strange way, refracting into small circles or prismatic stripes, and colors
glowed and shimmered for no reason at all.
John Q
Public’s face was sallow and hard. He
complained of feeling weary and anxious; that hope was failing.
“It’s Apathy,”
Corporate Man told him. “His presence is
like a poison.”
“Is it just
him?” John Q Public asked. “I was out of
action for awhile and it’s not just our enemies that seem more ruthless and
harsh, but our country. Today’s music is
dark and depressing and people are so cynical.”
“Part of it is
Apathy. He’s been unleashed and his
ideology has run rampant through Corporate America and popular culture. We can take him though. We’ve exposed Mr. Outsource thanks to you and
have both The Greed and Professor Inflation in custody. The country has turned around under the
current administration. We’ve just got
to keep after our enemies and the new millennium will be a bright and
prosperous place to live.”
John Q Public
smiled and placed his hand on Corporate Man’s shoulder.
“Where would
we be without you,” he said. Then he
stiffened and a stern look drew across his face. “How long has he had Junior Executive?”
“About four
months. This is the third location we’ve
tracked him to, Emperius Inc. Home of
DownLow Records. Apparently, Captain
Apathy owns this media giant and that could account for the darker trends in today’s
music.”
John Q Public
nodded and said, “How do we get in?”
“You could
just call for an appointment. Or knock
perhaps,” a voice shouted down at them.
Standing behind a railing on the second floor of the imposing high rise
was Junior Executive. His hair was long
and shaggy, his clothes looked deliberately threadbare and stained; sheik from
a life of begging in the street.
“Junior, did
you escape? Are you alright?” Corporate
Man shouted back his reply. Junior
Executive threw his head back and laughed.
“You stupid
old has-been. Can’t you see what’s going
on? I’m not a junior executive
anymore. I’m not even part of the job
market. I’m unemployed!”
“No!”
Corporate Man yelled, his face losing all color.
“Why
work? Why do anything? What’s the point?”
“That’s not
you talking, Junior. That’s Captain
Apathy,” said John Q Public.
“You may be
right on that point,” a man said, moving out of the shadows to stand by the
former Junior Executive. “But I’m not
longer a captain. I’ve been promoted. I’m a general now.”
3.c.ii
They were all
gathered together in the Break Room.
It was called
The Office, but did not actually contain an office, much less a proper
conference room. Corporate Man lamented
this fact, but what could he do? He was
not about to hold the meeting in his bedroom. And the lookout tower always derailed
productivity due to the presence of that damnable copy machine.
He had hoped
for a better turn out, but those who had come would work well together. Donkey and The Elephant might have been
appreciated, but their constant bickering would be just as counter productive
as the copier upstairs. Miss Pension
responded but cited reasons of health for her non-appearance. Commander Credit was always a pay-to-play
member, a freelancer, and he’d phoned in with his current rates which were far
too steep.
Fair Wage had
come, shriveled and old, but wearing his signature brown-corduroy suit. Ben Buck’s son, Franklin was a welcome
surprise as was Senior Executive.
“Thank you all
for coming,” said Corporate Man as they finished up with the prepared snacks
and refilled their coffees. “I know I’ve
been out of commission for a long time and I know this past decade has been a
trial for all of you, but if we work together I think we can set everything
right and get this country back on track.”
There was a
murmur of approval. When it quieted
down, Corporate Man continued. He spoke
little of specifics, the majority of his short speech outlining the business
philosophies they should undertake and the opposition they were most likely to
encounter. Then he turned the floor over
to Business Woman.
“We’ve already
turned Dale Breaker the Deal Breaker and, more importantly, we met and bested
The Greed managing to secure a sample of his mass which, Corporate Man assures
me, will help us track down the roots of the economic evil. I spent some time as an undercover secretary
at a company called Incorporated Business Corporation Incorporated. My investigation was still in the primary
stages when Corporate Man was located and I had to break cover. This is where we will begin our search. In front of you is a packet detailing the
business plan Corporate Man and I have developed. We’ll go over it point by point, make any
necessary revisions, and then we’ll head out into the market place.”
3.c.iii
Donkey was in
his cramped office. Sweating. How pathetic.
Over the years he’d developed several nervous ticks, all of which were
employed at present. He was obsessed
with the movements of The Elephant and tracked them incessantly, keeping tabs
on many of The Elephant’s upper party members as well.
Over the years
Donkey had found himself on the losing end of more than one of their
schemes. This had shattered his self
confidence. Sadly, he had yet to
understand that The Elephant blundered into success more often than not and
that second guessing his own actions, and failing to act when necessary, had
contributed to a large portion of the opposition’s victories as well.
And so here he
was, huddled in this embarrassing office space, so consumed with his pachyderm
nemesis that he’d failed to notice the figure in the doorway.
The Big
Bossman was watching him, had been watching him for several minutes, allowing
his disgust and contempt for the nervous ass to build.
He fingered the
obsidian cufflink on his white suit jacket and then adjusted his black tie with
his black gloved hands.
He should
strangle Donkey. Punch him in the face a
couple of times, except that might get blood on his pristine white slacks. He stroked his luscious moustache and
considered all the sinister options.
3.c.iv
“So we’re
going to just walk right in?” Franklin Buck asked.
“Yep,” said
Business Woman.
“In through
the front door?”
“Uh huh.”
“Of this building?” he said, gesturing
toward the grey, nondescript building.
“Doesn’t look like much.”
“This is the
Northside Branch of Incorporated Business Corporation Incorporated. The company that, we suspect, runs it all. I’ve managed to locate all four branches of
the main corporate structure, but there’s a head office somewhere. I was working here, trying to discover its
location.”
“Yes and then
you abandoned the operation to rescue Corporate Man,” Franklin Buck said. “Wait, won’t they recognize you?”
Business Woman
shrugged and motioned Franklin Buck toward the entrance and said, “Doubt
it. I was wearing a wig.”
“A wig?”
“It’s a
corporation. That’s about all it
takes. Speaking of which,” she said as
they walked into the lobby and approached the front desk, “watch and learn.”
Business
Woman’s stride lengthened and her hips took on a swagger. She tapped her fingers on the reception desk
and when she spoke it was with a slight southern accent.
“Hi, we’re
from out of town, just flew in to this fair city of yours. We’re here about the merger.”
The
receptionist nodded as though she was well aware of Business Woman’s needs. “Oh
sure,” she said, “I’ll get you where you need to go. Which company are you
with?”
Business Woman
didn’t hesitate, “Well sweety, how many companies are finalizing mergers
today?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve? Really?”
“Yeah, it’s
kind of a slow day. Who are you with?”
Business Woman
leaned against the counter and said, “Well, since it’s slow, let’s play a
little game. Which outfit would you
guess I was with?”
The
receptionist shrugged. “Well… I detect a
slight accent and three of the companies are headquartered in the South. From Alabama
there’s Big Co. and Bigger Co. Then from
Kentucky we’ve got Impress Inc.. I’m gonna go with Bigger Co.”
“Oh, sorry
dear. I’m a Kentucky
girl. Better luck next time.”
“Fourth
floor. Conference room C. Don’t forget your visitor’s badges,” the
receptionist said, gesturing to a basket of plastic, clip-on cards on the edge
of her desk.
Business Woman
clipped a badge on her suit and then attached one to Franklin Buck.
“Oh. Which way to the elevator?”
The
receptionist pointed.
Business Woman
thanked her for all the help.
“I assume you
knew where the elevators were?” Franklin
asked once they were out of earshot.
“Of
course. But little touches like that
help avoid suspicion. Asking for
recommendations of good restaurants in the area is a good one too.”
“And how’d you
know there would be a merger going on?”
“Weren’t you
listening? This is the corporation of
corporations. There’s always some sort
of acquisition in the works meaning there’s always a merger going on.”
3.c.v
“They’re in,”
Corporate Man whispered.
He, Senior
Executive, and Fair Wage had been in the building for nearly thirty
minutes. They’d swept into the lobby
leading a group of Japanese businessmen, acting as if they’d courted the
foreign tradesmen and were bringing them into the building for an important
meeting. They breezed right past the
reception desk and into the elevators where they quickly separated themselves
from the confused Asian entrepreneurs.
Their next
step had been to gather at a water cooler.
This was most advantageous to their purpose as water coolers are out of
bounds zones in the corporate world.
Milling about is expected here and almost always allowed, taking on an
almost religious air. A company dare not
interfere with this important American institution.
Especially
since they could write it off on their taxes.
Supply and
Demand were also inside. To gain
entrance they’d shown up as job applicants and were instructed to head over to
Personnel. No one noticed when they did
not show up in that department.
Corporate Man
checked his greed-filled ray gun.
“This thing is
freaking out. We’re definitely in the
right place,” he said. He loosened his
grip on it, trying to decipher the dominant thrust of its movements. “I think it’s trying to go up.”
“That’s where
Business Woman is heading,” said Senior Executive. “The twenty second floor.”
“Right. Yeah, her cover job. We should make our way there up there,”
Corporate Man said, checking his tie and slipping the vibrating ray gun into
his suit pocket. Senior Executive
smoothed the sleeves of his dark grey suit and adjusted Fair Wage’s collar
before they strode into a nearby elevator.
Going up.
3.c.vi
I don’t
understand,” said Business Woman, “this was his office. I worked at the desk right out there. He rarely left this wing of the
building. He should be here.”
Out in the
reception area the entrance door opened.
Business Woman
shot Franklin Buck a glance and whispered a reminder to him about their cover
story. There was an uncomfortably long
pause before a voice finally spoke from the front desk.
“Excuse me, is
anybody in here?” asked Corporate Man.
Business
Woman’s shoulders dropped and she breathed a relieved sigh. Then she walked out into the reception area
where Corporate Man, Senior Executive, and Fair Wage were standing.
“He’s not
here. It doesn’t make sense,” she said.
“What about the greed-pieces? What do
they indicate?”
Corporate Man
pulled the greed-loaded space gun from his jacket, held it for a moment and
then said, “Up. I mean, they’re really
bouncing around in this room, but the general direction is still upward. How about we take the stairs and climb until
these things start moving sideways?”
The five of them
moved out into the hallway and found the stairs. They left Fair Wage in the lobby, insisting
that someone needed to wait for Supply and Demand. Truthfully, they didn’t think the old man
should climb so many steps.
After three
flights, the movement inside the greed-gun abruptly changed.
“This is the
floor,” said Corporate Man.
3.c.vii
The bossman finally
relented and asked the receptionist to show Emily from Human Resources in.
He’d kept her
waiting for over twenty-five minutes already.
Emily was a
slim woman with short, pixie-like hair.
He distrusted slim corporate types.
Their physique conveyed a lack of greed and a surplus of principles that
typically made them an irritant. This
stereotype was wholly untrue as he’d met a great deal of trim, narcissistic
money-grubbers in his time, as well as some annoyingly honest, chubby angels,
but the bossman still maintained his ill conceived wariness.
“You never
called me back so I though an in person–”
“Yes, what is
it, I’m very busy,” the bossman said.
“I’ve come
across a payroll issue in regards to an employee’s salary,” she said.
“No.”
“No what?”
“No
raises. Our hours-based, incremental
wage increases are fair enough. Too
generous if you want my opinion,” the bossman said and then turned away as though
the matter had been dealt with sufficiently.
“That’s not
the issue at all,” said Emily, her voice betraying a certain level of
frustration she would rather keep concealed from her boss.
“Explain,”
said the bossman.
“I’m trying.”
“Then
continue.”
Emily’s head
shook of its own accord and her eyes threatened to roll. She gritted her teeth and then said, “I was
at an employee’s desk getting the incremental paperwork signed and he
questioned me about the amount.”
“Tell him it’s
a fair–”
Emily held up
her hand and the bossman stopped talking.
He seemed a little surprised by his own compliance.
Emily
continued, “According to the paperwork he had earned a level two status, but
the wage increase put him at a level five.
He pointed this out to me and asked if the raise should be for a lower
amount. I looked into it. He was a transfer from a different division
and his previously logged hours were, for some reason, not factored in when he
started here. He was, therefore, given
the entry level wage and the incremental status of level one. He worked under the assumption that because
he had entered a different division, his wage level started over. But, since level one in our division had a
higher wage than the level three of his former position, he hadn’t questioned
the apparent loss of hours worked. But
his status should not have restarted and not only should he be given the
incremental status of level five, he should also receive retro pay dating back
to his transfer date. I have all the
paperwork here. I just need your
signature.”
The bossman
narrowed his eyes. This was just the
sort of thing he didn’t want the Big Bossman seeing. Approving large raises and forking over back
pay. He shook his head.
“No. We keep him at level two and decrease the
raise accordingly.”
“What? That’s unethical.”
“That’s
business. The employee in question
believes that his wage should be level two.
In fact, it’s what he was expecting so it’s not like he’ll miss those
extra dollars that may or may not belong to him.”
“They do
belong–”
This time it
was the bossman who held up his hand and Emily exhibiting the compliant
silence. After allowing the pain in his
ribs to subside he said, “Always pay your employees as little as they are
willing to accept. There is no reason to
give them more money if they are willing to work for less.”
He waved Emily
toward the door and, as soon as she was gone, he began calculating how much
money he’d just saved the company and how much that savings would increase his
next bonus.
3.c.viii
“That one
there,” said Business Woman. “That’s his
office.”
The four of
them were scouting the area from the relative safe zone of the water cooler.
“How can you
tell?” asked Senior Executive.
“I used to
work for him. Did you see how that woman
came storming out just now?”
“Yeah,” said
Franklin Buck. “She looked pissed.”
Business Woman
nodded. “I saw that look on more than
one person every single day I worked here.”
“Let’s pay him
a visit, shall we,” said Corporate Man, striding into the reception area. Seated behind the desk was a plump woman with
hair like steel wool. Her eyes lifted
from her work as Corporate Man approached.
“I assume you
have an appointment,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Name?”
“Uh…
Jones. Smithy Jones,” said Corporate
Man.
“Yes, he’s
expecting you,” she said.
Her voice
sounded like a duck.
“Oh,” said
Corporate Man, his posture of confidence fracturing as a bolt of panic streaked
through him. “Really?”
“Oh yeah. We let random people with really lame fake
names in to see our corporate executives all the time.”
Corporate Man
leaned forward and spoke in a softer, more humble tone. “So I take it, and let me know if I’m
mistaken, that you aren’t going to let us in to see him.”
“You can
always sit and wait for him to come out,” the receptionist said.
Corporate Man
smiled and returned to the others. They
seemed eager for information even though they had all heard the conversation.
“Did we have a
plan for getting past the receptionist?” asked Franklin Buck.
Everyone
glanced around at everyone else.
Finally,
Corporate Man’s grin widened and he said, “I think I know how to get
inside. He reached into his suit jacket
and removed his PDA.
“Let’s hope my
stocks are up,” he said.
3.c.ix
The bossman
felt great, despite his aching ribs.
Nothing beat the high one got from leveraging another human being and
profiting from it so quickly. The bonus
numbers were looking good. He was almost
giddy. In fact, he hadn’t felt this
elated since the whole Corporate Man affair had started.
He should fire
someone.
He opened a
program on his desk top.
Seedy lounge
music seeped from his speakers as a title screen for Subordinate Roulette
popped up on his monitor. The bossman
selected “Continue Saved Game” from the options and a roulette wheel appeared,
dominating most of the screen. Ugly, sad
looking people squat in the outer pockets where the red and black numbers
should have been. A heaving chested
blonde in minimal attire smiled cheerfully next to the wheel, gesturing toward
it like a game-show-prize model.
The bossman
clicked a drop down menu and selected “Update Employee Directory.” This imported a list of current employees
into the game and avatars of randomly selected workers materialized on the
roulette wheel. He clicked another
button and the cheerful blonde bent over the wheel revealing her every asset as
she rolled a chrome ball into the spinning apparatus.
There was a
pleasant clacking sound as the ball bounced around. The employee avatars shrieked and shuddered
when it struck nearby. And then, with a
satisfying plunking splut, the ball crushed a man with short, banker hair and
glasses.
The bossman
fingered the intercom and said, “Bring me employee #8008, Mr. Stanley
Curtsfield. And have security escort him
up here so he’ll suspect what’s going on.”
“That’s
reprehensible,” a booming voice sounded from somewhere in the room. The bossman jumped up from his desk, winced,
and clutched his side, stymieing a whimper.
Corporate Man
dropped into the room from a vague upward direction. The bossman looked around, confused and
slightly panicked. Before he could
speak, Corporate Man surged forward, grabbed the bossman by the shirt collar and
said, “No. I don’t have an appointment.”
3.c.x
Merlton had
trouble understanding most city folk.
Their patterns of speech and clipped accents always required extra
attention on his part. Understanding the
woman in his shop right now was worse than normal. Maybe it was because she had more teeth than
the average person. It was also quite
possible that she had a case of mumps.
Did people still get mumps these days?
There she went
again, saying something. What was that?
She’d come in before
with a bag full of teeth and a note asking him to make the things into
bullets. Mighty strange. In seventeen years of running this gun shop,
Merlton had never heard that particular request. Sure, he’d been asked to make all kinds of
custom crap for hot headed militia types, but teeth?
He told her
that he could encase a tooth in the lead of each bullet, but that she would
need a large enough caliber weapon – he pointed to the Chiappa Rhino .357
magnums and the Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan .454 caliber – to accommodate
them. She liked the idea, but wrote down
a strange request. She wanted to be able
to see the teeth in the final product.
Sort of a tooth capped bullet or something. He warned that an irregular tooth shape could
screw up the aim and damage her gun barrel. She wrote that she didn’t care.
Now, here she
was again, chewing her words with all them teeth, eager to pick up her
merchandise. Along with the custom
bullets, she’d gone with a pair of the chrome plated Rugers with the 2½ inch
barrels.
Merlton threw
his hands up, confused at her muttered speech.
The woman with more teeth than the average person scribbled a note on
her receipt. It read: Thank you for the
quick turn around time. And the
necessary discretion.
Merlton
nodded. All the words after “thank you”
were unnecessary. He always got things
done quick and he never spoke of one’s business to another.
3.c.xi
“Ah, Miss
Adams. I was hoping to see you again,”
the bossman said, glaring at Business Woman.
His chest was pinned against his desk and his arm was barred behind his
back by Corporate Man. “So I could have the pleasure of firing you
myself.”
He gave a low,
almost inaudible, chuckle and held his stare for a long moment. Then, with an air of smug righteousness, he
said, “You’re fired. Now get out of my
office. I’ve got business to attend to.”
Senior
Executive took a step forward, leaned toward the bossman and whispered, “Yes,
that’s all well and good, but Miss Adams is actually Business Woman, and she’s
with us.”
Showing no
sign of shock or revelation or even embarrassment, the bossman said, “Business
Woman, huh. In the future, Miss Adams,
it would serve you well to include such information on your personnel sheet.”
“Would it?”
said Business Woman, not really fighting off the urge to grin.
“I know I would have avoided much inconvenience
had you been forthright,” he replied.
“I’ll keep
that in mind,” she said. “Now, shall we get down to business?”
“Let’s,” said
the bossman, retaining his overconfident glare.
Corporate Man
released the arm bar and shoved the bossman into the office chair. The bossman winced but did not clutch his
side. Corporate Man held the vibrating,
greed-filled ray gun to the bossman’s chin and said, “This little device, which
we’ll call our corporate analyst, has reported that you are the top executive
of this establishment. We know, however,
that you are not the head of the empire.
Our reports indicate that you are one or four limbs in the Incorporated
Business Corporation Incorporated enterprise, merely an arm or a leg. Where’s the head?”
The bossman
shrugged, “Your information is not only incorrect, it is confidential.”
“If it’s
incorrect, there would be no reason to assert that it is, likewise,
confidential,” said Senior Executive.
“Yes,” said
the bossman. Then he sat, motionless.
Business Woman
slapped him and, almost as an afterthought, she said, “I personally scouted the
west and south side branches and, as you know, I infiltrated this north side
location whereby I ascertained the location of the east side facility. We’ve pinpointed the four corners. All signs indicate a central office. Where is it?”
“I would
assume that your ‘corporate analyst’ would be able to advise you of the central
office location,” said the bossman, gesturing flippantly to the greed-filled
ray gun. “Provided that the assumption
of the existence of a central office is conceded to.”
“This is
pointless,” said Business Woman. “We’ll
never get anything out of him. I once
listened to this prick pull crap like this on a conference call for an entire
afternoon.”
“Then why
can’t we use that corporate analyst gun thing to find it?” Franklin Buck asked.
“We could, but
the process would take a long time and lead us through an endless succession of
greedy companies and people until we were close enough to the central figure
head for it to lock on to that signal through all the greedy corporate
interference,” said Corporate Man.
Senior
Executive tapped Corporate Man on the shoulder and signaled him into a huddle
with himself and Business Woman. In a
hushed tone he said, “We need to get some financial records. There’s going to be an ass-load of paperwork
flowing from this place to that.
Invoices, expenses, shipping records, something will point us there.”
“But won’t we
need data from all the other branches to find the intersecting location?”
Business Woman asked.
“Yeah, we’ll
have to go break into one of the other three, access their files, and from
there–”
“Uh guys,”
said Franklin Buck, “this may seem stupid, but what about this?” He was pointing to a framed, poster-sized
map, hanging on the wall. “Here’s us, right?” he said, tapping the map. Then he grabbed a black marker from the
bossman’s desk and circled the location.
“Hey! You can’t vandalize company property!” the
bossman shouted.
They all
ignored his protests.
“Now,” said
Franklin Buck, “circle the locations of the other branches.”
He handed the
marker to Business Woman and while she circled the locations on the map,
Franklin Buck removed an oversized calendar from the wall. He returned to the map and used the calendar
like a straight edge, drawing a black line connecting the north and south
locations. Then he did the same for the
east and west branches.
“There. The lines intersect at… Jacob
Center . I bet that’s the central office,” Franklin
said and turned to face the others. No
one said anything. Then, after a
painfully long moment, they all turned toward the bossman as if his expression
might reveal something.
Finally, the
bossman spoke, “Are you currently seeking gainful employment? Because we could always use a good man. Of course we’ll have to garnish your first
paycheck to pay for the map vandalism, but the–”
“No freaking
way,” Business Woman said. “Can’t be
that simple.”
“Yeah, how
stupid can these corporate types really be?” asked Senior Executive.
They all
paused again and looked at each other, and then at the bossman. He was busy digging out a form from a set of
files in his desk drawer.
“Of course,
you’ll need to fill out this application.
Is your resume up to date? Oh, and references. We’ll need references,” said the
bossman. He glanced back and forth
between the others in the room, eyeing them with suspicion. “It would probably be best if your references
did not include the names of those in our company at present.”