The Tragic Death of Corporate
Man
a hero for
capitalism;
champion of the
working class
by Tom Landaluce
Section 6:
This Section Title Has
Been Outsourced.
(we apologize for any
inconvenience)
6.a.
The lighting
was stark, as if no shades of grey existed between the swaths of black and
white. In the cramped room a man lay on
a medical gurney, a blocky mechanical arm, recently attached to his shoulder,
oozed a clear pus at the suture lines.
Antibiotics seeped from bruised flesh which extended halfway across his
chest, up his neck to his ear, and down to his hip.
The man’s eyes
were dilated and his lips cracked.
Tangles of wires and tubes from various medical and mechanical machines,
life support and diagnostic, fell about him, draped from suspended equipment. There was a smell, like axel grease and
afterbirth.
“Try wiggling
your finger,” said a weasely looking man in a bright, shadowless lab coat. His fingers clattered against the chunky
buttons of roundish keyboards and ten-key pads.
A stream of green numbers filled the black screen of a small monitor,
whirs and clicking noises sounded in accompaniment.
The index
finger of the mechanical arm spasmed in a series of jittery clunks.
“Good. When you have rested there is a battery of
tests we need to run through. It will
take several hours but is quite necessary in order to properly calibrate your
new arm. As per your specifications, the
imprinting mechanism–” the man in the lab coat paused and reached for a lever
on the forearm of the mechanical appendage.
With noticeable effort, he slid it forward and then back again creating
a distinct ca-chunking sound. “–is
functional. A small housing underneath
holds a maximum of twenty carbons. Be
sure to carry additional slips in a belt pouch.
It will serve you well in future business endeavors. Speaking of which…”
A form moved
in the shadows and a silhouetted shape edged around the room. It said, “Your upgrade was funded by an
associate of mine and was done relatively free of charge. He requires only a nominal monthly fee for
the use of the equipment as well as a percentage of what you charge your
clients for your services. Additionally,
when you are called upon to do a job for us, a discounted rate must be extended. Wiggle that cybernetic finger if you
understand and comply.”
At first,
nothing happened. Then the finger moved.
“Great,” said
the man in the shadows. “I’m glad this
all worked out, Commander Credit.”
The shadowy
man stepped into the light.
“I too have a
military moniker. You may call me Captain
Apathy.”
6.b.
“Move and I’ll
jack your interest rate up so high you won’t be able to afford your minimum
payment,” the trench coated man with the square-barreled gun said. A puzzled look flashed across his face and he
opened his mouth, as if to speak, but said nothing further.
Senior
Executive pushed between the two men and said, “It’s Corporate
Man.
He’s with me.”
The man
lowered the square-barreled gun and said, “I… I thought you were dead.”
“Not for a
lack of effort on their part,” said Corporate Man.
Business Woman
stepped forward, put her hands on her hips, and eyed the man in the trench
coat. “So… Are you working for us or for
them?”
“Me,” said
Senior Executive. “I hired him.”
“Um… Maybe
this is a stupid question, but who is this guy?” Franklin Buck asked.
“Commander
Credit,” said Fair Wage. “An associate
of a sort.”
“He’s kind of
like a gun for hire,” said Supply.
“Yeah. And his loyalties are fluid at best. Aren’t they?” Demand added, glaring at
Commander Credit.
“You still
haven’t gotten over that?” said Commander Credit. “What was that? Two decades ago or more? It was just business.”
“Maybe for you
but–”
“Okay
people. Let’s put the past aside for a
second and focus on the here and now,” said Corporate
Man.
He looked at Senior Executive and nodded.
“I’ve been in
negotiations with the good commander ever since I received the summons to the
Break Room,” Senior Executive said, taking the visual cue from Corporate
Man.
“We managed to finalize our agreement a few moments before the Union
entered this tower. It would have been
nice to have his aid on this floor, but at least we’ll have some extra backup
now.”
“Hey. How’d you get up here anyway?” asked Franklin
Buck.
“The
elevator.”
“Wait, what
about the stairs?”
“What stairs?”
“You didn’t
climb that never ending staircase?”
“Why would I,”
said Commander Credit. “There’s an
elevator.”
Franklin Buck
blinked and looked abashed. He opened
his mouth. Part of a syllable managed to
escape, but then he closed his mouth again and looked away.
“How did you
get past the retina scanner and the hand print identification?” asked Business
Woman.
“Let’s just
say that I’ve had dealings in this building before and benefit from past
associations.”
The comments
encouraged more than one glare.
“Why are you
guys all wet?” Commander Credit asked.
“Can we just get
into the elevator now?” asked Senior Executive.
Corporate Man
seconded the idea and the Union joined Commander Credit
inside. Franklin Buck made an indignant
gasp and gestured toward the panel of buttons.
“Is this… Are
you telling me we didn’t need… And the
sharks and the crushing was…”
This continued
as the elevator rose up to the twenty-sixth floor.
6.c.
Many rumors
circulate through the offices of the Jacob
Center Tower . Most are quite fanciful and far fetched, and
inevitably fall short of the actual reality of what goes on inside that place.
It’s been said
that there is a human shredder somewhere and that incriminating individuals who
know too much soon discover its whereabouts.
And quite unwillingly.
The pyramid
shape capping the building is often the subject of rampant speculation as are
the strange noises that emanate from the area that would be the thirty ninth
floor. Many say that they can hear
strange bells ringing.
Not much is
said about the space comprising the twenty sixth floor. Those working on floors twenty five and
twenty seven often comment about the amount of scuffling that goes on in this
adjacent space. Many assume that there
are rats.
Whatever it
is, it never stops moving.
6.d.
“When these
doors open we need to be ready for anything,” Corporate Man said as the
elevator rose toward the twenty sixth floor.
“After what we went through downstairs we should assume that everyone is
hostile and expect extremely aggressive confrontations. Hostiles might be right outside the door and
swarm in on us like a bunch of brain-starved zombies.”
Though he made
a conscious effort to fight the urge, Franklin Buck edged away from the doors
to the back of the compartment. The
motion of the elevator slowed and then stopped.
Commander Credit cocked a lever on his square-barreled gun. A tone sounded and a small circular light
above the doors blinked on. Everyone
took defensive stances and held their breaths.
The doors whipped
open and the Union leapt from the elevator, snapping
into attentive corporate postures.
The reception
area was empty.
No one moved.
Then shoulders
slumped, karate-chop arms dropped to relaxing sides, and respiration
resumed. They looked around at each
other. Smiles eased on to tense
faces. Then everyone jumped back into
defensive postures, prompted by no sound or visual disturbance of any kind.
As muscles
eased once more, Business Woman said, “Can we just assume that attack is not
immanent and begin our? Let’s start by
looking for a washroom since we’re all soaked from that sharky mess.”
Supply went to the empty reception desk,
thumbed through a few files, and then moved to the computer, jostling the
mouse.
“What are you
trying to find?” Senior Executive said.
“I don’t
know. I was hoping there’d be some kind
of map or list of offices on this floor.
Maybe a cheat sheet the receptionist used to direct visitor to their
proper destinations. Or even one of
those fire-drill maps detailing the correct exit paths. So we wouldn’t have to make a random
search. Hey. Look.”
The Union
gathered around the computer. Supply was
pointing to the monitor’s wallpaper image.
“Yeah. Just a crappy snapshot of some office
workers,” said Franklin Buck.
“I know, but
look at the sign by the door. It’s a gym
facility. There might be towels and
things,” Supply said.
“How can you
be sure that this photo was taken on this floor?” Commander Credit asked.
“Well, look at
the décor,” she said, gesturing to the cold, grayish-white walls, the taupish
cubicles and the muted bluish floors. Then
she pointed at the image on the screen.
“That could be
any office in America ,”
said Business Woman.
“No, it’s this
one,” said Supply. She looked at
Corporate Man as though he might confirm her assertion. He shrugged and pointed out that it didn’t
matter, their needs were still the same.
Gym, bathroom, janitor’s closet, any of them would be better than
nothing.
They moved
out, searching the corridors for any sign of a doorway but finding only cubicle
walls or gaps in cubicle walls which led into cubicles or cubicle-lined
corridors.
“Umm… Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I’m beginning
to think that something’s not right about all of this,” Franklin Buck said
after they had wandered for nearly twenty minutes.
“Figured that
out did you?” said Business Woman.
“Well,
yeah. Every office has doors
somewhere. And I haven’t spotted a
single one. Or a window. And where are all the employees? I mean, someone’s gotta be work–”
He froze as
they turned a corner into a long corridor.
It seemed to span the width of the building. On the far side was a group of office
workers. They were rushing around the
corner at that end of the hallway and were out of sight so quickly that not
every member of the Union had a chance to see them.
“Hey! Wait up!” Franklin Buck yelled.
Commander
Credit slapped his hand over Franklin ’s
mouth.
“Quiet Dollar
Man.
We don’t know if those are friendlies or not. No need calling their attention when we can
track them. Understand?”
“Hundred
Dollar,” said Franklin Buck.
“What?”
“It’s the One
Hundred Dollar Man, not Dollar Man. ”
“Yes. Impressive,” said Commander Credit. “But technically, shouldn’t that be the One
Hundred Dollars Man?”
After a few
moments of glare-off, the Union rushed down the long
hall, whisper quiet, and braced themselves as they turned the corner.
There was
nothing there.
Not only was
the corridor absent of people, but it was absent of corridor. Instead, there was a small alcove and a door
with a sign that read: Fitness Center .
6.e.
The small,
runty man hovered at the crack between the cubicle wall, his fist clenched and
shaking.
“Go in!” he
thought and he thought it with exclamation.
Why were they hesitating? Isn’t
this what one of them had asked for? So,
here it was and what were they doing?
Standing around thinking about it?
Just go in!
Finally,
Corporate Man pushed the door open and peered inside. He announced that it did appear to be a gym facility.
Of course it’s
a gym facility! That’s what the sign
above the door states, doesn’t it?
Reluctantly,
the Union entered the room designated Fitness
Center and the runty man chortled
to himself.
We are now
open for business.
6.f.
Commander
Credit was the only one fully clothed.
The rest of the Union stood around, shivering in
their skimpies, waiting as their clothes dried.
Except for Fair Wage. He wore no
underwear as a rule and was, therefore, bare-assed naked.
“You know,”
said Business Woman, “despite being old and wrinkly, you’ve still got a firm
butt.”
Franklin Buck
groaned and said, “I was hoping we could get through this without comments like
that.”
“What? It’s true,” Business Woman said grabbing Fair
Wage by the shoulders and turning him so his backside faced Franklin . “Look at it.
Tell me that’s not a fine piece of ass.”
“God. Point that thing somewhere else.”
“You’d prefer
the other side?” she said. Corporate Man
and Senior Executive tried to stifle laughter.
“Isn’t this
sexual harassment?”
“Not at all,”
said Fair Wage. “I call it welcome attention.”
There was a
round of laughter. Then Supply and
Demand went to the dryer to check on the clothes.
“Convenient
that this gym came equipped with laundry facilities,” Supply said, opening the
dryer door. The words she muttered next
were quite foul.
The clothes
were gone.
Also missing
was the backside of the dryer. In its
place was a hole. This hole led into a
hallway. The hallway looked exactly the
same as all the corridors they’d been in on this floor already.
“Well,” said
Corporate Man, “for the comfort of everyone involved, I suggest that Fair Wage
be the last to climb through.”
“We’re really
going in there?” asked Senior Executive.
“I don’t see
any other choice,” said Corporate Man.
“We’re half
naked,” said Franklin Buck.
“Not all of
us,” said Commander Credit with a smirk, his hand gesturing subtly to his full
wardrobe.
“Yeah,” said
Fair Wage, without the smirk but with the same subtle gesture, “not all of us.”
“The longer we
discuss this,” Business Woman said as she climbed into the dryer, “the further
away our clothes will be.”
The rest of
the Union climbed through the dryer and into the hallway
on the other side.
Fair Wage went
last.
There was an
abundance of awkward running that followed as the Union
tried to maintain modesty and support while hurrying down the corridor. There was an uncomfortable slapping sound
which they all tried to ignore but could not.
It subsided when Business Woman barked an order at Fair Wage insisting
that he secure his assets.
The shambling
crew ran down many hallways, sped around dozens of corners, made lefts and
rights in all manner of combinations.
“There they
are,” Corporate Man hissed. Ahead of
them a group of workers dressed in office casual disappeared around a
corner. The Union
increased their speed and rounded the corner only the find a stubby, dead-end
hallway with no doors.
“Uh…” said
Franklin Buck.
“Wait a
minute,” said Fair Wage with enthusiasm usually reserved only for those who
received insider information. “Were
there towels in that gym?”
Everyone
looked dumbfounded and guilty. Like an
investor brought up on charges for insider trading.
“Hey, was that
hallway there before?” asked Commander Credit, breaking the strange silence.
About twenty
feet back the way they’d come was a doorway leading into another corridor. Corporate Man examined it as though it was a
heavily worded contract with slippery language and semantic traps.
“Did anyone
see this as we ran by?” Corporate Man asked.
Shrugging was
the unanimous response.
“All right
people. Eyes open. Stay frosty.
I don’t think this place is as stationary as it might seem.”
6.g.
Somewhere else
on the twenty-sixth floor, things were quite stationary. And tense.
It was always tense for the employees on the floor twenty six. Their jobs were in constant danger of being
given to another set of workers. And
today, there was a meeting scheduled for this afternoon.
Nothing good
ever came from meetings, Polly knew.
Bottom lines
were discussed and new efficiency parameters would be introduced. And that was if they were lucky.
In the murmur
of office conversation she picked up some alarming snippets.
Moving the whole division.
Cause it costs the same to pay four of them
as it does one of us.
And worst of
all.
It’ll never happen. We’re too important. No one else can do our job.
She rushed out
of the office to the Dress For Success shop down the hall.
Dress For
Success was a small business dealing in office appropriate attire. It thrived on an environment of ever changing
dress-code policies offering a range of styles from business formal to business
casual to business intentionally unkempt and/or sporty. Their proximity to the offices on the
twenty-sixth floor was quite convenient.
Unfortunate coffee spill?
Lunchtime marinara drips?
Accidentally wore blue-jeans on Thursday thinking it was Casual
Friday? They had you covered. Even those feeling awkward at having dressed
business formal on Casual Friday could find the standard denim bottoms and
T-shirt with the humorous-though-still-appropriate saying on a rack in the
back.
Polly needed
something smart and distinctive.
Something that shouted: I’m extremely professional, very current (or was
that called “hip” these days?), an asset to any company, you’d be very stupid
to give my job away to anyone with lesser clothes.
A Dress For
Success employee was hanging up some interesting items that, he claimed, had
just come in. There was a men’s suit in
emerald green, a dark purple one with a mauve tie and–
She spotted
it. The perfect outfit. A mauve skirt and jacket with a dark purple
blouse.
6.h.
“Why don’t we
post a man at each intersection and maintain line-of-sight contact,” Commander
Credit said. His suggestion was met with
a lukewarm response. Nobody thought
separation of any kind would prove beneficial, especially now that they’d
confirmed Corporate Man’s suspicions.
The corridors
were shifting.
“We’ve got to
do something,” Commander Credit continued.
“These hallways aren’t fixed and this constant rearrangement will keep
us running around forever. We know there
are people here, but we only catch glimpses of them disappearing around
corners. And except for that psuedo-gym
we haven’t seen any other rooms or offices.”
“Well what’s
that?” Franklin Buck said, pointing to a door just inside a hallway behind
Commander Credit. A hallway which may,
or may not, have been there moments before.
On the door, in big black blocky letters, was one word.
OFFICE.
There was a
moment of silent thought in which the members of the Union
glanced around at each other with puzzled but scrutinizing looks. Almost in unison, they approached the
door. A murmur of office noises,
including human voices, hummed on the other side.
“We’re not
really dressed for this,” said Senior Executive.
“I don’t
care,” said Fair Wage. “My thighs are
starting to bruise.”
He opened the
“office” door and went inside.
A network of
short cubicles spread out before him. At
first the general murmur maintained its constant, efficient hum. Then a few employees milling around the
coffee maker or walking toward the copy machine, caught a glimpse of the old
man called Fair Wage. The murmur
softened and then it rose again as the word spread. Those still in their cubicles popped up like
prairie dogs to see what all the commotion was about.
After a few
moments, there was silence.
“What should
we do?” whispered Supply.
Corporate man
shrugged. “Act natural.”
“Yeah. No problem for Fair Wage,” said Business
Woman.
“Excuse me,” a
man said as he submissively charged toward them. He wore a light-blue sweater-vest over a
white shirt, grey chords, and shiny black shoes. “Who are you? Are you new hires? We don’t have any positions open at present. Were you sent by upper management? What are
you wearing? Sorry. Amendment.
Why aren’t you wearing business casual?”
Corporate Man
stepped forward and placed his arm over the nervous man’s shoulder. This had an effect on the nervous man much
like a shark fin cresting the water near a reluctant skinny dipper.
“What’s your
name son?” Corporate Man said in a soothing tone. This tone made the nervous man’s ass
clench. The use of the word “son” made
him prickle with fear-sweat.
“Kevin,” he
squeaked.
“Kevin,”
Corporate Man said, even and monotone.
“Didn’t you get the e-mail?”
Kevin
straightened up. He was comfortable with
e-mails. Memos of any sort really.
“Have they
added some sort of theme-day to the dress code?” he asked, secretly hoping it
might be true.
“Yeah,” said
Business Woman. “Underpants Tuesday.”
“Really? But today’s not Tuesday. Is it?” said Kevin.
“Would we be
in our underpants if it wasn’t?” asked Senior Executive.
Kevin made a
gasping, squawking, squeaky sound and then ran toward his desk.
6.i
E-Mails travel
quickly. For example, an employee,
overhearing a conversation between a fellow employee and a group of half naked
individuals, might shoot an e-mail to multiple coworkers well before the
individual conversing with the half naked group had a chance to return to his
or her desk. This e-mail may or may not
relay information from the overhead conversation and might be worded in such a
way that aspects of that conversation which should otherwise be questioned are
presented in a manner that, instead, seems to provide confirmation of the
material in doubt.
The recipients
of this e-mail would probably forward their own set of e-mails, adding their
comments, further diluting the truth of the actual conversation.
Then, by the
time the employee originally conversing with the half naked group returned to
his or her desk in a gasping, squawking, squeaking panic, he or she would
definitely find his or her inbox crowded with messages concerning topics which
he or she was otherwise confused about.
These e-mails would seem to corroborate the information provided by the
group of half naked people and a quick glance at adjacent cubicles might reveal
fellow coworkers hurriedly removing their clothing in an effort to comply with
a new thematic dress code.
6.j.
When Polly
returned to the office she found that she had a decision to make. Either she was well ahead of the curve,
already dressed in her new outfit, poised to retain her job and therefore had
to do nothing. Or her mind had cracked
and she should check herself into one of many in-plan psychiatric facilities
because, as far as she could tell, everyone in the office was strutting around
in their unmentionables.
Except for one
older gentleman who was gallivanting about in his altogether.
“Excuse me,”
said a woman Polly had never met.
Oh no. She knew it! They were
being replaced.
“Where did you
get that outfit?”
Polly looked
down at her mauve and purple attire, feeling a bit overdressed.
“At… Dress For
Success. The shop down… What’s… What’s
going on?”
“Didn’t you
get the e-mail? It’s Underpants Tuesday. Come on.
I’ll help you get in compliance with today’s dress code,” the woman said
and led Polly toward a nearby cubicle.
6.k.
“Where’d you
get your clothes?” Business Woman asked as Supply approached the rest of the Union ,
clad in here trademark mauve and purple.
“One of these
people bought it at an interoffice clothing store,” Supply said. She gestured toward a glass door. Through it, on the other side of the hallway
and down a few paces, was the entrance to Dress For Success.
The Union
went over to the clothing store and found a rack containing the rest of their
suits and business attire. Corporate Man
didn’t intend to pay for the stolen merchandise but Senior Executive advised
that it would be easier on everyone and offered up a credit card. He insisted that Fair Wage pick out a pair of
boxers or even briefs. Anything that
would create an under layer.
A mob of
angry, half naked, office workers greeted the Union as
they left Dress For Success.
“So that’s
your plan,” one of the mob said. “Trick
us all into non-compliant attire.”
“You’re trying
to get us fired!”
“Hey, hey!”
said a fully dressed twenty-sixth floor employee as he ran up to the gathering
crowd. “I traced the e-mails. Nothing
about Underpants Tuesday came from any of the higher ups.”
“Oh I see it
now. We all get the ax and these guys
take over our positions.”
Corporate Man
smiled and adjusted his tie. “Actually,
we’re needed in another department on a different floor. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The half-naked
office workers puzzled over this as Corporate Man and the Union
walked away.
“I don’t
believe him,” one of the mob said. “They
were in here checking out their new offices.
Calling dibs on cubicles.”
“Or signing
contracts that would move our division to some other sector.”
“Yeah. Like this ‘another department’ he was talking
about.”
“Let’s get
‘em!” someone yelled and they charged down the hallway just as the Union
was opening a door that led into a non-descript hallway.
Corporate Man
spun around, glared at them, and said, “Did any of you clock out?”
They stopped.
After a moment
one of them said, “What do you mean?”
“You can’t abandon
your station and go storming out of the office.
That’s a waste of company time.
Management would not approve.”
The mob of dress-code violators looked at
each other, confusion and fear reflected in all of their eyes. They scattered, like a flock of birds, and
sped off to their cubicles to log out of the system.
Meanwhile, the
Union slipped out of the office and disappeared down the
non-descript hallway.
6.l.
Somewhere on
the twenty-sixth floor a man in upper management reviewed the e-mail
correspondence of his employees. There
was a great deal of traffic on the subject of “Underpants Tuesdays.” He had no recollection of such an alternation
of the dress code but quickly dismissed any growing concerns after seeing the
phrase repeated, over and over again, in Arial and Times New Roman.
What continued
to nag at him was this adherence to Tuesday.
He was not aware that it was Tuesday.
Quite sure that it was, indeed, not Tuesday. It upset him a great deal that his
subordinates had received notice of this unprecedented modification to the
weekly schedule and he had not.
In moments he
had a plan He would visit the office and
honor the underpants aspect of the day and in so doing, he would demonstrate the
degree to which he was informed on all office related matters.
Unfortunately,
having been absent from the events leading up to the creation of Underpants
Tuesday, he had no visual reference for what this new theme day might look
like. And so it was that he walked into
the office wearing his tighty-whities over his pinstripe slacks.
A wave of
e-mails concerning Superhero Tuesday flooded the office inboxes.
6.m.
“Keep moving,”
Corporate Man said as they turned another corner in the seemingly endless
labyrinth of hallways.
“Why? We’ll never catch them,” said Franklin
Buck. “They’re always just rounding the
next corner every time we get to a new hallway.”
“I’m less
concerned with catching up to the office workers that are avoiding us than I am
over the half-naked ones that are trying to chase us down,” said Corporate
Man.
When they
reached the end of a long hallway, Franklin Buck looked behind them and saw a
mob of angry, partially dressed, white-collar types charge into view.
“I think we
need to go faster,” said Franklin Buck.
“No,” said
Fair Wage, gasping for breath. “I need
to stop.”
“I know you’re
tired–” Senior Executive started.
“It’s not
that, it’s this underwear. It’s bunching
up. I can’t take it anymore.”
“I think we
need to go smarter,” said Corporate Man, stopping suddenly in the middle of the
hall. He reached inside his jacket and
held out the greed-gun.
“What’s that?”
asked Commander Credit.
“Pieces of The
Greed,” said Business Woman. “Gives an
indication of where the nearest source of overt greed is located.”
“It doesn’t
work all that well, though,” said Senior Executive.
“Give it to
me,” Commander Credit said. He snatched
the toy gun from Corporate Man, held it in his normal hand, waving it back and
forth, sensing the vibrations of The Greed pieces inside.
“Umm… We kind
of need to hurry,” said Franklin Buck.
“You know. Angry mob headed this
way and all.”
For a moment
Commander Credit didn’t move. He didn’t
even breath. Then he bolted down the
corridor, shouting for everyone to follow.
They raced around the next series of corners and long hallways at a
furious pace. When they reached a short,
stubby corridor Commander Credit stopped in the center of it. He shifted some levers and gears on his
mechanical arm and then pressed it against one of the cubicle-like walls. There was a whirring sound as he removed the
bolts.
“Help me shift
this wall into place and block off the hallway behind us,” he said.
They pulled
the wall section free. Behind it lie
another corridor. At the far end of this
corridor was a group of maintenance men who were busy disassembling and
reassembling cubicle walls. They looked
at the Union with a start and began hurriedly
reconfiguring their wall sections in order to seal themselves off from the
surprise visitors.
Meanwhile, the
Union shifted their wall piece into its new location and
Commander Credit reattached it with the bolts.
“Hey! I saw you guys down there,” Franklin Buck
yelled. Then, in a lower tone, “Should
we go after them?”
“No,” said
Senior Executive. “They just work
here. We need to find the person in
charge.”
“Well, now
that we’ve got those office types off our backs,” said Commander Credit, “I
think I can modify this greed-sensing gun into a more effective piece of
hardware.”
6.n.
Halo rings and
starburst effects danced on every possible reflective surface. Things looked wet, for no other apparent
reason than to quiver light into attention grabbing forms. LED sensors glowed like molten lava and glass
panes had deliberate substance and form as if to suggest a crystalline
structure.
“It’s all
about the look these days,” said a doctor wearing a gleaming white lab coat and
excessively sparkling safety glasses.
“You also need gadgetry. Sleek
and stylized, not the overly bulky, look-at-the-size-of-my-penis gear that
everybody used to go in for.”
“Like the arm,
you mean,” said Commander Credit.
“Yes,” the
doctor said, giving Commander Credit a reproachful look. “But that was the look back then. People were supposed to see that arm and know
you had power. That you were solid. Substantial.”
“That my dick
was big?”
The doctor
sighed, his shoulders slouching, just enough.
“Anyway, we’ve redesigned the arm a few times over the years. And now its not such an eyesore.”
“It’s still
oversized-dick big.”
“Yes, well, the
message still needs to come across. And
you need the room to store all your cool gadgets and open market
accessories. There’s a full maintenance
kit in the shoulder, electrical parts in the bicep, motorized–”
“Yeah,
yeah. I get it. Snacks in the forearm and juice in the
elbow,” said Commander Credit.
“Vials of
nutrient solutions actually. And
coffee. For office visits. You’re also hooked up with a modem,
transaction terminal, etc.”
6.o.
“It’s done,”
said Commander Credit.
Attached to
the greed-gun was a small metallic dish comprised of several, individual,
flower petal-like segments. This was
housed in a pivoting gear box and the whole assembly rotated and tilted and spun
around. There were tiny lights, half the
size of push tacks, arranged in a strip around the base. One the lights blinked green.
“We can get a
sense of direction out of those… things inside the gun,” said Commander
Credit. He turned slowly until the second
bulb in the series flickered. The first
bulb continued to glow but ceased blinking.
“This way,”
said Commander Credit. And they moved
down the hall.
“There should
be sound,” said Business Woman.
“What?” asked
Commander Credit.
“Yeah, right,”
Franklin Buck said. “Like a deet, deet
noise that gets quicker as you get closer.”
“That’s what
the lights are for,” said Commander Credit.
“But you have
to look at the lights,” said Business Woman.
“And the
deet-deet-deet-deet would be exciting,” Franklin Buck added.
“Yeah. You know what else would be exciting?”
Commander Credit said.
“How do we
know it’s sensing the correct greed source?” asked Corporate
Man.
He had no trouble imagining a wide variety of very exciting acts
Commander Credit was capable of inflicting upon the One Hundred Dollar Man.
“There’s only
gonna be one source here,” said Fair Wage.
“Everyone is scrambling to keep their jobs. They barely have time to fantasize about
wealth much less be greedy.”
The Union
continued to walk down the corridor, everyone eyeing the small lights on the
greed-gun assembly. Those, who could not
see, politely jockeyed for a position in which they could. All the clustering about irritated Commander
Credit and he wished he would have installed some sort of audio alert on the
device.
The next light
blinked yellow.
They
instinctively quickened their pace. When
they reached a T-junction at the end of the hallway they turned right, but the
yellow light switched off. So they went
back and took the left passage, but saw the same result.
“Well, what
now?” asked Franklin Buck.
“We go
straight,” said Corporate Man. Commander Credit removed the wall paneling at
the hallway intersection. On the other
side of the panel three startled maintenance men stood frozen. Their eyes wide. Tools for assembling cubicle paneling about
to drop from their hands.
“Gentlemen,”
said Senior Executive. “Don’t mind
us. We’re working on another project.”
The workers
seemed to ease at this, comforted by the notion that these strangers were already
employed and would, therefore, not be stealing hard one cubicle wall assembling
positions. Senior Executive continued to
chat with the workers while Commander Credit replaced the paneling and then
consulted the greed-gun. When they moved
out, Senior Executive handed the maintenance workers a few business cards and
told them to keep up the good work.
This sequence
of events repeated itself.
It was never
the same location of panel wall that was removed and never the same set of
workers they found on the other side.
The greed-gun
charged through its yellow sequence and was now a fiery red.
The Union
stopped in front of a seemingly insignificant panel of cubicle wall, pausing
with breath held instinctively for dramatic effect.
6.p.
The small,
runty man fumed. There would be
firings. Oh yes. Someone wasn’t doing their job properly. If someone
had been keeping up with their assigned tasks then the Union
would be in a mess of trouble at the southern end of the building instead of
over here, standing on the other side of a cubicle wall from his position. And what were they doing? Just standing there with their mouths hanging
open for all he could tell. What’s with
that? Were they trying to piss him
off? Looking all stupid, as if to say
“duh… we know where you are,” or something like that?
He fingered
his pencil-thin moustache. He’d have to
take care of this himself. Restaff the
entire floor. Move the operation
overseas and find cheaper labor there.
But first, the Union . Yes, he’d handle them himself. In fact, he could do with some good, old
fashioned work. He still hadn’t blown
off all that steam from his airport encounter yet.
The Outsourcer
slinked down the corridor and disappeared into a small panel in the wall, and
sulked like a hungry eel waiting in a craggy rock for oblivious fish.
6.q.
Commander
Credit removed the section of cubicle wall.
Immediately beyond was a corridor, but it was unlike all the previous
hallways. The light was dim. After-hours
dim, like an office at midnight . There
was the occasional fluorescent bulb which cast its dull grey light. Many of these sputtering, giving off a
nervous flicker in the murky space.
The Union
crept down the hallway, instinctively huddling close to Commander Credit and
the greed-gun assurances of where the danger lay.
The commander
froze.
He pivoted
slightly and craned his ear at an odd angle. After a moment he lunged forward,
grabbed a section of cubicle wall, and yanked it free. A small, runty man
hissed at them, his body pulled into a tense ball as he crouched in an
undersized recess.
There was a
collective intake of breath from the Union .
“Jesus! What kind of freaky–” Business Woman started.
Before she
could finish, the runty man sprang from his perch, snarling and swinging like a
rabid baboon. Several blows drum-rolled
over various parts of Franklin Buck’s body, but before an “ouch” or a “hey” or
even a doubled up grunt could be muttered, The Outsourcer had bounded away,
landing on Demand’s shoulders, smacking and head-butting, then vaulting toward
Senior Executive.
Commander
Credit grabbed The Outsourcer by the scruff of the neck and was promptly dealt
several slapping kicks to the face for the effort. The Commander lost his grip and The
Outsourcer hit the ground, handspring up and immediately cuffed Senior
Executive across the temple. He made a
quick succession of twirling flips, growled, and disappeared into a hidden
cubicle panel further down the corridor.
Corporate Man
raced to the panel but when he opened it he found no tunnel, just a section of
carpeted wall.
“What the hell
was that?” Franklin Buck yelled his hands seeking injuries to sooth but unable
to decide between the multiple options.
“Mr.
Outsource,” Corporate Man said.
“Not these
days,” said Senior Executive. “Insists
on being called The Outsourcer.”
“Well whatever
he calls himself, he’s still a pain in the ass,” said Business Woman.
“He’s right
here,” said Commander Credit. He was
standing at the opposite wall, about twenty yards down the corridor. The final light on the greed-gun blinking
red. He tore the carpeted paneling away
and held up his cybernetic arm. A series
of blinding flashes sparked from the end of his hand in a strobe of bug-zapper
clicks.
There was s
squealing, hissing sound.
Commander
Credit shoved his hand into the hidden tunnel space, pulled out The Outsourcer,
and slammed the runty man into the adjacent wall. The Outsourcer made a chocked
sound, like a cat working up a hairball, and then groaned. Commander Credit brought his knee up while
thrusting The Outsourcer down. The
resulting collision caused a thick whitish spray to come spitting our of the
runty man’s thinly mustached lips.
“There’s your
little weasel,” Commander Credit said, tossing The Outsourcer down the
corridor, toward the Union . The runty man rolled, arms flailing, to a
stop at Corporate Man’s feet.
Corporate Man
grabbed The Outsourcer by the hair and yanked his head up so they were face to
face. A slightly startled, more than a
bit concerned, look pinched Corporate Man’s face.
“This isn’t
him,” he said.
“Looks just
like him,” said Senior Executive.
“Except this
guy’s Mexican,” Business Woman said, pointing to the bleeding man Corporate Man
held.
“So,” said
Franklin Buck.
“The
Outsourcer’s a white guy,” she said.
“Who are you?”
Corporate Man asked the man who was not The Outsourcer. “What are you doing here?”
“Working. Just working,” said the outsourcerish man.
“For whom?”
said Senior Executive.
“Don’t
know. They pay me. Ask for me to look like him. Is all I know,” he said.
“Seriously?”
said Senior Executive. “Am I
understanding this correctly? The
Outsourcer outsourced his own job to Mexico ?”
6.r.
Somewhere on
the twenty-sixth floor. The personnel
department. A bored, balding man walked
into a waiting room full of short, runty men with various styles of meager
upper lip hair. He kept his eyes
half-closed to mask his shifty nature and avoid betraying the aloof appearance
he cultivated.
“Okay,
Koreans. We’re ready to see the
Koreans,” he said, gesturing toward the office door. A group of seven or eight men stood and went
inside.
“Hey,” said a
short man with a dark, tightly-cropped moustache. “When are you seeing Filipinos?”
“We hired a
bunch of Mexicans yesterday,” said the bored, balding man.
“We are not
Mexican. We’re from the Philippines ,”
he said, his tone nearing a shout.
“Fine. Irregardless, we saw all of the Hispanics
yesterday. You’ll have to wait–”
“We are not
Spanish!” the Filipino man yelled.
The bored,
balding man shook his head as if this was the most useless information he had
encountered in a very long time.
“We’ll see
about that,” he said, bored. “Are you
cheap?”
“We can do
better than those Koreans.”
“What about India ? Can you beat the Indians? Or the Chinese?”
“Try us!” the
man said proudly.
The bored,
balding man shrugged and scribbled something across the screen of his
phone. Then he said, in a very dry
manner, “Right. Looks like… oh yes, here
it is. The Philippines . You’re up next.”
6.s.
“Down this
way. Hurry!” Commander Credit said, holding
the greed-gun apparatus out in front of him.
He and the rest of the Union rounded a corner and
were halfway down the hall when the Commander stopped. He swiveled to his left.
“Look! Down there,” said Franklin Buck, pointing to
the end of the hall and the small, runty man who stood there.
“After him,”
Corporate Man shouted, but Commander Credit held his hand out and stopped
him. Then he yanked a panel off the wall
nearest him. A small, runty man with a
thin moustache was standing on the other side.
He hissed and three similar runty men with, more or less, similar
moustaches stood behind him and echoed the hiss. They bolted like frightened deer, scattering
down a dimly lit hallway, banking into separate side corridors.
The Union
rushed after them.
“Should we split
up and take them?” Senior asked.
“No,” said
Corporate Man. “Keep us on the real one Commander.”
Around the
next corner they saw The Outsourcer disappear into a ventilation duct. A group of
maintenance workers moved a section of cubicle paneling across the corridor,
blocking the way. Simultaneously, two
sections were pulled away and secured in different positions creating new
passages going in opposite directions.
“Which way?”
shouted Corporate Man.
Commander
Credit stopped to consult the greed-gun.
“Neither,” he
said. Then he strode up to a section of
wall and tried to yank it free. It
didn’t budge, so he set about dismantling it with tools from his cybernetic
arm. Senior Executive approached the
remaining maintenance workers and began questioning them.
“Hurry. Hurry,” said Franklin Buck.
“You want to
do this, Dollar Boy?” Commander Credit said as he popped the section of wall
free. A hand slapped him across the face. A dozen runty men hissed and then bolted
away, bounding down the newly opened corridor.
“Little shits,” Commander Credit yelled,
charging after them.
The rest of
the Union poured into this new section of darkened
passageways. The scurrying, runty-men
disappeared behind vents, panels, and other trap doors embedded in the pseudo
walls.
The Union
continued the chase and soon arrived at a junction of five passages. Runty men stood at the far end of each hallway. Middle finger raised.
Carpeted
panels swung in and out from various positions along each corridor, concealing each
of the five Outsourcer men.
“They just
flipped us off,” said Franklin Buck.
Commander
Credit checked the greed-gun. His face
pinched and he tapped the side of the apparatus. Then her turned around and said, “Back this
way.”
More panels
swung in and out of the walls and runty men crisscrossed the corridor space,
waving obscene gestures, before disappearing out of sight again.
Commander
Credit slumped against a wall and shook his head.
“I don’t get
it,” he said. “My readings must be
off. The Outsourcer isn’t showing up
anywhere. I don’t know what to–”
But he didn’t
finish. Instead he thrust all his weight
into the wall paneling behind him. It
gave way, slamming into the empty space beyond, landing on something small and
hard.
There was a
low grunt, followed by a yowling howl.
Commander Credit lifted up the section of wall. A dazed runty man lie beneath it. Commander Credit grabbed The Outsourcer by
the collar and yanked him to his feet. At
the same time the Commander’s snapped his torso forward, his head delivering a
nose crushing butt.
The Outsourcer
fell to the floor, spurts of blood geysering from his damaged nasal
cavities. The walls around the bleeding
man opened up and a troupe of runty men bounced into the corridor. Two of them swept up The Outsourcer while the
rest flung themselves at Commander Credit.
The first
couple of attackers suffered a great deal under the ferocity of the Commander’s
defenses, but soon their numbers drove him backward, through the opening in the
wall, and into the hallway where the rest of the Union
still waited.
The runty men
slid the caved in panel back into place and the only sound the Union
could hear through the restored wall was that of scuffling feet and half-hearted
expletives delivered through a collapsed nasal structure.
“Well, open it
back up,” said Business Woman.
“Won’t help,”
said Commander Credit. He held up the greed-gun. Indicator lights were in the green
again. “They’ll have already
reconfigured the corridor and The Outsourcer won’t even be in that direction.”
6.t.
His face felt
like rising bread dough and his nose pulsed with an agonizing pain. He knew he’d get those raccoon-eye bruises
from this. And he knew how pathetic he’d
look. Some people could pull off that
battered, I’m-a-bad-ass, you-should-see-the-other-guy look, but he wasn’t one
of them. It would be awhile before he
could score chicks again.
That
freak. That credit card freak had known
he was there. Tracking him somehow. The Outsourcer tried to review the sequence
of events, but his puffy, marshmallow consciousness could only recall
starbursts of pain.
“This
way. Down this way,” a familiar voice
came from someone. The Outsourcer peered through a seam in the cubicle
paneling. The Union ,
and that irritating credit card guy, were striding up the hallway on the other
side of the wall. Coming right toward
him. There was some sort of gun in the
credit guy’s hand. A yellow light on the
gun blinked repeated. As they came
closer a red light ignited accusingly.
The
Outsourcer’s mood flared, matching the fiery red of that damnable flashing
light.
They were tracking him.
The bastards.
That was
cheating!
6.u.
“Let’s try
something different this time,” said Commander Credit. How about we all go on the offensive? Not
just me.”
His comment
was met with looks of bitter assent and the Union fanned
out into practiced positioning, ready to engage preplanned maneuvers.
Franklin Buck
had to fake it.
Commander
Credit pulled open the panel and Corporate Man lunged through the opening. But there was no one behind the wall. Business Woman and Senior Executive spun into
defensive postures, facing empty hallways, expecting panels to shift and
Outsourcer proxies to pour in.
“I don’t get
it,” said Commander Credit. According to
this reading, we’re right on top of him.”
There was a
subtle shift in the stance of each Union member. Their attention turned to the ground beneath
Commander Credit’s feet.
No one
breathed.
They shifted,
ninja-like and in unison, positioning themselves around Commander Credit. Corporate Man and Business Woman leaned down
and carefully felt for a trap door; a secret panel.
Senior
Executive and Fair Wage arranged themselves behind Business Woman. Supply and Demand acted as backup for Corporate
Man.
Franklin Buck instinctively took up the covering position for Commander
Credit in case the attack came there and felt proud of himself for doing so.
Corporate Man
found a seam in the industrial carpeting and mouthed a countdown to Business
Woman. On three he tore the carpeting
away and Business Woman lurched forward, fists cocked.
But there was
only sub-floor and glue remnants beneath the carpet.
“Jesus you
guys,” said Franklin Buck. “Made my ass all
clenchy with that–”
The ceiling
panel above Commander Credit shattered and The Outsourcer dropped onto the
shoulder of the cybernetic arm, hammering with fists and feet. He snatched the greed-gun, leapt onto Senior
Executive, delivering a kick to Business Woman on the way. He chopped Senior Executive on the neck while
thrusting a foot into Corporate Man’s chest, then dove onto Fair Wage, smacking
both Supply and Demand while in mid air.
The Outsourcer
wrapped his legs around Fair Wage’s throat and shouted, “Don’t move or I’ll
snap his neck.”
The Union
froze.
Cautiously,
The Outsourcer examined the greed-gun, tightening his choke hold when Fair Wage
tried to move. Then he sniffed the
air. His eyes pinched with a sudden
realization and he snuffled the greed-gun, an enthusiastic chortle escaping his
throat.
“I know what
this is,” he said in an oily voice.
Fair Wage
groped at the legs wrapped around his neck.
The Outsourcers nonchalantly reached down and flicked Fair Wage’s nose.
“I know what’s
in here,” he said and slammed his fist into the toy gun.
Corporate Man
and Business Woman surged forward but The Outsourcer tightened his leg-grip and
hissed, “Back! Back!”
The small,
runty man fished the greed chunks out of the ruined toy gun and held them like
a fistful of dirty dollars.
“I wondered
what happened to him,” said The Outsourcer, jostling the pieces as if
estimating their weight. “Do any of you
truly comprehend what it is that you’ve brought here?”
The Outsourcer
unclamped his legs and yanked on Fair Wage’s hair. The old man screamed but his call was
silenced. The Outsourcer forced the
remnants of The Greed into Fair Wage’s mouth.
It was like
cookie dough mixed with hair and mashed up spaghetti squash. It tasted like filthy pinched pennies and the
greasy collar sweat of unscrupulous financiers. It stank of exploitation and cow manure.
A dozen
cubicle walls flew open and a score of Outsourcer stand-ins rushed into the
corridor slapping and hissing. The
ensuing struggle between the Union and the Outsourcers
was violent and brief. This was not
because one side decisively triumphed over the other, it was because the fight
was merely a diversion set up to grant the actual Outsourcer his escape. The altercation was cut short when a near
seismic gurgling noise erupted somewhere deep within the body of Fair Wage.
6.v.
He wasn’t
quite sure if he could hear the sound through the microphones of his
surveillance system or if his mind simply imagined it from the reactions of all
the people on his monitor screen. It
didn’t matter. The Big Bossman had heard
that sound before and understood what it meant and the utter terror it
inflicted on those in the vicinity.
And he smiled.
The next part
would be entertaining, he was sure. Lots
of panicked fleeing and property damage.
The inevitable loss of life; perhaps even some limbs.