The Tragic Death of Corporate
Man
a hero for
capitalism;
champion of the
working class
by Tom Landaluce
Section 1:
Pee Pee Pants, Deal
Breakers, and Well Dressed Presidents.
1.a.
A long strand
of spittle dangled from his gaping mouth, dancing like a marionette, its
movements a slave to his labored breathing.
He was quite fond of the spittle.
It was so sparkly and stretchy.
So bouncy and jiggly. It was his
friend. A constant companion. A partner in the daily operations of his
life.
If the spittle
was his friend, then it stood to reason that the urine was his lover. She didn’t visit often, not daily anyway, but
when she did come around, a sudden warmth would spread across a certain place
in his pants. The place where his
dormant happy parts lived.
It was
ecstasy.
It was also about
the only thing he felt anymore.
Everything
else was numb.
The day seemed
like every other day to the man, though he hardly recognized one day from the
next. Someone had turned the light on in
his room, approached his bed in a gait intended to avoid startling, spoke in
soothing tones, removed his diaper, and cleaned the feces from his ass and
crotch. The man did not feel
embarrassment, instead he felt pleased that the diaper, his night time helper,
had been removed since the gathering around his legs always felt pinchy.
Once he was
clean he was moved from his bed to a wheel chair and rolled to the common room
to await breakfast. It was here that Mr.
Spittle usually popped by for a visit.
Today had been no exception.
After about forty five minutes, when Mr. Spittle was good and dangly, an
orderly arrived to take the man to the cafeteria for breakfast.
“Boy, that’s a
good, long one, Mr. Smith,” the orderly said.
Mr. Smith did
not recognize his name, nor did he recognize what names were. The orderly wiped the drool from Mr. Smith’s
chin.
Ooh… bye bye, Mr. Smith thought.
The orderly
pushed the wheel chair towards the door and Mr. Smith felt a rush of warm
delight spread over his lap.
“Pee pee
Pants,” Mr. Smith said. He often thought
this when she came to visit, but did not know why. This was the first time he’d actually spoken
the thought aloud.
Two thoughts
went through the orderly’s mind in rapid-fire succession. The first one was, “Uggh! You dirty, sick vegetable.” The second was, “Holy hell. Mr. Smith just said something.”
The thrill of
being present at such a momentous event almost caused a lapse in the orderly’s
own bladder control. But, instead of
peeing his pants, he let out a few excited whoops and flailed his hands near
his face. Then he sprinted off toward
the administration office.
Mr. Smith was
left, sitting in the warmth of his lover, muttering away in a tone that may
have been considered sexy by some. But
not many.
“Pee pee…
pants.”
His vision
shifted and he no longer saw the hospital.
He saw two men talking. He didn’t
comprehend what he was seeing though, just that the colors were loud; neon and
fluorescent.
1.b.
“Georgie we
can’t lose sight of the prize,” Ronald Regan said. He wore a powder blue sweater-vest over a
bright-yellow collared shirt with a hot-pink neck tie. He had no pants on. His briefs were white. And a little snug.
“I know, I
know. Trickle down. Let it trickle down,” George Bush said,
wiggling his fingers and pantomiming rain.
His tone and his gesture left no doubt in Ronald Regan’s mind that he
was being mocked. He did not appreciate
the tone, nor did he appreciate George Bush’s navy blue suit, though the zebra
print tie was nice.
“It works,”
Regan said.
“Not really.”
“Yes it
does. We trickle down just enough to
keep them alive but leave them hungry so they’ll have something to focus their
attention on.”
“Can you put
some pants on?”
Ronald Regan
shrugged and said, “Guess so.”
“Well, please
do. Press ever got a shot of this they’d
call us fags.”
“I’m sorry,
but it’s difficult. There are so many
options for color combinations these days.
Do I go with pink to match the tie, yellow for the shirt, or maybe mix
it up with some lime green?”
“White.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” said
George Bush.
“Doesn’t seem
too safe?”
“White
pants. White shoes. White belt.
And hurry up.”
“Okay, okay,”
Ronald Regan said. He pulled on a pair
of gleaming white slacks.
“Finally,”
Corporate Man called out, jumping down from above. “I hate fighting half naked men. The papers always skew the story when that
happens.”
The two
politicians nodded in agreement.
“Yes. I’ve seen the shots of you and FDR,” George
Bush said, his hands held in front of him in a pseudo-karate style.
“That was a
more innocent time,” said Corporate Man, adjusting his tie.
“How did you
get in here anyway? There’s only one
door and plenty of secret service. And
where were you hiding?”
“I snuck in,”
said Corporate Man, his tone slightly defensive.
“And where
were you hiding?” George Bush asked again.
“Up
there.” Corporate Man pointing in a
vague, upward direction.
“But there are
no rafters up there. No places to–”
Corporate Man
punched George Bush in the face, turned toward Ronald Regan, and said, “So
Ronnie, shall we do this the easy–”
But Ronald
Regan was already upon him, also dropping down from a vague upward direction,
calling out, “Trickle down! Trickle
down!” and wiggling his fingers as he fell.
Small bursts of light flashed at his finger tips, blinding Corporate Man
with a glaring yellow radiance.
1.c.
Mr. Smith’s
vision came back to him, easing from a brilliant yellow-white to the dull
antiseptic tones of the hospital.
“Hmmmm. Sparkly,” he said.
“You see that,
sir?” the orderly said. “He’s talking.”
“Yes, I hear
it, Jimmy. I’m not deaf,” said the
important looking man standing next to the orderly.
“Well, what
should we do?”
“We?
I have to make a phone call,”
said the important looking man. He
enjoyed injecting his speech with italicized words. It made him feel intellectually
superior. “You will do your
job. Which I believe involves changing this man’s urine stained clothing. That’s
what we pay you for, is it not?”
The orderly
sighed. “You know what… I get minimum wage–”
“Which means
you’re probably overpaid.”
“Look I–”
“Am no longer
necessary,” said the important looking man as he turned and walked out of the
room.
Jimmy yelled,
tossed his name badge into Mr. Smith’s lap, and stormed off. He returned a few moments later, picked up
his badge, and wheeled Mr. Smith away.
“Pee pee
pants. Pee pee pants!” said Mr. Smith.
“Yeah. I got it.
And you can stew in them for all I care.”
1.d.
The small,
spherical button on her office phone was blinking. It never blinked. Perhaps something was wrong with it. She would have to call tech support. Maybe they’d send out that cute techie again.
The phone
chirped. It was an impatient sort of
noise, and familiar; occurring whenever she left someone on hold for too
long. She looked at the phone,
puzzled. Then she shrugged and pushed
the spherical button. To her surprise it
depressed. She was so enchanted at her
cleverness that she nearly forgot announce her greeting.
“Incorporated
Business Corporation Incorporated.”
“The bull is
at the china shop,” a distorted, growling voice said from the other end of the
phone line.
“I’m sorry
sir, what was that?”
“The bull is
at the china shop.”
“I don’t
understand. How may I direct your call?”
“Just tell
him.”
“Who? The boss.”
“Yes.”
“And tell him what? That thing about the bull and the china
shop?”
“Yes.”
“Now was the
bull in the china shop because that’s
how that saying actually goes?”
“At the shop.”
“The one in China ?”
“No. Not in
China .”
“Then where?”
“Nowhere, just
a china shop.”
“Hmmm. Maybe you should start over.”
“Damn it to
hell!”
“Ooooh. Is Satan involved then?”
Click.
She shrugged,
pressed another, more familiar button on her phone and said, “Sir? That marble looking button on my phone
blinked and I spoke to a spooky voiced man who had a message for you.”
“What’s the
message?”
“Oh, well it
was all very exiting. The devil, who may
or may not be Chinese, is concerned with the whereabouts of a bull. Funny, I’d think a Spanish matador would be
more appropriate.”
“Ms.
Adams. To preserve your position with
this company it would be wise of you to state only that which the man actually
said. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what did
he say?”
“The first
thing he said was, ‘the bull is at the china shop.’ Puzzled, I said, ‘I’m sorry sir, I–’”
“And he used
the word at, correct?” said the
bossman.
“Yes. I questioned him about this as well and he–”
“Thank you Ms.
Adams.”
There was a
click. Ms. Adams frowned. Two hang ups in a row. She shrugged and then tried to look busy.
1.e.
So… The bull
was back, the bossman thought. This was
not good. Quite the opposite, in
fact. Bad, he told himself in case there
was any question. His ass puckered. Nothing pleasant ever followed an ass
pucker. He would have to end this
quickly.
The bossman
fingered the touchpad on his laptop, opened a chat window, and typed, <WTF?>
Though he
loathed instant messaging, which was the corporation’s preferred method of
communicating these days, he did enjoy a good abbreviated swear.
<what?> came the reply from username:
subordinate1.
<the gd bull and the mf china shop>
typed username: bossman.
<oh>
<yeah.
oh.>
<i’ll look into it>
That was
bullshit, subordinate1 already knew what was going on and the bossman knew it,
but since there had been no denial of knowledge a “bs” in the reply would seem
forced. Don’t bs me, perhaps? No, that wouldn’t do.
<you’ll tell me now> was the best he
could come up with.
<well, it seems that the budget cuts at the
hospital called for a reexamination of all patient care and an elimination of
extraneous treatments and since no one on the staff could recall exactly why
the bull was receiving daily dosages of ferdinandicil or what the medication
was exactly, they eliminated it from his drug regimen>
Many parts of
this reply pissed the bossman off. Most
of all was the use of the word extraneous.
<how could you let this happen?>
<not my department>
<what kind of bs answer is that?> The bossman smiled, pleased that he’d found a
way to work “bs” in after all.
<you know how this works, different divisions
work independently from each other and often arrive at contradictory policy
decisions, completely dicking over the other department>
Yes. He did know this. This was how corporate America
functioned, creating wonderful areas of inefficiency to exploit.
<what is your recommendation?> the bossman
typed.
<i think this is a deal breaker>
The bossman
gasped. They had worked on the
china-shop-bull project for nearly a decade now. Was it really time to step away and cut their
losses? But, were there, in fact, any
losses? He hesitated for a moment, and
then, positive in his decision and confident that there was no organic was to
work in another abbreviated swear, he simply typed <done>
1.f.
When Dale
picked up the phone a robotic voice politely asked him to hold. His jaw flexed, grinding his teeth
together. The hold music started. Poppy, boy-band drivel. A grunting sound escaped through his nostrils
and his eyes flared.
“Thank you for
holding. We do appreciate your patience
and will be with you shortly. Your
approximate hold time is four minutes.”
Dale
considered smashing the phone against the wall. Repeatedly.
After two
minutes, the message repeated. His
expected hold time was now two minutes.
Another two
minutes passed.
“Thank you for
holding. I am Lisa with Type-N-Talk
relay service. May I have your name
please?”
“Dale.”
“Thank you
Dale. Would you please verify your last
name for me?”
Again his jaw
flexed.
“Breaker.”
He hated that
name. The corporation had decided that
his name should reflect his position.
This brilliant decision came about after a public opinion survey
discovered that 72% of those polled enjoyed it when a person’s name matched his
or her occupation. His real name was
Donald but thanks to public opinion he was forced to change it to Dale Breaker,
The Deal Breaker.
Stupid.
“Thank you Mr.
Breaker. Have you ever used relay
before?”
“Yeah, I think
so. This is where someone on the other
line is deaf, or maybe a lazy computer geek with no social skills, right?”
“Pretty
much. Just pretend I’m not here and
speak as though your are talking directly to the person on the other end and
say the word ‘over’ where you’ve finished.
Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Breaker,
we are in need of your services. Over.”
“What’s the
job? Over.” Dale could hear a flurry of
keystrokes on the other end of the line.
“The bull has
been spotted outside the china shop. It
is time to break this deal. Over.”
“How did this
happen? Over.”
Typing sounds.
“Irrelevant. But if you must know, there were some
unforeseen budget cuts at his corral. Over.”
“Maybe if you
didn’t waste time and money with this relay service crap and called me
directly, the budget would not have been compromised.”
Keyboard
clacking sounds, followed by a long pause.
Then the operator said, “Is that an over?”
“What?”
“Were you
finished? You need to say ‘over.’”
“Uh,
yeah. Over.”
A few more
keystrokes.
“I’ll assemble
a committee to look over your proposal.
Meanwhile, keep me informed. I
want to know when the deal is broken.”
Dale winced at
the blatant corporate jargon.
“The caller
has disconnected,” Lisa said.
1.g.
The pee pee in
Mr. Smith’s pants was no longer a comfort.
It had been left unattended in all the commotion that resulted from Mr.
Smith’s outburst. He had declared the
current status of his lower region in clear and certain terms, the response to
which had been quite overwhelming, however the wet crotch which had nabbed such
attention had not yet been attended.
The irony was
lost on Mr. Smith.
He growled and
then glared at his lap. Then he growled
some more. He employed this tactic
several times without success. When the
effort failed once again he let out a whine, much like a dog with a full
bladder crying out for a master long overdue for return. Unlike the anxious dog the contents of Mr.
Smith’s bladder, long since released, were a problem only because it was cold
and soggy around his thighs at present.
Mr. Smith was
also hungry. He had not been wheeled to
breakfast but was, instead, returned to his room amidst a crowd of shouting
hospital administrators and doctors. The
clamor eventually died down with only the occasional raised voice passing by
his door.
Mr. Smith
wished Mr. Spittle would come by for visit.
But, with all the growling and urine, Mr. Spittle had stayed away.
There were
voices outside his door again.
“No. I’m sorry.
No one is allowed to see Mr. Smith.”
“And why not?”
“Ma’am I don’t
make policy. I just do what they tell
me.”
“I’m a close
personal friend.”
“You could be
his mother and I still couldn’t allow you inside.”
“Is this a
question of money?”
“No
Ma’am. And you best be on your way.”
“Sex then?”
“What?”
“Is it
sex? Will sex get me in?”
“Bitch you’re
crazy.”
“Come on. Just let me in.”
“No
unauthorized personnel to see Mr. Smith.
Period.”
Mr.
Smith. That was him, Mr. Smith
thought. At least that’s what everyone
was calling him. He didn’t feel like a
Smith though. And why was he now
comprehending himself as a named entity?
And just why was he in this hospital?
And for that matter, why–
“Oh oh oh,”
Mr. Smith said at the sudden, and very distracting, appearance of Mr. Spittle.
1.h.
“You’re not on the list of authorized personnel,
lady. So you are not getting in.”
“Are you sure
I’m not on there? Can I see the list?”
she said.
“Only
authorized personnel may see the Authorized Personnel List.”
“Would you
please stop quoting corporate policy to me?”
The security
guard cocked his head and said, “Would you please get yourself out of my face
and move along?”
“Check the
list. My name is Ms. Adams.”
She was
stalling. The money and the sex tactic
had not worked. It always worked in the
white collar world. The security guard
glared at her and lifted his radio phone to his mouth.
“Need an
authorized personnel check for a Ms. Adams.
Person in question is requesting entrance to Mr. Smith’s room.”
“Mike? You still at your post?” a voice came back.
“Of
course. This lady’s been–”
“Your lunch
started seven minutes ago. Go clock
out.”
“No one’s come
to relieve me yet, sir. And we have an
unauthorized–”
“Ramon called
out so there’s no coverage. Take your
break. Right now.”
“But sir,
there’s an unauthor–”
“My job is to
make sure you clock milkers take your breaks on time so we don’t go over on
hours. Are you trying to get me fired?”
The security
guard flexed his jaw. “No, sir.”
“Are you now,
presently, walking away from your post toward the time clock?
Mike shook his
head. After a moment he said, “Yes,
sir.” Then he shrugged, motioned Ms.
Adams toward the door, and stormed off down the hallway.
Ms. Adams
smirked and went into the room.
1.i.
Mr. Spittle
was so long and dangly that Mr. Smith didn’t notice the tall, dark woman enter
the room. Normally, he wouldn’t notice
someone catching fire but he seemed oddly perceptive today.
“So. Mr. Smith, is it?”
The voice
startled Mr. Smith and his sudden jerking motion sent Mr. Spittle flying.
“Oh. Bye, bye,” Mr. Smith said, forgetting about
the woman.
Ms. Adams
looked perplexed. After a moment she
said, “What would you say if I told you that ‘Mr. Smith’ wasn’t your real
name?”
There was no
response.
“What would
you say if I told you that we already know one another?”
Nothing.
“What if I
could help you escape?” What if I could
restore your memory? And what… What is that awful smell? It’s like a hamster cage… and fried eggs.”
“Oh. Oh no.
Mr. Poopy,” said Mr. Smith.
“No. You can’t be serious,” said Ms. Adams.
“Hate Mr.
Poopy.”
“You’re worse
off than I thought. We need to get you
out of here.” She stifled a gag. “Oh god, we need to change your pants.”
Ms. Adams
explained that they had less than thirty minutes to make their escape as she
wheeled Mr. Smith into the bathroom and pried off his sticky pants. She hosed him down with the shower’s
detachable head, patted him dry, and then asked him to dress.
Mr. Smith had
never been asked to do this and failed in the endeavor. Ms. Adams then assisted him.
“Look,” she
said, grabbing his shoulders, “I need you to come back to me. I need you to remember. Your name is not Smith. It’s Jones.
Don Jones.”
There was a
flicker in his mind.
“And my name
is Tanya Jefferson,” said the woman previously known as Ms. Adams. “The world calls me Business Woman. You are also know by another title.”
It was as if a
damp cloth was swiped across the dusty surface of his mind. Sharp wood grains and a gleaming brown veneer
appeared where once resided a gray, powdery haze.
“I’m… I’m
Corporate Man,” he said.
Business Woman
smiled. “Yes you are. Now come with me. There is much to be done. The economy needs you.”
1.j.
Dale arrived
at the hospital in a good mood. This job
felt important and he hoped there would be a substantial bonus in it. Maybe enough to buy a guitar or some really
nice bongo drums.
He opened the
door of the designated annex and walked toward the counter. A woman in starched, white linens perched on
the opposite side; a sour look on her face.
“Please state
you business,” the woman said from behind a panel of Plexiglas.
“I’m here to
see a patient,” Dale said.
“Which one?”
“The Bull.”
“Please
refrain from using nicknames.”
“Uh…”
The woman
scowled. “Name?”
“There’s
nothing there?” Dale asked. “The
Bull? No mention?”
There was a
long pause in which she simply glared at Dale, her head cocked ever so slightly
to one side. Then she resumed whatever
task had occupied her prior to Dale’s arrival.
“Oh. I know this.
Oh god. Shit.”
“Please
refrain from the use of blasphemies and obscenities.” She glanced up from her work. “Or obscene blasphemies.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Dale tapped his foot and leaned his head back, hoping that him memory would
jar.
“Loitering is
also frowned upon.”
“Hold on. It will come to me.”
“Sir, I–”
“Smith. Mr. Smith.”
Her eyes
narrowed.
An obnoxious
alarm blared and the locking mechanism on the door chunked open.
“Please report
to desk three. Have your credentials ready
and in order.”
Dale strolled
through the door, smirking. He
considered asking the woman what credentials he might need, but he winked at
her instead, figuring he would deal with the paperwork when he got the desk
three.
He would end
up visiting four departments, a total of seven desks, and talk/argue/debate/yell/plead
with nineteen different hospital employees while filling out ten forms, making
six phone calls, requesting two facsimile documents, and providing his three
forms of identification eight times in order to obtain three pages of
credentials deemed necessary to enter the wing of the annex building where Mr.
Smith was being held.
To say that Dale
was unhappy when he entered the annex would be like saying the United
States owed China
a couple of bucks. He was very much
looking forward to breaking this deal.
1.k.
“We’ve tried
that,” Tanya Jefferson – aka Business Woman – said to the man behind the
desk. “We followed the signs with the
‘red fives’ but ended up in a gift shop instead of at an exit.”
“I’m so
sorry,” the man said, lightly brushing the ginger colored fuzz of his upper lip
with his middle finger. The woman was
quite attractive and he hoped she might notice his thickening moustache and pay
him a much deserved compliment. “There
was a changeover in hallway labeling recently, but I’ve managed to get the
current key-code listing e-mailed to me.
So exits, once marked with a green letter E, changed last week to the
red five. It appears as though the
designation has changed again, this time to a brown two.”
“So we follow
the brown number twos?”
This was the
third time the woman had visited his desk today. She was obviously into him, and he’d always
had a thing for black girls. Why hadn’t
she mentioned his ‘stache yet?
“That’s what
it says, but if you run into trouble again… just come back here and find me.”
He leaned
forward and flashed his eyes in what he hoped was an attractive way. The woman smiled. Was this approval of his eye flash or did the
light suddenly glint off his facial hair, capturing her gaze with its lustrous
twinkle?
“Thank you…
Roger,” she said, glancing at his name badge during the pause between the thank
you and his name. Then she turned to her
companion –a male companion he noted, surprised by the jealousy– and motioned toward
the brown twos.
Roger was
delighted when the woman returned twenty minutes later. She was scowling. He found the severe expression very
seductive.
“Brown two,”
she said, pausing long enough for him to nod an enthusiastic gesture of understanding,
“marks pathways to several restroom locations.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I’m so sorry,
Miss…” he figured that it was time he knew her name.
“Not that it
matters, but you can call me Ms. Adams,” Tanya Jefferson said.
“Ms. Adams,”
he said, a shiver running through him.
“I apologize. Let me find out
what’s going on. I’m not supposed to do
this, but for you,” he winked, “I’m going to break protocol and phone upper
management.”
Roger pressed
and held a bottom on his head-set and said, “Code 58008… Yes, this is Roger at Help Desk Nine. I have a guest here who is having trouble
finding an exit… Oh no, red five was replaced with brown two according to this
morning’s e-mail, however, brown two seems to mark restroom locations… Oh…
yeah, very funny. Right. I know.
I think someone in corporate is being cute and paying themselves a lot
of money to come up with all these changes.
I know. Yeah, and how much extra
money do I get for all the extra work their on-a-whim changes create at my
level?”
“Roger?” Tanya
said.
“Oh, sorry,”
he said, clearing his throat. “So yeah. Where does the guest need to go to get
out of this place? Uh huh… Oh, okay… And
you’re sure about this? Thanks.”
Roger released
the button on his head set and said, “So as a result of follow up surveys and
comment cards, corporate has discovered that numerical labels were confusing to
our guests and even illegal according to certain building codes which require that
exits be clearly marked in specific ways.
Maintenance is, at this very moment, installing exit signs over all exit
doors and convenient exits signs with arrows to lead guests to those previously
referenced final exit signs.”
Tanya leaned
forward, her lips trembling –from repressed passion Roger assumed– as she tried
to smile, and said, “Could you kindly point us toward any one of these numerous
exit signs?
Roger winked
and lifted his hand slightly, gesturing toward an overall-clad maintenance man
perched atop an aluminum ladder, leisurely installing an exit sign.
1.l.
He had been
following this woman, this Tanya Jefferson, for what seemed like hours. Maybe it was.
He wasn’t quite sure. He had not
only accepted her claim that his name was Don Jones, but he thought he could
recall some moments of Don Jones life as well.
“Look, I know
this is only the first of many exit signs that you will be installing today,
but I need to know the location of the actual exit, the one that all these
signs eventually lead to,” Tanya said to the maintenance man.
“I don’t
know. I guess you could follow me as I
work and we’d get there eventually.”
“You don’t
know where the exit is?”
“There’s the
employee exit, but that’s through a restricted, ‘employee’s only’ area.”
“Take us
there, then.”
“Can’t. Employees only.”
“Come on. We’ve been trying to leave for–”
“Does he have
a schematic or something?” Mr. Jones asked.
He was shocked by the sudden appearance of the intelligent thought.
“All I got is
this Plan-O-Gram and I’m not supposed to skip ahead. These things are rarely correct, but if I get
the pages out of order I could never hope to get the job done right,” the
maintenance man said.
“What’s your
name?” Tanya asked.
“Jed.”
“Look,
Jed. We really need to get out of this building. So please, give me the Plan-O-Gram. Just for a second.”
“But–”
“I know it
makes you nervous,” Tanya continued, her voice velvet and honeyed, “but I used
to create Plan-O-Grams for a multi-million dollar corporation so I know what
I’m doing.
Jed
hesitated.
Tanya smiled,
pleasant and reassuring.
Jed handed her
the small stack of unstapled papers. He
bit his lip and asked, “So when those things are being drawn up, are the people
actually on site?”
“You’ve
probably seen dozens of these things, Jed.
I think you know the answer to that question.”
“Yeah. I always pictured a room with a bunch of
suits sweating it out over some graph paper, chewing on the erasers of number
two pencils. Never once having been at
the location they were planning out.”
“Oh Jed. It’s worse than that. Computers.
We plugged numbers into a computer and the computer calculated where
things ought to go. We didn’t even
double check the figures before we sent the plans off to the printer and I
think the measurements came from early blueprints, nothing from the actual
site.”
“Seriously?”
Tanya
nodded. “And we always held back the
final copies as long as we could so it would appear as though we spent a great
deal of time and effort working out every last detail.”
“I knew it!”
Jed shouted. “Always knew it was some
sort of bullshit like that.”
Tanya passed the
Plan-O-Gram back to Jed then grabbed Mr. Jones by the wrist and dragged him
down the hallway.
“It’s just up
ahead,” she said. “Right around the
corner.”
Mr. Jones’s
felt a stabbing pain in his temple and his vision flickered between color and
black and white. The familiar face of
Franklin D. Roosevelt replaced the image of the hospital corridor as the color
disappeared.
Seconds later
he saw the hallway and Tanya again.
Then black and
white. FDR in a large office.
Color. Tanya in front of him pointing toward a door.
Black and
white. A man in tights, his briefs on
the outside and a domino mask obscuring his face.
“Ew,” Mr.
Jones said.
Color. Tanya opening the door.
Natural light
surged into the corridor and a silhouetted form stepped forward; the piercing
light unable to illuminate his obscured, shadowy features. Tanya jumped back, narrowly avoiding a
roundhouse kick from the shadowy man.
The exit door closed and the man’s face became discernable in the
antiseptic glow of the hospital fluorescents.
Mr. Jones’s
vision strobed between color and black and white but the face he saw remained
the same in both fields of perception.
Somehow he recognized the man.
Deal Breaker.
Dan? Was that it? Deal Breaker Dan?
Then Mr. Jones
was completely overtaken by black and white imagery.
1.m.
“Your country
needs you, Corporate Man,” Franklin D. Roosevelt said. “I have a plan that will get us out of this
Great Depression, but there is some opposition.”
Corporate Man
adjusted his tie and slid a hand over his head to make sure his perfectly
parted hair was still lying flat.
FDR continued,
“The Greed is still out there. He’s
recruited some heavyweight players.
Political Indifference. Captain Apathy.
I can’t prove it, but I suspect he’s got his hooks into Elephant Man and
Donkey Lass, too. And he did something
unnatural to Bull Market. Turned him
against us. They call him Bear Market
now.”
“Jesus.”
“No, I don’t
think He’s involved, though we could sure use His help right now. Our top priority, though, is Deal Breaker
Dan. Word is that The Greed put him onto
us because of the proposal I’m about to unveil.
It’s called The New Deal.
Corporate Man, I can’t have this deal broken.”
“Don’t worry,”
Corporate Man said with a wink. “You can
count on me, Frank.”
1.n.
Color returned
to Mr. Jones’s vision.
Tanya dodged a
punch from Deal Breaker and then countered with a back-hand slap. This seemed to irritate Deal Breaker more
than hurt him.
“You’re not
getting him, Dale,” Tanya said. She
dodged another punch and brought her knee up into Deal Breaker’s chest. The wind gushed from his lungs and he made a
grunting noise. Tanya grabbed his hair,
yanked his head back, and chopped at his throat, but Deal Breaker brought his
forearm up in time to block. He shifted
his weight, wrapped his leg around Tanya’s knee, and rolled. They tumbled to the floor, Deal Breaker
coming out in a dominant position; striking.
“Dan?” Mr.
Jones called out.
Deal Breaker froze
in mid punch. Then he whipped around,
his eyes full of fury.
“She called
you Dale. Why am I remembering Dan?” Mr.
Jones said, rubbing his eyes.
“That was my
grandpa. Deal Breaker Dan.”
Dale Breaker
stood. Tanya’s limp form slumped against
the linoleum as he advanced on Mr. Jones.
“Do you recall
what you did to him you son of bitch?”
“I… No. All I remember is, Dan.”
“You don’t
even remember!” Deal Breaker roared and lunged forward. He clamped his hands around Mr. Jones’s neck
and squeezed.
Once again, color
vision gave way to black and white.
1.o.
FDR leapt over
the banister, his eyes wild; teeth bared like a feral dog. It was a three story drop to the lobby where
a group of, what he called, “goons” were amassed. A moment before he landed on top of them, he
screamed. The goons had time enough to
glance upward before the collision. They
did not have a chance to understand what it was that they saw before
unconsciousness claimed them.
Franklin
Roosevelt in a dark, formfitting singlet stretched over a bulging pair of light
colored tights. His face was hidden
behind a black domino mask. The letters
FDR were stitched across his chest and a metallic half-cape clung to his
shoulders and draped to the small of his back.
His feet were bare.
“Corporate
Man,” he yelled, his booming voice echoing throughout the corridors of the
hotel.
“I’m here,
Frank. Got a bullet in my side but I’ll
make it.”
“Where’s Deal
Breaker Dan?”
“Don’t
know. I lost him in the scuffle. Could be anywhere,” Corporate Man said.
“We have to
stop him this time. The people need the
New Deal. Our country’s future–”
Two gunshot
blasts cut FDR short and dropped him to the floor. Meaty wounds in his upper thighs spurted Roosevelt
juice all over the polished floor. Franklin
squirmed across the lobby tile, seeking cover, leaving a ragged gash of dark
across the white surface.
“Frank!”
Corporate Man screamed. He winced and
clutched his bleeding side.
“Oh I’m afraid
Mr. New Deal is in a bit of pain right now, Corporate Man,” Deal Breaker Dan
said, stepping out from the shadows of his hiding place. “Don’t worry, though. He won’t suffer long. You hear that, Roosevelt ? Your time has come. We’ve reached an impasse here. A deal breaker.”
Deal Breaker
Dan followed the bloody trail to the courtesy desk where it led behind the long
counter. Then it vanished.
“What the–”
Deal Breaker Dan said, snapping his head back and forth. A drop of blood struck his face and he looked
up just as FDR scurried over the banister above him. “How did you…”
FDR thudded
against the floor of the upper level. He
called down, “I have tremendous upper body strength.”
“Won’t change
the outcome of this, Delano . The country won’t get a New Deal. The Great Depression’s reign will continue,”
Deal Breaker Dan shouted. Then he turned
toward the elevators and walked right into Corporate
Man.
“People like
you are bad for business,” Corporate Man said delivering a viscous head butt. He lifted Deal Breaker Dan above his head and
then brought him down over his knee.
Deal Breaker’s spine cracked.
Grunts and wheezes struggled to escape his throat.
1.p.
Bright yellow
stars burned through the black and white.
Dale Breaker The
Deal Breaker was choking him. Mr. Jones
struggled to get free but could not dislodge his attacker’s hands. He tried to speak but talking was impossible while
his larynx was being crushed. Mr. Jones
bucked and thrashed but Deal Breaker held on tight.
“Oh, I’m
afraid this is it, Corporate Man. Do you even know you’re Corporate Man? Doesn’t matter. I’m about to break this deal and–”
Tanya boxed
Dale’s ears and kneed him in the face. One
of her eyes was swelling shut and blood from her nose smeared her mouth and
chin.
“You all
right?” she asked, though she didn’t actually risk a glance in Mr. Jones’s direction. She pounced on Deal Breaker and elbowed him in
the back of his head. His teeth and
tongue scraped against the floor. She
slipped a knife from her boot and brought it to his throat.
“No,” Mr.
Jones said, his voice raspy and strained.
“We have to
end this,” she said.
“You’re
right. But not this way.”
Tanya
reluctantly removed the knife from Dale’s throat.
Mr. Jones
leaned down in front of Deal Breaker.
The man’s eyes were rolling around but he was conscious.
“I broke your
grandfather’s back, didn’t I?” Mr. Jones said.
“You crippled
him,” Deal Breaker said. The words
stumbled from his mouth over a swollen tongue, two broken teeth, and a lot of
blood. “He couldn’t shit on his own
because of you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re
sorry? That’s it?”
“I can’t
change the past,” Mr. Jones said.
“Yeah?” Dale
said. “Well I can fix the future. I’m gonna break this deal.”
“What deal is
that? There’s no deal, Dale.”
Deal Breaker
narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. He winced as the jagged points of his broken
teeth punctured through. “But I… you know, the deal. I’m here to break the deal.”
“Dale, if
there’s a deal, I’m not part of it,” Mr. Jones said.
Dale’s head
sagged to the floor. “But what about the
bull? The china shop?”
Mr. Jones
shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. It was only a few short hours ago that I
rejoiced in the company of spit and my world revolved around the pleasures of
urination. The only contract I can see
in this situation is the one your grandfather accepted when he signed on as the
original Deal Breaker. You could fulfill
his function and break that.”
Deal Breaker
lifted his head and his eyes widened.
“Yeah. I… I guess I could break
that deal. That would be the ultimate
deal to break, wouldn’t it?”
“I think so,
Dale,” said Mr. Jones.
“Then call me
Donald. That’s my real name. And as of this moment the Deal Breaker deal
is off.”
1.q.
The chat
window on the bossman’s computer was open.
The bossman sat before the screen, breathing deep and slow. He counted backwards from ten. His office phone lay in pieces on the
floor. When he reached the count of one,
the bossman set his fingers on the keyboard and typed.
<he’s in,
gd IN!>
<the mf
bull is in the gd mf china shop>