Addendum 30

            A white powder, tinted a slight shade of dirty, desirous green, disappeared up the nose of man in a suit so expensive that its cost would easily match the monthly income of all of the man’s subordinates.

            “Tear it up!” another similarly dressed man shouted.  A roar of approval from all the other well-attired executives filled the room.  One woman slid a needle into her arm and injected a heavy dose of Bonus.  She slumped in her chair and shuddered; bass-heavy trance music pulsed from top-of-the-line speakers.  Two men were dancing on the conference table in front of her.  One could not perceive the room and thought he was dancing in a shower of gold.  The second man was grinding on the first man’s leg in a way that was a little bit professional stripper, and a whole lot labrador retriever.

             There were stacks of cash everywhere, golden plates piled with powder, and ampoules of Bonus filled Dublin Crystal buckets.

            No one heard the metallic click as a key unlocked the door, but when it opened they all turned to holler a greeting to Corporate Whore and her new recruit, Donald Jackson.

            It took a few moments for those in the room to realize that two men had walked in.  The less inebriated were shocked to see that one of these men was Jack.  That he was among them, strolling around, and all this Bonus was lying out.  The others giggled and thought it was extremely cool of Hallucination Jack to join the party.  He really was the best, wasn’t he?

            Jack shook his head.

            Half the party trembled.  The others thought that cool guy Jack was doing some sort of dance.

            Jack turned and said, “Lock the door.”

            The man that had come in with Jack did as he was asked.

            “Good idea, Jack,” one of the overly inebriated men said.  “Keep out all the riff-raff.  So they can’t get to our Bonus.”

            “Everyone, please take a seat,” Jack said.

            Those furthest from sobriety eagerly sat.  Not all of these individuals believed that Jack was going to show them a really trippy video, but a majority of them did.  Those who had yet to overindulge, and those already settling back into normal mind space, took their seats in terror.

            “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind this little interruption, but I felt that an intercession was vital to the company’s future. This is my new associate,” Jack said, gesturing toward the man he’d come in with.  “He’s called Junior Executive.”

            Junior Executive nodded toward the conference table.

            “Hey!  That was my promotion!  Did you hire outside the company?” a twitchy executive said.  Jack ignored him and seconds later the twitchy man was distracted by his own fingers.

            “Junior helped me set this up,” Jack continued.  “The special chairs…” Restraints snapped into place on the armrests of all the chairs, locking the executives to their seats.  “The reinforced doors and windows that will prevent your escape.  The cameras, hidden in the walls to document everything that goes on in this room for the next several days.”

            Shrieks escaped the throats of those sober enough to comprehend Jack’s words.  Those who remained silent wondered when Jack was gonna start the movie already.

            “You can’t do this!” a suit shouted.

            “Why not?”

            “It’s… It’s illegal.”

            Other suits backed up the first.  “Yeah.  Against the law, Jack.”

            “And unfair!”

            Jack shrugged and said, “Should the authorities visit this room, whom do you think they’d accuse of wrong doing?”

            “We did nothing wrong.”

            “Really?  All these drugs, all this cash?”

            “All we did was make money,” one of them said.

            “Yeah,” chimed another. “Like good Americans.”

            “You made money by exploiting your subordinates,” Junior Executive said.

            “That’s what bosses do.  They leverage those beneath them for financial gain.”

            “No,” said Jack. “That’s what short sighted money grubbers do.  Any manager or executive worth anything takes care of his or her workers.  Treats them well, helps them succeed.  Those workers will come to the job motivated.  You idiots are asking them to do extra work with no additional compensation.”

            “You make their work-lives worse,” said Junior Executive.  “Who would possibly be motivated to work harder if the only reward was more work?  Upper management reaps the benefits of the extra effort in the form of big fat bonuses.  Only you bonus junkies could possibly believe that anyone would want to work harder so you could accumulate more.”

            “That’s just what happens when companies get big,” one of them said.

            Jack shook his head, “No. It happens because shitbags like you get greedy.”

            “Hey, if it’s possible, then you should do it.  Nothing wrong with making big money.”

            “You’re almost right,” said Jack.  “I’m a very wealthy man.  I made, and still make, an obscene amount of money.  But I don’t have to be subhuman to do it.  There’s a point where you do not need any more money.  And far beyond that is a point where it’s simply monstrous to continue to horde wealth while others are scraping by.  While people are sick, and starving, and dying.”

            “It’s not our fault that some people choose to be poor.”

            “Choose?” Junior Executive said.  “You think they chose to have people like you steal money from them?  For big businesses to buy politicians and get laws passed that further benefit the wealthy?”

            “Not my fault if they aren’t smart enough to earn money.  That they keep popping out kids and smoking crack.”

            Jack smiled.  “You think it’s easy to just pull yourself out of squalor?  Simply get yourself educated when you come from nothing?  To kick a habit and rebuild your life without anyone to help you?”

            Up until the final sentence, the seated executives were nodding their heads.  But this last question rang a little differently in their ears.  Perhaps it was the piles of highly addictive powder, or the ampoules of habit forming narcotics, or that earlier mention of cameras in the walls.  Whatever it was, things began to click into place for most of the men and women strapped to the chairs.

            Jack nodded at Junior Executive.  Junior walked to the door, unlocked it, and held it open.

            “There’s a sink in here,” said Jack.  “So you won’t die of dehydration.  Unfortunately I can make no assurances, especially with a crop of individuals such as yourselves, that you will all survive what is to come.  For those of you who do make it through, you will have a chance to rebuild your lives.  You will be given new identities.  Criminal backgrounds, low credit scores, poor work histories.  Then you’ll see how easy it is to make something of yourself when the cards are stacked against you.”

            Jack turned and walked out of the room.  Junior Executive followed.

            All exits were then barricaded and the restraints on the chairs released.

            It took some time for the howling to begin.

            It took even longer for it to stop.

            

Addendum 28

            Las Vegas. 

Thursday evening.

            Corporate Whore paced her hotel suite.  Her hand was powdered white and her pupils danced around in a manner which they were not biologically intended to.  Her heart rate, if she could be bothered to check such a thing, was dangerously high.  If not for the euphoria dazzling every circuit in her brain she might be uncontrollably homicidal. 

            Pink Slip had not only failed to bring her Donald Jackson, but she hadn’t reported back at all.  She’d disappeared.  Unprecedented!  Unfathomable!  And lots of other exclamatory un-words her brain might be able to produce were it not so amped up on Bonus.

            The weekend’s festivities were scheduled to begin in a few hours.  Executive weekends often began on Thursdays and ended late on Monday night.  The board would expect Donald Jackson.  The Shareholders too. 

            There was a soft knock at the door.

            Good.  That would be room service with her breakables.  She’d ordered several bottles of champagne and dozens of glasses.  If that did not sate her urges she would ask for plates.

Addendum 23

            There was something about the Executive Lounge that Corporate Whore found distasteful.  Even after the expensive remodel with the elaborate columns and waterfall walls, an air of judgment still clung to place.  It was like Jack’s ghost hovered around in here, repulsed by the shady business tactics on display and the voracious corporate greed that gripped the entirety of Great American Business Company’s executive team.

            The Waterfall Walls were her idea, parenthetically.  Dual paned, tempered glass, with rivulets of a slightly azure water endlessly cascading down from the ceiling to the floor.  She’d argued for drainage leading to the sewer, but lost that fight to the recycler-pump pussies.  True, the amount they saved on water had a slight effect on her bonus, but she still felt that the added expense was worthwhile.  Perhaps that Jack-specter wouldn’t have lingered in a space so blatantly wasteful. 

            “Is that you, Whore?” one of the man-zecutives asked from the other side of the water-blurred glass.  They knew she despised the truncation of her name.  She thought she’d trained them better than that.  Perhaps this one was new.  Or maybe someone felt the need to be made an example of.

            “So, what do you think?” she asked the room as she stepped into the lounge area.  There was Mr. Truncator, in the love seat.  Young and smug, obviously overcompensating.  “Has the subtle blue lost its appeal?”

            Conversations in the room halted.  The young one looked around, trying to mask that jittery electric feeling that just lit up his nerves.  When no one spoke up, she continued, “I think we need a change.  Something to invigorate us.  Something a bit more vivid.”

            She slid between couches and excessively comfortable chairs, oozing indirectly toward the love seat, toward the young one. 

            “Perhaps a shade of sapphire?” one of the older executives suggested.

            “That would be pretty,” she said, settling into the love seat.  “Though I was hoping something more symbolic.  Something to better illustrate the cutthroat nature of the business world.”

            Somewhere between the words cut and throat, a literal example of their combination occurred as Corporate Whore flicked her diamond card beneath the young one’s chin.  A spray of arterial red fanned across a waterfall wall and ran in red rivulets down the smooth glass.

            “Hmm.  That does look nice, don’t you think?” Corporate Whore asked, her gaze fixed ponderously on the dribbling fluid.  The young one spasmed on the love seat, waves of scarlet draining over his expensive suit, mimicking the waterfall walls quite nicely.

            “I think you may be on to something,” the older executive said, sipping a something dark and long legged from a brand snifter.  “Though, honestly, I come here for the tranquility.  In the board room, perhaps?”

            “I think you’re right,” Corporate Whore said, turning away from the spattered glass wall.  A low gurgle rattled around in the young one’s throat.  All those present associated the sound with the bonus increase that Corporate Whore had just netted them. The young one’s portion would be divided amongst them. 

Not equally, of course, but it would be divvied.

“So…” said another executive.  “Las Vegas.”

“That’s what they tell me,” the older executive said.

Corporate Whore had no idea what they were talking about.  Perhaps she’d missed a memorandum.  She hated be uninformed.  Still, she was not shy about asking the ignorant question.  Better than cowering under the pretense of foreknowledge.

“I’ve been away from my desk,” she said. “Bring me up to speed on this Las Vegas situation.”  How about that?  Not even a question.  More like a requisition.

“A retreat,” the older executive said.

Corporate Whore said nothing.  He was obviously fishing for a question about the nature of the retreat.  After her power play requisition, she was not going to lower herself to subordinate inquiries.

“Go on,” she said and thought she detected a slight grimace on the older executive’s face.  Nothing overt, just hint about the eyes and the corners of his sagging mouth.

Another executive chimed in, “It’s basically a full blown party weekend, plenty of Bonus to keep us lit for a week, but it’s being organized as a memorial to Jack.  Honoring his legacy and such.”

Who organized it, she wondered.  One of these twerpy suits?  Shareholders?  She shivered at the thought. 

“We’ll also be singling out your new recruit,” the older executive said.  “Donald Jackson was a real find.  I take it he’s one of us now.”

Corporate Whore nodded, “Hooked and fully on board.”

“The numbers do attest for his endorsement of the bonus structure.”

“And the two sick days should illustrate his chemical initiation.”

“True.”

“We heard he was quite upset.”

“That Pink Slip intervened.”

“What would you expect from a strong minded business man?” she said. 

“Well, if he’s not one hundred percent convinced yet, he will be after Las Vegas.”

Addendum 22

            Payday. 

            He still had two doses left when Corporate Whore handed him his pay packet.

            “I’ve already appropriated the twenty you owe me,” she said.  “You can run the numbers and double check me.  No doubt it will be the second thing you do.”

            She turned, not waiting for a reply, and walked out.

            Corporate Man shut his door and ripped open the package.  Several vials and small bottles spilled across his desk, glittering like emeralds.  His heart sang at the sight.  Then he gathered them greedily, tucking them away in secure locations.  Once this was done he sat in his chair, got out his syringe, and stabbed the needle into the rubbery cap of the green bottle measuring out one of the remaining two doses.

            He stuck his arm, injecting the Bonus, and quivered as it raced through him.  He lost track of his body feeling instead like a jellyfish electrified by its own stinging tendrils.  Spasms tossed him about like eddies in a tide pool.  When it was over he collapsed in his ergonomic office chair, arms spread wide, neck practically pouring over the back of the seat.

            The office door clicked open and he sat up with a start.

            “Oh. So sorry, Mr. Jackson.  Just here for the trash,” said a vague blur of a man standing in the doorway.  “I can come back later.”

            “No.  No, Uh…”

            “Hector.”

            “Hector.  Yes.  That’s probably right,” said Corporate Man slowly regaining focus.  “Been a long week.  Just catching a little cat nap.”

            “I understand, Mr. Jackson,” Hector said, approaching the desk.  “You work so hard and it’s Friday.  Time to relax a little.”

            “Boy you said it.”

            Hector’s face came into focus.  In the instant before the chemical-damp cloth clamped over Corporate Man’s nose and mouth, he thought he recognized that face.    

Addendum 21

         

            He had his pants around his ankles, to throw off anyone who came into the bathroom and peeked under the stall door.  He had a needle in his arm, the plunger pushed all the way down.  This was the last of his supply.  Hot wet bliss washed over him and he writhed on the toilet seat, hands clawing at the stall walls.  He would regain his senses momentarily, but for now there was no time, there was no place, there was no Corporate Man. 

There was only Bonus. 

Sweet luxurious Bonus.

            His head lolled back and his feet twitched.  And then it was over.  He pulled up his pants and went back to his desk.  He called Betty into his office and informed her that, with Tess leaving, he was going to have to increase her work load, almost double it in fact.  She didn’t cry.  Not yet.  He admired her for that.  She would save those tears for her cubicle.  She didn’t protest either and for that he detested her.  No spine.  Perhaps she deserved this.  And maybe it would help her in the long run.  Make her stronger.  Yes.  Despite everything, he was still doing good work.

            The itch came upon him near the end of the day, followed by slight tremors.  His mouth went tangy and his spit went thick.  Payday was three days away.  There was no way he could make it that long. 

            He paced his office for twenty horrible minutes.  He chewed his nails and scratched at his neck.  Several times he took his shoes off.  His socks were damp.  Things were wiggling between his toes.  He was sure of it.  But when he took his socks off there were no worms, no beetles, no fleas.

            He blinked at the light and at the sweat trying to run into his eyes. 

            He blinked and his office was gone.  He was in cubicle land, marching toward the bosslady’s office.  Toward Corporate Whore.  He didn’t bother knocking when he arrived.  Part of him hoped that she would jump a little when he burst in on her.  She did not.  She was behind her desk, arms crossed, staring at the door.  As if she expected him.

            “I was expecting you,” she said.  “You lasted a lot longer than I thought you would, actually.  Where are you shoes?”

            “In my office.  With the sock worms.”

            “The what?”

            “Fleas, spiders, whatever.  Don’t try to confuse the issue.”

            “And what issue would that be?”

            “Bonus.”

            “Yes, I meant to commend you on your work.  This paycheck should see our largest bonus yet.  Thanks largely to you.”

            “I’m out.”

            “Pity.”

            “Look, I’ve done my job.  I need you to front me a little to get me by.”

            “So let’s negotiate terms.  What’s a reasonable rate of payback?  Two to one?”

            “That robbery.”

            “That’s capitalism.  The law of supply and demand.”

            “Right.  What I wouldn’t give for their help right now,” Corporate Man muttered.

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “Nothing.  Two for one.  It’s a deal.”

            Corporate Whore smiled and slid open the top drawer of her desk.  She produced a small green bottle between her thumb and index finger.  “There are ten doses in here.  You owe me twenty on payday.  Which shouldn’t be a problem.  I’ve seen the figures.  Even after you pay me back you’ll have more than enough for the next two weeks.”

            Corporate Man grabbed the bottle and stormed back to his office.  

Addendum 19

            The light flashed from pink to one-hundred watt white as Corporate Man’s eyes snapped open.  He was staring directly at the bulb of his desk lamp.  Other than the painfully bright light he felt wonderful.  Confident.  Ready to take on the financial world. 

            He sat up.  His head didn’t even ache and his mind was clear; razor sharp.  On his desk was a yellow legal pad.  Frantic notes and tables scratched across line after line.  He flipped through the pad.  There were dozens and dozens of pages filled with his handwriting.  An overly excited version of his handwriting, but his handwriting nonetheless.

            His hope that these notes might contain some brilliant plan, some strategy he could use to take down Corporate Whore, faded quickly.  The word “bonus” appeared frequently and several graphs and tables looked like percentage calculations based on decreasing payroll hours. 

            Corporate Man read through them.  What he found both sickened and delighted him.  The unscrupulous nature of the work was distasteful, but the wily innovation was admirable.  The ideas would not only work, but many of them could be implemented within the next or two.  The Bonus increase on his next check would–

            What was he doing?  He needed to get out of this situation.  He needed to take down Corporate Whore.  He needed some more Bonus.  The cravings wouldn’t stop.  He understood that now.  What he needed to do was build up tolerance to the stuff.  That would work right?  Just get used to it and then he could function better.  And if he could build up a supply then he wouldn’t be reliant on his paycheck.  In order to do this he’d have to increase his bonus percentage. 

And fast.

Addendum 17

            Corporate Man sat at the desk in his Donald Jackson office, mind whirring like a cash counting machine.  It had been over an hour since the bosslady sent him out of her office.  In that time he should have been able to come up with a clear strategy to take her, and that butcher Pink Slip, down. 

            So far… nothing.

            So far the only things he’d been able to keep his overly active mind focused on were ways to trim hours in his department.

            So far the best he’d come up with netted only a three percent increase in four weeks.  Would that be enough?

            He slapped his face and shook his head.  Focus!  He needed to alert Miss Pension about the situation.  Maybe get the Union in here to clean up this mess.  No.  He had time.  If he could just focus on this Corporate Whore situation he’d have it fixed by the end of his shift today. 

            What if he told Tess that he needed her to resign?  Told her that it was all part of his plan for Great American Business Company.  It would free up another forty hours.  What kind of increase would that generate in the bonus structure?  His fingers flew across the ten key, receipt tape clacking out the callous percentages.

            He ripped the paper from the machine, crumpled it quickly, and tossed it into the trash.  Why was he wasting time with such thoughts? 

Focus!  Come on!  Focus.

If Tess left the company then all her work would be dumped on the others.  One of them would surely crumple under the strain.  He or she might ask for a reduction in hours, or quit outright.  That would–

ARRRGH!  Focus!

He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and left the office. 

He would go back to his apartment.  He would place a call to Miss Pension ahead of schedule.  He’d get all available Union members on this.

As he walked to his car the euphoria of the drug called Bonus noticeably diminished.  It was like the moment when prolonged hunger finally turns to nauseous pain.  He patted the pocket of his suit jacket, almost absentmindedly. 

The pouch of money was there.  And the syringe. 

He felt comfort in this.

Twenty-five minutes later he was home, phone in hand, knuckles white, several digits of Miss Pension’s special line dialed in.  His breath was ragged in his chest and cold sweats appeared on his brow, his palms, his feet.  Even his upper lip. 

            He put the hand set back in the cradle, walked to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and rubbed the back of his neck.  His hands started to shake and a chill set in.  He needed to call someone.  To get some help.

            This was going to be rough.

            And gross.

            This was going to be worse than last time.  This might kill him.

            This was entirely avoidable. 

            He needn’t shoot up.  All he had to do was finger the money in that envelope.  Direct contact with the powder that laced those bills would set him right.  Then he could focus on the task at hand.  Get a call in to Miss Pension.

            No.  He couldn’t do that.  Couldn’t let her see him like this.  Addicted.  No he needed to suffer through this by himself.  The indignities he was about to face were all but unbearable.  And super gross.

            And he needn’t face them at all.  Just one little touch.  Simply run a fingertip across one of those powdered bills.  That would fix him up.  That would stop the nausea, the pain, the shakes.  All of it. 

            But it would start again later.  He knew that.  Might as well get it over with now, right?  Suffer the withdrawal.  Get clean.  But there was Pink Slip to consider.  He would be too weakened to fend her off.  What if she came when he was bent over the toilet retching?  His head might end up in the bowl.  Drowned or decapitated.

            He sat on the toilet seat and rubbed his eyes and tried to think.

            When he opened his eyes again he was on the couch, syringe in hand.  Light glinting seductively off the greenish fluid inside the glass cylinder.  Corporate Man was so shocked by the sudden switch that he nearly dropped it. 

            He rolled the syringe back and forth between his fingers.  This was stupid.  He didn’t even know how to do this properly.  How hard could it be?  Just find a vein and go for it.  He shook his head.  No.  He was no junkie.  He was Corporate Man.

            Cramps doubled him over and his bowels nearly let go of their festering contents.  He itched and he ached and, above all else, he yearned for that greenish fluid.

            Just this once.  Just use it to get well and take that whore out.  Just find a vein and slip it in and–

            A prick of pain flared in his arm, just below the elbow.  And the needle was in.  His thumb pressed on the plunger and a few milliliters of Bonus scorched his veins.  It felt like fire, like electricity, racing up and down his arm.  He nearly screamed, but the pain was gone almost as soon as it had come.

            The ecstasy, the absolute dirty pleasure of it, raced to every extremity of his body.  It was as if all his cells were humming, were vibrating like crystals.  His vision blurred, replaced by unlimited golden light.