The Procurers

The others had left for the night. In the unusual, relentless silence of the abandoned office I felt like a character in one of those post nuclear-apocalyptic films in which everyone else has disappeared. Except he was there, of course, fossilizing in his cubicle as I knew he would be. They always decided that I should be the one to negotiate with him, to plead whatever case needed to be made. He would just be condescendingly opinionated with me, it was agreed, whereas they’d all get a face full of enraged spit and phlegm. He had a soft spot for me, apparently: a blind spot, the others often joked. None of that bothered me much either way since I liked Karen and didn’t want to see her get axed so I promised them that I’d speak to him after work; which was now.
“I think we should give Karen another chance.” I told him from across the room.
He said, "You know your trouble, you don't live in the moment. Too much thinking, not enough action. That's why I'm top man now and you are still who you are."
I hate being criticized by a half-human half toad whose motto is 'I belch and fart therefore I am'. But that’s the way it is. How he had risen to a position of such eminence was a mystery to me, lost in the folds of Time's great diaper and secured in place with an enormous safety pin.
“Firing her is going to kill her,” I said flatly.
“ Justifiable homicide.” He replied. “Listen; she's a menace to business; she's the reason accountants leap off window ledges. She’s too old. We need fresh juice.”
I bit my lip. At the death, I suppose I’d always known she’d get canned. She was the type. She had that look about her: the scrap heap beckons.
"Don't worry, I'll do it gently,” he continued. “I'll mumble something about how it was really our fault for hiring her when she didn’t have the proper experience. She’ll be okay. Women always are."
What did he know about woman, this frog-faced oaf who kept an industrial strength wife at home drugged up to the eyeballs with department store charge cards and unlimited Prozac?
One last try: “We’ll never find someone else for the same money.” I said.
He sniffed. “I could throw this paperweight out of the window and hit a zillion other girls who fall to their knees for the opportunity.”
“I suppose, but.”
“Sympathy.” He explained, “Is like the vampire. You have to stake the bastard before it starts feeding on your mind. You don’t want to end up like one them, do you? You know what I mean.”

Comments

[DarkoV]

So this is where all the characters from the now defunct "Star Wars" series go. Your office. This actually sounds interesting. Made up characters with invented flaws and physical attributes slugging it out 9:00 to 5:00, with the rest of us.

[stephenesque]

Everyone in my office is already Darth Vader. At least they all speak like him. And some of the girls look unfortunately like that big horrible furry thing whatever it is called.

[Bleak Mouse]

DarkoV seems to be pushing you prematurely towards the "fake but accurate" defense. I have always taken your work to be entirely factual, based on months, sometimes years, of exhaustive research, with even the most reputable sources checked and re-checked -- and rejected if the merest shadow of a doubt remains. This is Integrity. This is Truth.

"That big horrible furry thing"? Paging Dr Freud.

[stephenb]

"Nothing is true. Everything is permissable" - Hassan i Sabbah, as quoted by Turner in 'Performance'.

[Bleak Mouse]

True, but "Nothing is untrue" is true, too. As to everything being permitted, I had a girlfriend in college who felt that way, but we broke up for some reason -- probably because THAT was permitted, too. Ah, youth.

(On what grounds, then, did Turner divorce?)

[DarkoV]

Wait a minute here, Mr. B. Quoting the original assassin is now considered as a valid guideline for one's life? Wasn't this Hassan ibn Sabbah character also the fine fellow who encouraged his followers to sacrfice themselves so they could be free? Of course, his own self-sacrifice was unneccesary since he had reached his own personal freedom.

As far as pushing you into any defense, Bleak Mouse is correct as far as the "pushing" aspect goes. Dodging in and out of the perceptions, interceptions, and conceptions that you daily leave us with sometimes leaves me holding onto the rail of reality. Swooning is just not my forte; pushing hopefully slows down your roller-coaster enough for me to distinguish the 3 dimensional characters from all of the other dimensions.