Post by Jack of Blades on Jul 29, 2006 8:15:46 GMT -5
Here I sit in his clinical little room. Pictures of the kids playing together, posters reminding him to 'hang in', coffee mugs declaring his prowess in a certain subject. He was drinking out of his golfing trophy. That white mug that announced him as an insurmountable force in the golfing world.
Every few seconds he'd lift himself from his Rolodex, give me a cursory glance before returning to his wheel of golfing partners and socialite contacts. After more sips of his mug, he began to speak to me:
"So, uh, John, you've worked here for what, two years?"
"Two months."
"Right. We'll what you've done for us is great but looking back at it, I think it's time we cut our ties."
Today was a Friday, no wonder he was firing me now. Weekend to look forward, no chance of a scene.
"It's just that we're worried about your accent. It's too British."
"Well, I am British."
"Yeah, but when our customers ring, we want them to be greeted with the knowledge that they are ringing their own country. That the information we supply them is coming from a fellow countryman."
"I hide my accent."
"I know but around, the office, you know? Plus there's this staples thing and complains about your general appearance."
I take the walk of shame through the cubicles as my former co-workers look on, lifting the receiver away from them to acknowledge me as an alien entity within their comfortable workplace. Bridget flinches as I walk past as if to not be infected by petulant germs. I hear Dave ask her to work over-time and she agrees.
Leaving work mid-morning does have a good feeling. Of course, entering the nexus of a city ruled by criminality and apathy kind of represses that sense of accomplishment. Despite being asked for spare change multiple times on my venture, I make it to the train with a full-pocket. I enter the swinging gates and sit opposite to it. The train provides entertainment as I watch a woman try to enter with a heavy suitcase while maneuvering her husband his wheelchair. Luckily she doesn't notice the two-hundred-and-forty-four pound wrestler in front of her who could lend her hand. The train door closes without a wheelchair, a suitcase and a breathless woman. I spin off to my fate.
Jake was nowhere to be found at the apartment. I needed something to calm my nerves but as my tea reserves were depleted, I had to settle for some coffee from Jake's industrial size tin (given to his conquests in the morning.) I'd prefer tea but Jake had mistaken the leaves for something else and smoked them with some 'chica' he'd picked up at a greasy spoon cafe.
The coffee tin was of course, empty. Not a single grain. I lament the lack of caffeine as the phone rings. It's Sarah. She tells me to come over. Pre-empting why and based on the way the day was going, I'm guessing she just wants to break the relationship through the method of making me observe her sexcapades with some fireman who is extinguishing her burning loins.
I knock her door, it opens on its own as if taken from any kind of horror movie. It reveals a den of iniquity. Leather contraptions thrown across the place, roses petals on the bed, wax candles burning everywhere. Sarah in admist it all rushes me, kissing me on the neck. The amount of make-up she's wearing stains my skin as she pushes herself closer towards me. Dressed like a Babylonian hooker, she points out that she has four other kinds of lingerie and they all need to be used up. They all make her breasts visible under either a cover of silk or velvet.
I notice the 'Whips-Chain Fetish' magazine on her bedside table and realise the series of events that have gone through her pretty head. I try to explain but she assures me that 'It's alright.' Her petite hand slips below my belt as she drags me to the bed by her pants. She engages my lips with hers. Much more tongue then usual. Her legs wrap around my own in a move that would make Reckless Jack proud. She begins to chew on my ear as her finger and thumb pull down the zipper.
She causes me to thrust forward as she bites her lip in anticipation.
I feel like taking a scalpel to that lip and giving her my trademark smile.
She places an arm on my shoulder.
I want to do the same but bend hers in such a way it emulates a chicken wing.
She raises her head to mine to further the eye contact.
I imagine showing those blue eyes of hers every horror imaginable as a direct result of humanity's existence. War, famine, misanthropy, opportunism. And then gouging them out, so she's blind to any degree of happiness that would change her perception of the world.
We both begin to enjoy ourselves.
She whispers that 'whatever I want to tell her will be ok.' I want to tell her that 'I cursed an anorexic tramp, blamed her for the realities that life had dealt the both of us, deformed the only person who had shown her any compassion all because there was nothing better in this world to offer her.'
I should be repulsed and my actions. I'm not. I wasn't even integral in her eventual downfall. What I am repulsed in is that I want this meek secretary to enjoy the horrors I tell her. I want to convert her to whatever poison madness courses through my psyche.
I pull myself off the bed. She gasps and tries to pull me back. I knock the candles over in frustration, grab her by her fine blonde hair, force her to her knees, and give her the affectionate kiss she tried to goad out of me as I wrap a hand around her neck closing the windpipe. She splutters in my mouth and I throw her backwards over the beed. She lands, crying. I charge from her room to my apartment trying not to laugh.
I hear her weeping from next door and the sounds of concerned neighbours entering her abode. I lock the door so the angry mob doesn't decide to come a calling. Any collection of people devoted to a cause, at this moment, in time would cause me to vomit. I trip over the coffee table as I move towards the bathroom. I berzerk the medical cabinet looking for anything that will drive the thoughts away. I settle for water, splashing it from the tap onto my face.
It may wash away the sins, but it doesn't wash away the smile.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]...What a guy.[/glow]
Every few seconds he'd lift himself from his Rolodex, give me a cursory glance before returning to his wheel of golfing partners and socialite contacts. After more sips of his mug, he began to speak to me:
"So, uh, John, you've worked here for what, two years?"
"Two months."
"Right. We'll what you've done for us is great but looking back at it, I think it's time we cut our ties."
Today was a Friday, no wonder he was firing me now. Weekend to look forward, no chance of a scene.
"It's just that we're worried about your accent. It's too British."
"Well, I am British."
"Yeah, but when our customers ring, we want them to be greeted with the knowledge that they are ringing their own country. That the information we supply them is coming from a fellow countryman."
"I hide my accent."
"I know but around, the office, you know? Plus there's this staples thing and complains about your general appearance."
I take the walk of shame through the cubicles as my former co-workers look on, lifting the receiver away from them to acknowledge me as an alien entity within their comfortable workplace. Bridget flinches as I walk past as if to not be infected by petulant germs. I hear Dave ask her to work over-time and she agrees.
Leaving work mid-morning does have a good feeling. Of course, entering the nexus of a city ruled by criminality and apathy kind of represses that sense of accomplishment. Despite being asked for spare change multiple times on my venture, I make it to the train with a full-pocket. I enter the swinging gates and sit opposite to it. The train provides entertainment as I watch a woman try to enter with a heavy suitcase while maneuvering her husband his wheelchair. Luckily she doesn't notice the two-hundred-and-forty-four pound wrestler in front of her who could lend her hand. The train door closes without a wheelchair, a suitcase and a breathless woman. I spin off to my fate.
Jake was nowhere to be found at the apartment. I needed something to calm my nerves but as my tea reserves were depleted, I had to settle for some coffee from Jake's industrial size tin (given to his conquests in the morning.) I'd prefer tea but Jake had mistaken the leaves for something else and smoked them with some 'chica' he'd picked up at a greasy spoon cafe.
The coffee tin was of course, empty. Not a single grain. I lament the lack of caffeine as the phone rings. It's Sarah. She tells me to come over. Pre-empting why and based on the way the day was going, I'm guessing she just wants to break the relationship through the method of making me observe her sexcapades with some fireman who is extinguishing her burning loins.
I knock her door, it opens on its own as if taken from any kind of horror movie. It reveals a den of iniquity. Leather contraptions thrown across the place, roses petals on the bed, wax candles burning everywhere. Sarah in admist it all rushes me, kissing me on the neck. The amount of make-up she's wearing stains my skin as she pushes herself closer towards me. Dressed like a Babylonian hooker, she points out that she has four other kinds of lingerie and they all need to be used up. They all make her breasts visible under either a cover of silk or velvet.
I notice the 'Whips-Chain Fetish' magazine on her bedside table and realise the series of events that have gone through her pretty head. I try to explain but she assures me that 'It's alright.' Her petite hand slips below my belt as she drags me to the bed by her pants. She engages my lips with hers. Much more tongue then usual. Her legs wrap around my own in a move that would make Reckless Jack proud. She begins to chew on my ear as her finger and thumb pull down the zipper.
She causes me to thrust forward as she bites her lip in anticipation.
I feel like taking a scalpel to that lip and giving her my trademark smile.
She places an arm on my shoulder.
I want to do the same but bend hers in such a way it emulates a chicken wing.
She raises her head to mine to further the eye contact.
I imagine showing those blue eyes of hers every horror imaginable as a direct result of humanity's existence. War, famine, misanthropy, opportunism. And then gouging them out, so she's blind to any degree of happiness that would change her perception of the world.
We both begin to enjoy ourselves.
She whispers that 'whatever I want to tell her will be ok.' I want to tell her that 'I cursed an anorexic tramp, blamed her for the realities that life had dealt the both of us, deformed the only person who had shown her any compassion all because there was nothing better in this world to offer her.'
I should be repulsed and my actions. I'm not. I wasn't even integral in her eventual downfall. What I am repulsed in is that I want this meek secretary to enjoy the horrors I tell her. I want to convert her to whatever poison madness courses through my psyche.
I pull myself off the bed. She gasps and tries to pull me back. I knock the candles over in frustration, grab her by her fine blonde hair, force her to her knees, and give her the affectionate kiss she tried to goad out of me as I wrap a hand around her neck closing the windpipe. She splutters in my mouth and I throw her backwards over the beed. She lands, crying. I charge from her room to my apartment trying not to laugh.
I hear her weeping from next door and the sounds of concerned neighbours entering her abode. I lock the door so the angry mob doesn't decide to come a calling. Any collection of people devoted to a cause, at this moment, in time would cause me to vomit. I trip over the coffee table as I move towards the bathroom. I berzerk the medical cabinet looking for anything that will drive the thoughts away. I settle for water, splashing it from the tap onto my face.
It may wash away the sins, but it doesn't wash away the smile.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]...What a guy.[/glow]
