“Cashtushy!” I barked into the intercom on my desk at the offices of Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs. “Come in here. I need you.”
The door to my office flew open, and my personal secretary entered. “Yes, Mr. Carver? What can I… Mother of God what is that stench?!?”
“Hmm?” I said, staring openly at her heaving bosom. “Oh, that’s probably me. I work up quite a sweat coming back from lunch during these summer months. It’s hot as balls out there right now, you know.”
“No, that’s not B.O.,” she insisted, eyes wide with what might have actually been fear. “That’s…”
“Did I what?”
“Confound it, Cashtushy!” I said, pounding my fist on the desk. “Out with it!”
“Did you have… an accident?” she asked, blushing fiercely.
“What kind of accident? A car accident?”
“Geez,” she scowled. “No. The other kind.”
“No I don’t.”
“Did you mess your pants?”
I smiled broadly.
“Indeed I did, my dear. That’s actually why I called you in here — I’m going to need some cleaning supplies. And something to wrap myself in for the ride home. Maybe a tablecloth from the break room? Anyhow, please make this your top priority. That will be all.”
She left immediately, but that was an hour ago and I’ve begun to suspect that she has no plans to return. Oh well. As my father often said, “A man who relies on a woman is a goddamn moron.” So if she still isn’t back by 5, I’ll turn my drapes into a makeshift toga and head home. Certainly won’t be the first time, nor will it be the last.