“Good morning, Mr. Carver,” said Carver Consolidated Capital’s (C3’s) office manager Ms. Cashtushy as I hustled through the front door. “Can I—”
“No,” I said, brusquely waving her off. I then headed down the hallway, only to encounter my dimwitted VP of marketing Sherm Schweinbumser. His eyes blazed feverishly and he wore a moronic grin, both telltale signs that he was far too excited about something I couldn’t possibly care about.
“Morning boss!” he said cheerily. “Hey, do you have a second? I wanted to—”
“Absolutely not, Schweinbumser! Get back to work!” I thundered past him with determination until I reached the men’s room. Just as I was about to enter, my VP of acquisitions Bob Laudermilk opened the door from the inside.
“Oh,” he said, a dejected tone in his voice. “Hey boss man.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, transfixed by the sight of him. Several bandages covered the worst of the wounds he suffered during C3’s recent vulture attack, but plenty of scabby flesh was still visible. And of course, there was no disguising the black velvet patch where a jagged shard of flying glass had gouged out his left eye.
“Gah,” I said. “Um, that is, good morning Laudermilk. Blergh. First day back at work since the, erm, accident, is it?”
He shrugged and nodded. “Yeah. Listen, do you think—”
“Not right now,” I said, pushing past him to the restroom. “But set up an appointment through Cashtushy and we’ll meet then. Good to have you back.”
“OK. But I—”
The door closed behind me, mercifully cutting Laudermilk off. I walked to the double-wide handicapped stall at the back, but found it occupied.
“Who’s in there?” I demanded. The question was answered by a series of hisses. “Is that you Poodle?” Another, longer hiss. “Well, this is Mr. Carver. Come out of there right now or you’re fired!”
A second later, my IT manager Melvin Poodle skulked out with a GameBoy clutched to his chest. He started to hiss at me again, but I held my hand out and shook my head vigorously.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying! Now get back to work. And wash those filthy mitts of yours before you do!”
At long last I entered the stall and closed the door. Once I was sure Poodle was gone, I dropped my trousers and stared at my pelvic area, eyes widening in horror. “Oh no,” I said. “No no no no no no no! Not crabs! Not again! This is bullshit!”
OK, granted: A case of crabs isn’t the worst thing in the world. Regardless, it’s decidedly unpleasant and I’ll certainly be filing a Better Business Bureau complaint against Pete’s Poontang Emporium, I can tell you that much. First though, I believe some Quell is in order — ciao.
Front page photo source: Pixabay