posted on Apr, 29 2007 @ 11:46 AM
Mr. Green looks up from the file, peers at the flip chart and his raised eyebrow
indicates that he is interested in her action plan.
Actually, he isn't, but it's Friday morning and it's compulsory for the managers to
sit through this.
He folds his hands, not his arms, oh, that's a no-no and leans back in the chair.
He nods as Miss Brown points at something in red ink and taps the board with
her metal pointer .
She has a nice butt, she has kept her figure, no children, that's the name of the
Mr. Green turns his pen around slowly in hand, and glanced back at his file.
That's twice she's looked in my eyes and twice I looked down at my figures,
she thinks I'm following her and of course, in a way she is right.
Mr. Green reaches for his coffee, it is very creamy, but that's how the M.D likes it.
He strokes his tie, it's the blue one today, the one with Homer Simpson saying something. He likes to wear these things, the numb staff think your
children bought it for you, and therefore you have a happy understanding side and the creeps in this room think you're ice breaking with your staff,
solving problems together, blah blah blah.
Mr. Green lives alone. No children, no cute wife, alone. He has fifteen shirts, five light blue, five white, and five grey. His ties all say something
about him, but not the truth.
The real truth.
Mr. Green is a slayer of harlots.
Mr. Green's suits are all light grey, he wears sensible patent leather shoes and dark socks. His hair is clean and trim, just like the blonde wig
he'll be wearing later this evening.
The sleeves on his shirt are rolled up slightly indicating to the company that he is a 'hands on, get in there and push' type of guy.
In reality, his job was non-existent and after the buy-out, he had brown-nosed enough to keep his job.
The job was re-named and he remembered looking out of the canteen window watching those sad married fools making the last walk home.
He imagined their misery. In his mind, he saw their partner's face as they realised that the Spanish holiday was out the window. No Sangria, no burnt
shoulders and no embarrassing photos of your stretch marks.
Well, that's life in the big city.
Mr. Green clears his throat and lifts a finger to interrupt Miss Brown. She looks over her small spectacles, and points at Mr. Green.
"Yes" she snapped and Mr. Green saw her head being cut in half on his new Binford bench-saw in his garage.
" Miss Brown" (you always said the names, with a negative tone if you can),
"could you go over the figures for the second quarter? I need to regroom my equations." Miss Brown smiles and says " very good request"
Mr. Green wonders what she would say when she was hanging from her ankles and eating duct tape later this evening.
Miss Brown turns back to the flip board, Mr. Green squints down at his file and
gently taps his pen against the papers.
Mr. Green glances to his right at Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones works in acquisitions, he acquires for the company.
Mr. Green knew he also had acquired Miss Brown once, at the Christmas party.
Her hair dishevelled and her white suspenders all twisted and stretched.
Mr. Green would ask her about that... not now, later.
Mr. Smith sits opposite, he is a little younger than Mr. Jones and his clothes smacked
of a loose jet-set type of lifestyle. What a crock.
Mr. Green knows Mr. Smith is a closet transvestite. He has bumped into Mr. Smith
once at that little sordid club.
Mr. Green hadn't killed anyone then, he was still walking the line, finding his niche. Becoming.
Mr. Smith looks back at Mr. Green and smiles. You're next Mr. Smith, and Mr. Green made a mental note to throw some acid on that smile, not tonight,
no, Saturday night.
He would call it a corporate move.
Miss Brown babbles on about cost savings and forecasts, her body moves smoothly from one side of the easel to the other.
Mr. Green looks over to the MD, his crisp, white shirt and his red braces give off a feeling of a welcoming, but authoritative air. The MD is also
watching Miss Brown's
neat form and Mr. Green hates him for it.
The MD is a ladies man, Mr. Green has seen him in the car park one Friday afternoon with a young thing from the typing pool.
He chatted to her, leaning against his Mercedes and using a lot of hand gestures.
The girl, Christ, she was young enough to be his daughter, giggled and nodded.
She pouted, putting her hand on her hip and standing a little too close.
That girl hadn't come into work on the Monday, and no one had seen her since.
Mr. Green thought of the big preserve jars on his shelves, in his garage.
Mr. Green turns over the pages in his file, there would be job cuts this time.
Miss Brown's voice is becoming earnest, this usually implied the way forward
was job cuts.
She removes her spectacles and leans, both hands on the desk. Miss Jones is
stressing the need to tighten our belts and, Mr. Green waits for it, yep, here it
comes, the belief of being better by being fitter and leaner.
He would break her arms first, and Mr. Green nods aggreement at Miss Brown.
The meeting ended with the usual, I'll be in my office, Monday but not Tuesday,
blah blah blah.
Mr. Green goes back to his office and put his file on the desk. He slams his fiing
cabinet drawers to warn the peasants not to bother him.
This will also assist when the job cuts start. He will randomly pick the names,
but he will pretend he was upset and had poured over the books all weekend.
Mr. Green looks at the clock, 11.14. He gets up from his desk and peers out of his window at the car park. His company Japanese car sits morosely with
the other company Japanese cars. Mr. Green put his hands in his pockets, he can feel his suspenders underneath, his hands wanders to the old
woman-style bloomers he
Mr. Green smiles.