It's about my rise. You know, for the job that I got and am doing now?
I sat at one side of a desk in a pokey little meeting room that smelled oddly of fried potatoes and the death of hope. Across from me sat the galloping horse's bollock that was my direct boss, El-Jefe and another non-descript man dressed in various shades of beige.
Beige-Baws had a strange orange-brown stain on his top lip as if he smoked too many cheap cigs or had been gnawing on too many orangutans' penises. Perhaps Orangutans who had been eating too many wotsits. My money was on the Orangutans. El-Jefe smiled broadly at me and pushed a hand out expansively as if reaching out for more cheeseburgers at the Drive-Thru. A rise? But aren't you doing the same job you are now as you were then? He chuckled. Like Jabba the Hutt finding a little fish in one of his folds of skin. Beige-Baws smirked, tapping his pen annoyingly on the table between us before giving El-Jefe what can only be described as an adoring look. There was meant to be a rise associated with the job and I haven't had it. Where is it? I decided to be blunt. Like when you are beating a tramp with a tightly rolled-up newspaper you can't just tickle them with it. You really have to go for it, that's how they learn. El-Jefe huffed a little then looked at Beige-Baws who again looked back at him in a way that suggested he wanted to soap up his bosoms and get El-Jefe rubbing. The thing is, yes there is a rise. But at the same time, it might be problematic? El-Jefe chewed at his thumb for a moment in the same way that a water vole eats a fat grub. Yes, we are under severe financial pressures at the moment. There has been an... overspend. Beige-Baws finally broke his silence, he had a peculiarly wheezy voice. Like the wind whistling mournfully on a barren moor. An overspend. Echoed El-Jefe tonelessly. I cast him a quick glance to make sure that he hadn't come over all Dawn of the Dead zombie on me. The last thing I needed was to bash his head in with a spade. I mean, it was a Tuesday. I leaned back in my chair. It is a good strategy when you are wondering whether to get a spade out and start shovelling people on the chops to take a moment and breathe. There is always the window seat? Beige-Baws voice slithered slyly like a snake in a sleeping bag. Yes, the one that looks out over the river! El-Jefe joined in eagerly as if they hadn't rehearsed all this shit before I came into the room. You offered me a window seat before. Remember? I don't want a window seat. I want money. I was fucking tired of being offered a better seat every time I asked for more money. I dread to think what El-Jefe would do if he got married and one day his wife demanded an orgasm. Window seats don't quite cut it in that conversation. El-Jefe twitched, blatantly crestfallen that the window seat bribe hadn't worked. He looked nervously at Beige-Baws and then at the floor. Finally, he sighed and looked at me. There has been an overspend. So if we can't give you the money and you won't take a window seat. What can we do? He shrugged and the necrotic fucking hamster that was Beige-Baws shrugged in unison with him. I could always go back to doing my old job. It would be a nice change. I smiled and held my hands firmly under the table out of sight so that they couldn't get any advance warning when I raged up and clubbed them both down with the Spade of Grim Sanctitude. Go back to your old job? Take a step backward? Why, surely not? The pair of them clucked anxiously like old chickens smelling sage and butter. There are people that would literally kill for the window seat. Muttered El-Jefe ominously. Money, or I go back. I said flatly, looking at them both in turn with a stare that warned of cold flat iron things with wooden handles appearing in their future. We will revert to you in due course. Announced Beige-Baws imperiously and waved me off with a hand. I left the room and nodded grimly to myself. I'm getting that money and I will take the bloody window seat as well. MohohoWAHAHHAHAHHR!
Yes, it was that orange.
