You're fired!
– You're fired!
– No, and once again, no! I'm leaving of my own volition, and I would've slammed the door if they weren't automatic!
– Slam your dumb head with your empty wallet, you idiot.
– Boss… umm… I mean ex-boss — this is going too far now. Then I'm forced to inform you that your wife is cheating on you.
– With who?! You trying to say it's with you, you little weasel?
– With… uh… with that guy… or maybe that one... anyway, not with you for sure.
– Uh-huh, got it. You're just as bad a liar as you were a trader. Get the hell outta my office!
– At least I'm lower than you — which means I've got room to grow!
– That's the weakest argument I've ever heard. Grab your crap and be gone in ten minutes. Clock's ticking. Louis, you're in charge and you'll be the timer. Hope you can handle that role.
– Of course, Sir! You didn't even need to say it, didn't even need to think it — I already started counting on my fingers.
The building did not shake after losing such a valuable employee. Now short by exactly one human being, it calmly continued to serve as a trusty cage for the untamable "bulls| and "bears"
(those are trader terms, go Google it — don't make me stick boring footnotes in here and turn this story into Wikipedia).
On a pleasant spring evening, a former big shot in the world of numbers and charts — now unemployed but unbroken — stepped outside into the open air and immediately choked.
Yeah... been a while since he breathed actual oxygen that hadn't been dehydrated by ruthless AC vents.
In his hands, this faceless, grey figure (just as expected of the satirical "Worker-Man" archetype) was holding a box. In that cardboard Pandora's cube lay his sad little collection of "essentials" — the stuff he genuinely treasured.
He hadn't even considered using a bag. Everyone knows that after leaving a job, your worldly belongings are only to be carried out in a cardboard box. That's the law of postmodernism, shaped by every movie and TV show ever made.
As he neared the first building in sight, three figures stepped out from around the corner. They didn't look much like midnight muggers — wrong time of day, and honestly, wrong era too.
One massive brute in a sleeveless top and high-end designer sandals, a girl with a smug look and an African pygmy hedgehog in her arms (which, by the way, looked just as smug), and finally — their leader. He wore a crimson cloak with old-school boxing shorts pulled over it.
The signs by which the Worker-Man immediately understood this particular individual wasn't a follower but belonged to that rare species of natural-born leaders were as follows: he walked slightly ahead of the other two, had a clearly exhausted expression (a classic indicator of someone crushed by the stupidity of his subordinates), and the big guy was giving him a shoulder massage. The subordinate also tried to run his knuckles down the length of his boss's spine, but the leader jumped and shrieked:
— This creature is perfect for the Grand Mission I've chosen. Nobody will see his face anyway, and his voice is probably just as boring as his box. People will assume I'm too tired to deliver my usual electrifying speech. And even if they think that, so what?
Ticket sales won't go down either way, because my mighty shoulders will always carry the highest bar set. Casey, Stacey — spin this ferret around and drag him to the concert hall.
Before the Worker-Man could so much as flinch, the strange man's lackeys were already on him like lightning bolts from a bottle. They draped their arms over his shoulders and whispered politely that he'd better not make a sound — otherwise they'd have to use tickle-torture mixed with Brazilian jiu-jitsu.
He had no choice but to obey.
As the newly formed quartet marched briskly toward their destination, the leader tore off his cloak, standing half-naked, and Casey and Stacey plopped it onto their prisoner. They pulled a hood over his head, mostly obscuring his face, and somehow dug out a heavy iron belt, snapping it tight around his waist.
— This is my take on the old-fashioned Chastity Belt. — the boss explained, scratching both his own and someone else's nose — All my neophytes must undergo such an initiation to truly feel what it means to be part of my fandom. Even my hatchlings went through it, right, Casey?
– Yeah, Maître. But mine got really pinchy. –Complained the brute.
– Quit whining, or you'll never rise to the upper dan and earn the right to wear these. – The chief gestured to his shorts and lovingly stroked them with the tips of his fingers. Then he resumed the briefing:
– Alright, here's your over-ear mic. My niece Valeria will be feeding you the script through it, and you'll repeat everything word for word. Meanwhile, I'll finally get to finish painting a fresh batch of natal charts for resale in the Central Asian market. They move really well there. Even Great Personalities like me can't escape fragmentary commerce.
Drop-shipping — heard of it? No? It was invented by my ancestors in Tenochtitlan during prayers to their mighty deity Huitzilopochtli. Whatever, don't overload your sardine — that thing you mistakenly call a brain. We're here.
Finally, the captive opened his mouth, hiccuped once, then managed to overcome his astonishment. Then hiccuped again. And quite seriously declared:
– But I don't want to perform! I'm afraid of crowds, I always avoided presentations, even at corporate meetings. Also... thank you for giving me a new job so quickly after I left the old one. But… are you going to pay me?
A tense silence followed, broken only by the rustling of the hedgehog.
The leader's lip trembled — not with grief or barely-suppressed tears, but with rage. His voice was now laced with pure, dumbfounded fury:
– What do you mean, respect isn't a currency?! Look at him, Casey — and you too, Stacey. I keep mixing you two up… Can you believe this guy thinks a damn burger is more important than street cred ability?! Drag him to the stage now, before I spiral into a non-alcoholic delirium of pure wrath!