Horse's Ass
Chapter Twenty Five
Monday morning found the employees gathered outside the elevators, gushing about the events of the holiday party, and pointing excitedly at the monitors. General consensus was Mary had outplayed Cuddy, again. The few who skipped the party quietly cursed themselves. The party exceeded everyone’s expectations, and last year’s, “Wipe me, bitch!” was deemed no contest. Rubbing salt in the wounds of those not in attendance, the corporate televisions flashed pictures of Friday’s night’s festivities; the boy violating the pug, the crashed dining station, Mary kicking Shap, and Irene dripping in vomit. Into a number of the pictures Doug had been poorly photo-shopped. In the doctored shots, Doug’s head looked to be the size of an Easter Island obelisk.
Aiming to time his arrival with an empty lobby, Doug strode through the back entrance and into the milling crowd. The unexpected mob caught Doug off-guard. With the exception of some random, the employees were always at their desks by nine fifteen in the morning and Doug could be assured of quiet travels. Doug grew anxious as the security man readied his elevator.
In an effort to avoid conversation while he waited, Doug focused his attention on the monitors all were watching. Previously oblivious to the happenings at his house, Doug now stood and watched the disturbing images from Friday night’s holiday party. Speaking to no one in particular, he asked, “What the hell is that boy doing to that dog?” Doug walked around the velvet rope and into his private elevator, sat down, and hid his face in his hands. He wondered at what point he had assumed command of the ugliest workforce in America.
At about the time Doug was reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk for the bottle of rescue bourbon stashed there, Mary and Cuddy resumed fighting. Mary screamed from her office for Shap, and Barry, the company’s legal counsel, to get their fucking asses in her office. From her tone they could tell she was in rare form, and planning an offensive. She wanted Barry by her side to provide guidance during the sure to be tense phone call.
Shap, now wearing an eye patch and navigating with crutches, began the slow and deliberate walk to Mary’s office. As he lumbered down the hall, he stopped to chat with Wilma and give his body a needed rest. Standing before Wilma’s desk, nodding blankly at some inane comment, the high pitched whistle of the inbound could be heard.
Thwack! Against Shap’s right temple a dart landed. With his right eye bandaged, he never had a chance. Thinking it a joke, Wilma giggled, stood up, and quickly popped the dart off his head. She handed it to Shap. Shap now sported another purple welt on his head. Resigned to his fate, he continued to Mary’s office.
“Christ Shap, you look like shit,” Mary greeted him.
Barry echoed Mary’s sentiments, “Tonto, you really look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet.”
With his head covered in black and blue circles, nervous tic, and crutches, Shap nodded in agreement at what both claimed was true. He lacked the willpower to verbalize his misery, or explain what had just happened. In Mary’s office, Shap found himself harried at the thought of it all and uncertain whether Mary, or Cuddy, posed the greater risk to his well being.
Mary engaged the speaker on her phone and began pounding on the numbered keys. Cuddy could hear Mary dialing through the wall. Their offices were next door to one another.
Cuddy answered before the first ring. “Murderer!” he accused.
“Listen to me, you fucking twat. You don’t intimidate me.”
Barry quickly covered the speaker phone. “You can’t use twat. It was made clear at the Approved Words summit. Twat is not permitted in business meetings. They expect next year it will be, but for the time being it’s a breach of etiquette and a terminable offense.”
Mary nodded and covered the speaker phone, “What about cunt? Can I use cunt?”
Cuddy blabbered on about the injustice and denigration his lovely Irene had been faced to endure, while Mary waited Barry’s sage counsel.
Barry answered, “You can definitely use cunt, but no adjective. If you use it in an e-mail definitely lower case. No italics, bold or underline.”
As Cuddy droned on, Mary penciled the word, “Dickhead?”
“Much better,” Barry whispered, and then provided additional insight, “Dickhead should always be your first choice.” Barry had no doubt he provided significant value as chancellor. It was clear without him Mary would have fumbled for word choice, thereby creating the type of gap that loses control of the speaker phone, and ergo the conversation.
“Okay,” Mary re-phrased, as she cut Cuddy off mid-sentence, “listen you fucking, dickhead cunt.”
Barry cut in, again covering the microphone, “No adjectives before cunt. Remember?” It wasn’t out of the realm of the possible that Barry’s guidance had just saved Mary from being terminated with cause.
Marry course corrected, “I mean cunt. You cunt. My gifted son has an impulse control disorder. You think you’re going to screw me out of my bonus? I’m telling you to sign-off on the system requirements.”
Encouraged that his counsel was well received, Barry continued to nod vigorously and provide additional encouragement, “Nice. Excellent phrasing. Really, very well said. You,” he pointed at Mary and nodded vigorously, “are a born leader.”
“Your son raped my dog. The dog you murdered. You defaced a priceless holiday sweater. The other pug won’t walk by children. She hears a child she sits. How am I supposed to walk her? Huh? Your bonus? What about my bonus?”
“I can’t help it your wife sits like a dog.”
“The dog sits when kids walk by you dumbass, not my wife.”
“Your wife is a dog!” Wrinkles stood out on Mary’s forehead. A sure tell a fit was about to get thrown. “Quit hiring the ugly ones, take my picture off the TV and sign-off on the system.” Her voice grew shrill, “I want the thumbs of my Goddamn gloves returned!” Mary pounded her desk in frustration and caught herself just before she slid off her chair and onto the floor. “And fix my fucking chair!”
“Not a chance, you killed Pugsly!” Cuddy answered in a rare, implied confession. At the mention of Pugsly, Cuddy started bawling and hung up. His head rested on the edge of his desk, and onto the stained carpet beneath his tears fell.
About a half hour after the call, composure restored, Cuddy called Wayne. He told Wayne to place no parking signs in front of Mary and Shap’s cars, and have their cars towed. Wayne did as he was told.
Walking into the parking lot at day’s end, Mary found the spot void of her car, and went postal. Fists balled at her sides, and eyes rolled back in her head, she shook with anger and vowed vengeance. It was time for Cuddy to die.
Shap didn’t really care. He’d decided after driving to work this morning to leave the car in the lot and commute on his daughter’s bike. It wasn’t worth getting shot, and his daughter had outgrown the bike and wouldn’t miss it. He did, however, toward day’s end and after everyone had left the floor, revisit Cuddy’s office and piss all over Cuddy’s desk and chair. Unlike the last time he’d used Cuddy’s office as a restroom Shap had been planning this, and in anticipation had eaten nothing except asparagus soup, grilled asparagus, and asparagus salad, for the last forty eight hours. He whistled as he peed, balanced on his good leg.