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From the shop window, the Manager peers out
His pride upon the floor
Watching all his little human Money Slaves hustle about
Doing their tasks, their jobs.
The Manager looks at his hand.
A hand, that in a former life, a former existence, would have
held some mighty whip.
The Manager yearns, more like wishes in a fantasy, to use a
whip on these slacker human money slaves. Parasites in his
mind, that just fill his company floor.
The Manager, looking at the ceiling, closes his eyes and
takes a deep breath.
The air fills his lungs, like a sink fills with water.
Slowly he lowers his head, his eyes flash open in a
psychotic fashion as he exhales.
The Manager turns on his heel like a well-trained Nazi SS
officer. Eloquently walking over to his phone.
Extends his arm, then retracts it, then extends it again.
Methodically, his thumb, index,
middle and ring fingers grasp the receiver.
While his pinky pushes the intercom.
Placing the receiver up to his ear, his mouth
speaking in an ultimate tone it’s been well practiced.
No “um” in his vocal cords.
"Bob Smith, to the Managers office!"
The Manager slams the phone down then pushes play on his
CD player. Music blares through the speakers.
The Manager triumphantly returning to the window
his arm raises, looking at his Rolex that the company gave
him. The clock tic tocs away!
A fat balding man, wearing cheap fat
man slacks, hustles through the plant.
Bob Smith, sweating profusely, running hard!
The Manager, watching, with anticipation.
As Bob Smith is running.
A young geeky kid, with his hat on backwards,
wearing safety glasses. Operating a motorized pallet jack,
moving a pallet of parts.
Seeing all, like a god from the heavens, The Manager
eyes beholding his watch, sees all.
Marking the time, then lets his hands
rest on the window glass.
As he agitatedly awaits.
A Secretary walks into the office.
"Sir?"
The Manager does not speak, he doesn’t need to, just raises
his hand to silence her! He doesn't want to listen, nothing is
more important, he is watching his fat supervisor run.
The Secretary rolls her eyes, then exits the
office.
Bob Smith moving fast, hustles his fat ass hard
Towards the Manager's office.
The Manager looks closer.
The young man moves the motorized
pallet jacket into the alley way.
The Manager with sheer excitement seeing all shouts out!
“KABOOM, CRASH, SMASH, YES that is what I like to see!”
Bob Smith crashes into the pallet of parts sending him head
over heels.
The Manager puts his hands in the air as if his
favorite team just scored some important point in a game.
Bob Smith's fat body bounces off the ground like a rubber
ball, he skids across the epoxy painted shop floor that’s
clean enough to eat off.
The young man in a state of shock puts
His hands on his mouth
Attempting to stop the instant laughter.
Bob Smith quickly gets off the floor, limping his way towards
The Managers office. An entire shop floor is in laughter.
The Manager, just shakes his head, peers at his watch,
then frowns.
Bob Smith limping, attempts to hustle through a door, down
a hall then up a flight of stairs.
Blowing through another office door that states,
Managers Office. The dark-haired secretary just shakes her
Head. The Manager is looking out the window as an out of
breath Bob Smith enters
The Manager turns his head slowly, looking at Bob in utter
disgust.
Bob Smith, in his fat man shirt that is slightly
torn, slightly tattered. Sweat drips off his brow,
attempting to talk as he composes himself.
"You needed me... Sir Manager?"
The Manager looks at his watch, then his eyes lock with Bob
Smiths as he shakes his head.
The Manager walks to his desk, tapping the pause button on
his CD Player. Then meticulously addresses Bob.
"Bob, you know what I see on the floor?"
Bob Smith looks at the Manager with uncertainty.
"People working hard, Sir Manager."
The Manager takes a drink of his coffee.
Bobs Smith's mouth dry from running.
He is wanting with thirst.
“Lack of 100 percent productivity Bob, that’s what I see!”
The Manager takes another drink,
he savors the liquid knowing
Bob is in need for he thirsts.
The Manager laughs then sets the coffee on his desk.
"MMMMMM, MMMMMM, MMMMM! That is some damn
good coffee!"
The Manager, looking at Bob.
“You ever have this Brand X?”
Bob anticipating that the Manager is going to give him a cup!
“No I haven’t, it smells delicious though!”
The Manager grimaces a bit.
“Great, you should go to Blue Deli when you are not
working, treat yourself to some of this, it’s absolutely
delicious. Maybe, also have one of them donuts, god only
knows you’re never going to lose that belly, lard ass.”
Bob starts to talk but the Manager over powers him!
"It took you over five minutes to get up here, do you
think that is acceptable?"
Bob Smith looks at the Manager confused.
"Sir Manager, I think that I got up here in a proper
amount of time."
The Manager looks at Bob in disgust.
"Bob you’re thinking again, we had a talk about this once, do we need to have a talk again?”
Bob shakes his head for no
The Manager cracks a smirk
“No, is exactly right! The correct response is, you are
sorry you weren’t instantly here the moment I called for
you! Gosh, look at you, you’re sweating like a stuffed
pig in an oven, just looking at you makes me want to
shower.”
The Manager sniffing the air as he walks near Bob.
“What is that, do you smell that, that god awful smell?”
Bob sniffing the air
“I don’t smell anything.”
The Manager sniffs around Bob
“It’s you, what is that you’re wearing?”
Bob nervously shakes his head
“I have a cologne on that my wife bought for Christmas, is that what you’re smelling?”
The Manager sniffs again
“Bob, you smell like shit, don’t ever wear that garbage to work again or I’ll fire you.”
The Manager walks towards the window
peering out at the disaster.
"I'm losing 15 percent of productivity Bob! 15 PERCENT!! Do
you have any idea, any possible knowledge on how that
reflects on my bonus?"
Bob shakes his head for no
“It’s probably not good, sir Manager!”
The Manager looks at Bob
“Not good is right! Do you know why it’s not good?”
Bob scratches his head
“Your Managers don’t seem to like it?”
The Manager shakes his head in disgust.
"No, tubby, my numbers are still good because I am above
80% effective, it’s not good because my bonus pays out
double at 95% effective. If I don’t hit 95% effective,
then my fucking Princess of a wife doesn’t get her trip
to the Bahamas. Not good, Bob, as I’ll be forced to listen
to her stupid ass bitch all year long! Also, not good
because this year, I want to buy myself a new corvette.
Guess who is starting to cost me this desire, this WANT,
this.... NEED?"
Bob fixes his shirt.
"The employees not hitting their targeted numbers?"
The Manager peers at Bob with hard intent.
"No, NO! You are, dumb shit!!
Because your leadership sucks a soft
cock, you are a damn prom queen when I need a tiger
roaming free, wanting to KILL, to EAT! You don’t seem to
have what it takes to really motivate, to really bust
these cock sucker’s balls down there, getting them to
work. Hell, I mean look at that dumb fuck running the
pallet jack, for an hour, for a fucking hour he has been
doing the same fucking thing. Why is he even here?
One Hour, Bob, he’s costing me a percentage! He
should be fired!"
The Manager walks up to Bob, eyeballing his shirt, then starts
to fix his collar.
"Look at you, a fat, worn out slob that stinks, with- wait! Is this
some egg from breakfast?"
Bob looks down at his shirt. The Manager flicks Bob in the
face for looking down.
"See, you don't even know if you spilled egg on yourself
or not, fucking pathetic."
Bob Smith looks down.
"I'm trying, sir Manager."
The Manager looks at Bob
then walks back over to the window
examining the shop floor.
"Trying, trying, here is trying! I have a wife that tries
to be a worthwhile investment of some part of importance.
Yet, without action, is just as useless now as she was the
first day that I met her."
Bob Smith looks at the Manager in awe and shock.
"But....why did you marry her then?"
The Manager with a grin, looks at Bob intently.
"I’m glad you asked Bob, the only value a woman has is a pussy!
Something I happen to like. I have a great talent to
find what I need in useless people like yourself.
Her mom looked good at an older age
so, I figured, she would too and she does!
She is in the gym every day and I wouldn’t have it
any other way! Don’t want to be married to some lard ass
after all, god, could you imagine
the financial hit I would take if
I had to divorce someone like that!"
The Manager looks at Bob
“You know what I mean?”
Bob frowns, The Manager cracks a half smile.
"Of course, you don’t! You see, you're about that damn
useless too, it’s just too bad you don’t have a pussy
Bob, then perhaps, just maybe I could get something
satisfactory from you. In fact, the only reason you're
even still a supervisor is because you want to be me. I
respect that! If everyone was me
the world would be a much richer place."
Bob looks at the ground. The Manager looks out the window.
"Bob, I want you to go down to that shop floor. I want
your fat, gelatinous ass to crack a whip! I want the
fear of me in these people. I want them to wet
themselves when I walk down there. I want their heads to
hang low! I want my 95 PERCENTILE and I want it
yesterday!”
Bob looks at the Manager with some fictitious smile. The
Manager looks at Bob squarely.
“What is so funny, did I tell you to smile?”
Bob quickly ditches the smile.
“No sir, Manger!”
The Manager looks out the window!
“Great, now fire that fucking freak idiot running the
pallet jack wasting my percentage. The next time you're
summoned to my office, I want you here in three minutes,
not five. Now, get the hell out of my site you
repulsive pile of lard."
Bob stands there numb from the mental abuse
The Manager shouts out.
"MOVE IT, LARD ASS!"
Bob Smith takes off running while the Manager walks to the
window to see the new form of motivation that will be
expressed across the shop floor.
The Manager examines his greatness, how his personal
motivation can move a fat mountain
as he watches an enraged
Bob Smith that is now releasing an onslaught of shouts and
screams across the shop floor. A young man, just one of the
money slaves with his hat on backwards wearing some geeky
safety glasses in a turquoise shirt has just been fired.
The human Money Slaves move faster as Supervisor Bob
tries to get every sweaty inch of work out of them that the
Manager has ordered. Its money over human life!
It’s a corvette, make it a convertible!
VROOOM, VROOOM