“The Fly’s” Friday Surprise

As I stepped onto the dirty snow, on the way to my destination, a man with a long gray beard accosted me asking for twenty five cents, so that he could “buy some food.” Quickly, I shoved him away, exclaiming “go get a job you homeless bum.”

I entered the building, my destination, which looked like an old widget factory, prior to when workers had rights. The walls were painted dark blue and the ground was covered with grease. A young man, with a 3 day old beard, approached. He asked: “How can I assist you?”

I told him my business and how he could be of assistance. He complied, but informed me that his services would cost a great sum and it may take awhile to complete.

I was anxious and had little time to fuck around with idiots. I shot back: “Fine, but be sure to do it right.”

This was all happening around noon. The streets were covered with snow and crowded with obese people, who were constantly feeding themselves heart clogging slop, while talking on telephone machines. I chose to stay inside of the dreary building, instead of outside where the fat people roamed. After all, I had business to conduct.

There were machines running non-stop and underpaid workers scurrying back and forth, desperate to complete their task. I was amazed by the working conditions, which were sub-standard by any measure, sans the lower income factories in Bangkok.

Four hours passed and the job was not complete.

I approached the boss (Bob) of the operation and quizzed him: “Hey you, when will it be done? I have things to do, you know.”

For ten seconds, Bob ignored my statements. He was busy shuffling through papers and giving orders to his scrawny looking underlings. There was a certain destitute undertone to Bob’s voice, when he barked orders. Suddenly, he responded: “15 minutes.”

Content with his answer, anxiously, I waited in a small cigarette scented room, sitting in an aged Orwellian chair, watching the news of the day on a pre-LCD era tube.

Another hour passed. By now I was fuming with rage. I was checking my telephone machine for messages from work and the condition of my common stock portfolios. Much to my chagrin, the trading day had worked against me, in a very subtle, benign sort of way. It’s the type of day that can kill someone, without him even knowing it.

The greasy door swung open: it was Bob. He said: “It’s done. Follow me.” Obviously, Bob was a man of few words.

Before I had a chance to retort, the greasy door had shut. I opened it and followed Bob, like a dog chasing after a can attached to a bicycle, until he reached his desk.

Bob said: “you are lucky we could finish the job in this weather…”

Quickly, I interrupted Bob and slapped him in his face and roared: “give me my fucking car keys asshole.”

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