Larcenists and Lambs

Prague, Czech Republic - March 12

Prague, Czech RepublicMarch 12

The business-like representative of the Association of Minor Clients of Banks was very particular about his shoes. And he always looked down on people who weren’t particular about their shoes.

He had in his possession many pairs of shoes. To tell the truth, he didn’t even know how many because many of them were still in unopened boxes, and the man wasn’t quite sure whether he would ever open them, because several months had passed since he’d bought them so they were probably out of fashion. Some would refer to him using the derogative term metrosexual. He, of course, didn’t consider this term derogatory. He was proud that he had a pair of perfectly matching shoes to go with every outfit. People who always wore the same shoes, were, in his eyes, undistinguished buffoons with whom he communicated only if it was absolutely necessary, and only with maximal distaste.

So the fact that the sweaty old fart sitting across from him in the Café Louvre, who’d just ordered his second beer in the middle of the business day and was gulping down potato soup with such gusto that he’d managed to spray his tie with it whilst puffing like a boar coming out of an oak grove, was wearing the same pair of shoes two days in a row, and boring black ones at that, was in itself enough to make the man despise him from the bottom of his soul. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t be losing time here with this boor. But maybe this fat pig could be useful after all…?

But as the representative of The Association sat there with the fat guy, he started to get the sinking feeling that he really was wasting his time. That press spokesman was just a pawn. The representative could tell. Oh yeah, a “right-hand man” or an “advisor,” that was a whole different ballgame. A “right-hand man” whispers in ears, a politician or a manager acts, a press spokesman just reports. And Marcel Bureš, the press spokesman of one of the largest banks in the Czech Republic, was still just a press spokesman. And on top of that, this press spokesman was a moron who probably didn’t even understand what he had just been told. But the fact of the matter was that he had to talk to this i***t because his boss didn’t give a damn about the Association of Minor Clients of Bank and he’d refused to meet with him personally, but still.

“Look, Marcel, let me rephrase that. If you don’t talk to me now, in a friendly manner, it will hurt you. You will bleed. You will lose. Do you understand me so far?” the man queried.

Either Marcel Bureš swallowed a potato that was too big for his throat and started coughing, or he confirmed.

The man decided it was the second. “And if you lose, it will cost you dear, very dear. Capisto?”

Marcel took a swig from his mug of beer and blew some bubbles.

The representative of the Association chose to interpret that as confirmation that his statement had been understood. “And if it costs you dear, so dear that you s**t yourself, then there won’t be any bonuses.” He let his words fade into silence for effect. The dramatic pause was somewhat diminished by the mighty plop coming from Marcel’s mug.

“So I will make you an offer,” the man continued. “A very decent offer. We will come to a friendly agreement and, in exchange, we will not drag you through the gutter in the media. Your media image will not be damaged. Capisto?”

Marcel guzzled the rest of the beer. This pretentious metrosexual cretin really thinks we’re going to let them blackmail us. Well, you’ve got another think coming, you stiff-necked snob.

“Look, I obviously can’t give you an answer. I don’t make these decisions. I’ll present your case to the boss and we’ll see.” Marcel got up. “Like I said. Let’s see what the boss has to say.” Right, asshole. Like I’m gonna waste the boss’s time with this crap.