HIGHER CLASS

Corporate Demon.

Ethan Vasquez

I have always marveled at humans' independent capacity to fling a table halfway across the room.

It always looked profound.

Ordinarily, I would cheer when others did it simply because of how rare it occurred and how impossible it seemed to pull off.

My Italian building raced along the length of the building, hitting the ground and metamorphosing into varied pieces. It was a brief instance of shock as I could see the awe-like demeanor of everyone.

I had guessed it correctly; they were more into the reality of me tossing the table through the window than interscoping the cause of it.

Because it’s... almost quaint, the idea that a person of my caliber, all calm and collected, would flip this hard and course through a meltdown... absurd, very absurd!

I could feel hate running through my veins; I had never been this frustrated before. I could feel my heartbeat reverberating against my ribs.

It consisted of the joint efforts of a defaced fence, a country building, and the skycrawling tower of Babel to get under my skin. God, these people are animals!

Don’t they understand the purpose of this? How much was it was to them that the development of Skyfall prospered? What is wrong with these people?

Do they detest growth? Development? Prosperity?

“Mr. Vasquez, are you alright?” A sourcing voice called out. It sounded like the voice of an old man, but yet it was the mere call of a siren. Perhaps in his 40s no one truly cared to ask Solomon Pence how old he was or why his mustache grew out so weirdly.

“Yes, I am. Why ask?”

I said, feigning ignorance as I adjusted my tie and pushed my jacket forward.

““Oh well… I don’t know what to say; it’s not often that you throw your office table through the window.

“I’m fine,” I retorted.

His eyebrows etched skeptically “Well, I hope so,” he said as he clanged even tighter to his iPad.

“Why are you here?”.

“Easy does it, tiger!” Solomon coughed out. “I have as much clearance as you to this very building.”

“I am,” he continued, “I see it in the interest of everyone to take it upon myself and keep you updated on the Skyfall project.”

“How considerate, I am most grateful,” I called out, dripping with every stint of sarcasm that could be conjured up.

“I wouldn’t want you sweating your pants when the board calls for review. Now would I... oops, is that not today?”

Pence sneered disdainfully.

“Guess your balls have fallen from your pants and into my hands; I can't wait to crush them."

He continued; a grin was visibly plastered across his face; he was the master of this moment, or so he thought.

“Get out…now!” I barked, my lips transforming from a stern line to a quivering, tear-bridged mess. There was always something about this guy that made me taste for blood: his punchable face, his fingernails on a chalkboard voice, his receding hairline, his ridiculously dyed hair. Good God, we all know he is not blonde. His suit, which, if I must point out, is never as good as mine.

He was flat-out detestable, and if I had known any better, he was definitely the villain around.

“Leave,” I growled, “I won’t ask a second time.”

“Sure…no problem… See you in the slaughterhouse in five minutes; come with a bucket.” He remarked, “It’d be easy to carry you out when I’m done.”

He snapped even further as he made the distance between us pronounced.

Of course, I was in a pickle; I hate being publicly shamed, and above all, I hate incompetent secretaries.

I made my way through my office door, my eyes searching for who to kill, for Stephanie.

The hall was straight up busy, a collective of activities as workers scurried to and fro, exchanging whispers and urgent glances. The lights hummed overhead, and the office was busier than ever.

The sound of the keyboard being punctured furiously filled the air; phones rang non-stop, shrill bell tones. Pierced the air, the copier—an old thing—whirled and whined, coughing out reams of paper in quick succession.

Everyone was trying to bag a client, build a house, buy land, paint a house, turn it upside down—it was broad-blooded determination. Some rushed past me, clinging to laptops and notebooks, their faces set in a determined line.

And amid this bedlam, she wasn’t in her cubicle, which conveniently sat in front of my office—Stephanie had ditched me. Even after I made her slit her finger to take an oath never to do that.

I looked menacingly at the conference room; each step scorched my footprint on the tiled floor. Oh,I was pissed. I would blow a fuse.

All I needed was for someone to step on me—even slightly more so by mistake.

To do as much as tell me the wrong time.

I had no report for the review; Stephanie was assigned to that, and all through she had proven how incompetent she truly is.

I would have to wing it like I always do!

I halted directly outside the conference room and took a deep breath, trying to contain my rage and fear. No data, no reports, no sign of salvation.

Once again, Stephanie, the supposed expert on this, hung me out to dry, and I turned around hoping for a dying-minute miracle.

But nothing…

She had one too many times mismanaged timelines, botched analysis. And now her general lack of common sense has made for the failure of the day.

“Mr. Ethan Vasquez,” a voice called in from the conference room, “don’t be afraid to engage; come on in.”

It was Solomon Pence; he was seated at the distant end of the conference table, and nothing gave him this much arousal as the idea of me failing.

Thanks a lot, Steph.