White collar slave

It was beginning to rain by the time I crawled out of the one bedroom, one bathroom closet that barely passed for an apartment, let alone a "luxury flat." It wasn't the kind of rain that just made your day a little bit more unbearable. It was the kind of rain that was oppressive, an omnipresent sheet of water that soaked everything.

And it was a sickly yellow. It stank like rotten eggs and battery acid while strangling what little remained of my windowsill habanero peppers. I had stopped eating them months ago when I started shitting fire and blood.

The fire was to be expected, I dealt with it. It often came with the territory of spicy cuisine. The blood, unless you're a native of New Mexico City, was not.

Hi, I'm Wayne Michaels. I'm a white collar slave.

Life isn't too bad nowadays. I have enough to live, breathe and breed. If I'm lucky I'll get to do all three at once one of these days. I'm working pretty hard on the last one, so I have something going for me.

I guess that's all I need in the end of things, really. I suppose I'm doing better than my garden. Or that old woman who serves as slave master at the office.

She's not terribly bad, once you get past the masochist behavior, whip and sun bleached handbag face. Occasionally I'll feel bad for her and throw her a bone by moving a little too slow with my hourly TPS report. Her wiping is pretty weak nowadays, not enough to scar.

It just smarts, you know? But it seems to make her happy and it keeps her pulling a salary. Which is all that matters. Once you get the golden watch and a lick of that sweet brass ring it's all over.

It left a bad taste in my mouth when they started outsourcing retirements.

Bill in Severe Audits once told me she'd get really into it. She'd even wear boots and fishnet stockings.

That she once laid into him for three hours because he missed a couple percentage points of an annual deficit report.

The poor sod's back looks like France after the war was over with. The craters, not the nuclear waste and mutant fruit flies.

Okay, maybe a couple of fruit flies. Sometimes in the summer when it's infected- whoo. You haven't lived until you've smelled gangrene through cheap pressed cotton.

My cube is pretty big. I share it with a Mexican family. They're nice people. They don't really seem to do anything relevant for The Company besides adding a little extra heat in the winter time and scavenging food from my waste basket.

But they're clever and resourceful. Their kid, Juan (I just call him that because it seems to piss him off, I really haven't bothered to learn it) does a pretty good job when I come in hung over or too tired to do any work.

One of these days I may get around to hiring him as a subcontractor. I know they're illegals, but that's the benefit, right? No taxes, pretty disposable, too. One call to Homeland Security and wham-o, instant stew complete with lead seasoning.

I just wish I could get more seeds. I miss eating.


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