Ant Smith

All stories

Despicable

Whilst there are shit days and less shit days, Mondays are always the former. After a good twenty minutes of deleting e-mails on various tedious subjects I'd decided it was time enough for a cigarette. Most of the lifts are fucked. Most of the lifts are always fucked. The building crumbles. Air-con circulating the damp diseased breaths of a thousand wheezing co-workers. Christ, it's disgusting. Now I'm stuck making small talk with some rat boy punk from the eight floor as the steel chamber creaks and grumbles itself to ground. What the fuck is he blathering on about? Then I'm irritated to realise a smile and a nod isn't going to cut it. All of a sudden rat boy is in a floods of tears. Something about a friend dropping dead. Dammit, I never get those kinds of e-mails. News that's at least good for a morning off. I don't say that. When the doors groan open I let him stumble out ahead of me so I can cut off in the other direction with a vague "chin up" or some such crap. Half way through my tab I get suddenly angry. Fancy putting me through that. Sharing such a thing as if and as though I should give a damn. Why didn't the cunt take the stairs? I fucking hate Mondays.

Back at my desk and of course I find there's no chair. One of the grunts is visiting the lank haired squint eyed freak of a programmer that nabbed the window seat next to me. They're deeply engrossed in some discussion about recursion. Neanderthals. My look of disgust must penetrate the dullness of their minds because Freak looks up and says "Oh, do you want your chair back?". Do I want my fucking chair back. No, I'll fucking stand. That's why they pay me fifty fucking grand a year. "Nah, I'm cool. I've got a meeting in a minute anyway" I say sweetly. The grunt didn't even look up.

Just time to delete a few more e-mails, but one catches my eye. It's from rat boy apologising for, and elaborating on his mental breakdown. Jesus, the conscientious little tit didn't even take the morning off. Just spent five minutes blubbing in the car park. That must have been some friend, to have moved him so completely. I dash off a reply so that there's an electronic trail recording what a nice guy I am.

The meeting will be interminable. I'm only going because it kills the hour before lunch. It's our team's daily review, which, by the way, freak is supposed to attend. He's too engrossed to make the connection through.

Daily review. Some American abortion the chiefs all think is terribly progressive and bound to promote team feeling and productivity. How they think standing around with this bunch of psychos, prats and peados is supposed to enhance productivity is beyond me. And yes, STANDING around. The meeting room has no chairs. That's supposed to ensure we get straight to business and don't hang around chewing the fat. The whole daily review is supposed to take about 15 minutes but it invariably drags out to the hour. There's always something worth bitching or carping about.

Johnson takes the lead. That's not his name but it's the kind of can do prick that he is so it's what I call him. It does confuse him. Then there's Squealer, the one who's bound to keep this charade going. Pretty Boy, who clearly fancies snapable scrawny dirty boys since he backs Squealer up in everything he says. Freak, in absentia. Toad, Fuckwit, The Dame and me. Eight solid guys. All pulling in the same direction for the good of the project, the company, the queen herself. Yeah, right.

"Morning Team" bellows Johnson in faux joviality. I know that 'Morning Team' means 'look at ME now, because I'm in charge and if I tell you to bend over, take it up the arse and say thank you that's exactly what you're gonna do'. He never leaves it in any doubt. And they all pipe back "Morning Johnson," in unison, 'please rape my arse'. I say nothing. I never do. The devious bastard doesn't even mention it any more.

Then he did it. He swept his beady eye round the room. Letting his gaze fall on each in seemingly random order. Probing. Seeking a weakness. Toad thrusts himself forward in a lurid twisted manner. Keen to please the master. Toad was the kind of human flotsam that is left when parents look disappointedly at the child that they did not abort. Toad has a hard-on.

Today he goes straight for the money shot and asks Squealer for a progress update. Asking Squealer when something will be done is guaranteed to bring on a force 9 tantrum. I'm going to enjoy this. Squealer is a dirty bastard. Not in a good way. I don't mean he'd fuck anything with a hole like The Dame would. He's not a sleaze, more a tramp. He's the kind who gets pissed, sleeps in his clothes and rolls in at maybes 11 stinking of BO. He hardly knows the day of the week let alone the progress status of his crappy tasks. Hang on though, what's the treacherous little twat saying in his whiny scouse accent?

"...you can't expect me to code that, the architecture's just a joke"

"I can see his point," this is Pretty Boy of course, foppishly brushing his hair from his brightly flashing eyes, "I mean aren't we building on the bleeding edge?"

Yeah, that's my job they're talking about. The weasel's worming out of it by blaming me, and Pretty Boy is giving him credence. I'd quiet happily kill the cunt.

"I've worked in every conceivable dialect from hand coding binary strings into PLUs to holding a narrative dialogue with an Ada compiler...", you cunt, "...I'm certain the framework is solid and achievable."

As solid as the fag packet I scrawled it on anyway. Johnson says something about taking Squealer-Weasel through it later. Just what I've been avoiding. An hour locked in a cubbyhole choking on his stench explaining shit neither of us gives a damn about. I really could kill the cunt.

It rambles on and on. The Dame is worried about the holistic whole. The Dame is always worrying about holes. Fuckwit keeps saying stuff nobody gets, but it doesn't matter because we all know, without talking about it, that he's going to get the axe any day now. I'm just starting to figure how long I can spin lunch out when Johnson's closing bulletins strike my ears.

"...so that'll be team drinks in TC01. We're cleared to charge two pints a head on account."

A warm and appreciative round of applause for this magnanimous gesture. Makes it all worthwhile. TC01 is the team's hilarious joke where they pretend the pub (a pit of seething media whores, The Cock) is actually another one of our meeting rooms. Ha ha ha ha ha ha aaargh. The funny bastards.

I take the stairs to escape to lunch. No chance of small talk or of getting caught up with one of the execs wanting to discuss over lunch some hair brained half baked scheme their two year old burbled out. No one clocked exactly when I left, which should help swing an extra twenty minutes. Or so.

Walking down to the little known haunt I hang out in there's one of those cripple beggars littering the pavement in front of me. The kind where you're not sure what country they're from or what language they're trying garble or if the legs are real or if the crutches are fake. It has a piece of filthy cardboard hung from it's neck saying 'hungry'. As I walk past it grabs a hold of my leg and I almost vomit at the touch. I pull free and I'm about to give it a quick kick when a funny thought strikes me. I scoop a handful of change out of my pocket and scatter it across the road. The tramp spits towards me, which I sidestep, and wastes no time clambering up onto his false crutches with his real legs. With a sneer I walk away, calling back

"If you want it you can fucking walk for it you starving cunt"

Some old biddy tuts. I wonder if I should watch my language a little more, nah, fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. The long and the short and the tall... The fat, the skinny, the old, the young. The smart, the thick, the kind, the cruel. Especially the kind. Especially them. Mind, I'd fuck a nun. Just to see the look on the repressed slapper's depressed face.

Three pints four tabs. That should fortify me for an hour with Squealer-Weazle. Walking back to the office I get caught up in some crowd milling about muttering and rutting and clattering on to each other around a cordon, a cop car, and an ambulance. 'Some poor old beggar run over by a rubbish truck'. I don't even know why they bothered with the ambulance. All of a sudden I feel like public enemy number one. It feels quite good. For the first time in months, I break into a warm and genuine smile. It's not hungry now, is it.

In an unusually good mood I spend an hour fiddling with omnigraffle, knocking up the sweetest architectural map this bunch of grunts have ever seen. Totally wasted effort, but hey, they are buying drinks.

The meeting goes exceedingly well. So well I really, for a moment, really wished I cared. The map clearly blows the snot nosed twat's mind.

"I get it," he says pointlessly, "it's like this beautiful, er, thing. You must have a beautiful mind man". Say what? Is he coming on to me now? It's obvious Pretty Boy wants him, but I always assumed this dull fuck was androgyne. His head stuck too far up his soft interfaces.

"I wish you could spend more time taking me, through this stuff". Definitely a beat there, after 'taking me'. He's a goddam gay. Then a funny thought strikes me. I can Barrymore this cunt. I'm going to Barrymore this cunt. 'Oh no officer, I was upstairs sleeping'.

"Well, Adrian," his given name sticks a little in my throat, "we can talk through some of the principles over that beer tonight. Might take more than the approved two pints though haha". His feeble mind recognises something friendly and the sap beams, positively beams at me. For good measure, I tip him a wink and he floats off somewhere. I hang around a while, pretending like I'm working. When I finally emerge Pretty Boy is there, looking daggers at me.

Wrapping the day up at my desk to be sure to get down the pub good and early when all of a sudden I feel a pair of arms thrown around me. It's rat boy. On the verge of tears again. "Thanks so much man", then he damn near kisses me. My e-mail missive obviously touched him. During all this Squealer-Weasel is looking on in awe. I give him a 'what can you do' arch of the eyebrows and a little firmly disengage myself.

"Pub", I command.

Johnson's blood pints slither down quickly and just as quickly Toad, Freak, The Dame and Johnson himself make excuses and crawl off to whatever sorry hovels they shit in. Leaving Fuckwit, Pretty Boy, Squealer-Weasel and me.

Time to kick this up a gear. 'My round' I declare. Pints and chasers. Several rounds. Enough rounds to find Fuckwit falling of his chair in the middle of a raucous chorus of Wonderballs by limp fucking Madchester karaoke stars Oasis. Pretty Boy, who hates me but not as much as I despise him, makes a big fuss about it. By now Fuckwit is cradling his head in Pretty Boy's lap. Pretty Boy is torn between leaving his long term quarry in my company and corrupting the imbecile. 'Take him home and make him gag on your cock like you want to.' By the expression on his face I considered I may not, have only thought that. Pretty Boy flashes Squealer-Weasel a look but he's just giggling like a naughty school boy and looking at me as though I were Spartacus. That's probably due to the special mixer I've been feeding him most of the night. A good tun's worth. Pretty Boy looks at me and his face drains of colour. He looks at me as though he knows I am going to kill tonight. He bundles Fuckwit up and mumbles as he stumbles out the door with his silver medal. He's such a pussy, he can't even piss with a hard-on. And we both know it. For a moment I regret deciding to do Squealer-Weasel over and think Pretty Boy deserves it more. But hey, you know, softly softly... I know I have a catch-up in the diary with that cunt soon.

"What we doing now boss?", the little shit has started calling me that. Wise fucker.

"Time for something hardcore trooper?", I ask him knowing the very suggestion is going to make him say yes.

We cross the river over Victoria bridge. Half way I stop and light a cigarette. He stops a few feet ahead. I give him a long and searching look until he starts to feel self conscious. Blushing and squirming a bit. And at just the right moment, just as a girlish giggle escapes his lips, I make a suggestion. "why don't you walk along the wall", I ask. There's no way in his state he's managing that. It's fifty fifty which way the cunt falls. With no more than that, like a puppy dog, he bounds up and runs, RUNS along the wall of the bridge hopping niftily off at the end chanting "triathlon champion". Fuck it.

But it's okay. I'm going to Barrymore this cunt. We slip down a back passage and I spark a joint. His brain's already liquified but I reckon a whitey in the mix can only help. I pass him the spliff and say "take it deep back" and I watch him intently. His sallow eyes closing languidly. His hollow cheeks sucking so far in that his head takes on the essence of a skull. As though it had been peeled and bleached. As though he'd had a fucking wash for once. His little belly inflating as he inhales. His knees buckling. "Easy trooper", I say steadying him, 'there's the end game yet.'

According to the club rota it is naked night. I had over a tenner and wait for change. It's that cheap a joint. Steadying Squealer I catch the doorman's eye. He knows there's something wrong here. Handing over two complimentary condoms he gives me a look that says 'whatever you bring here, you take away'. I nod imperceptibly and the door lock is released.

The place is a heaving mass of naked flesh barring the occasional gimp mask. Squealer, in his groggy state is agog. I strip quickly. Then I go over to squealer and pluck the condom sachet from his fingers, discarding it carelessly. Looking him cooly in the eye I hold him up while he peels layers of rotten clothes from his skinny skeletal frame. A fat man, somewhat akin to a walrus, looks over. I give him my Paddington stare.

As I lead Squealer the long way round the club we pass various captive devices. All occupied by slaves, fuck pigs and cum buckets. Deeper into the caverns there are less savoury sights. At the far recesses we pass down a narrow corridor that is wall to wall with naked gimps. Chained in place by their masters and mistresses. Each and everyone with a discoloured engorged rapture. At times I feel as though I am a blind man stumbling down a rat tunnel of razor blades. Then I find an empty room.

Barn doors hanging limp offering scant seclusion, but it is adequate. Damp flaking walls, the building is crumbling. Dry crystal patches on the floor as a reminder or a thousand spilled juices. And a sadly sagging middle aged bondage rig with frayed ropes and cracked leathers. Squealer is beyond suggestion now. He simply mooches along muttering the thoughts of a feeble mind. It takes minutes to string him up, even though I have to fashion the ligature for my self. I am about to leave when a funny thought occurs to me. I pick a scab of plaster from the sickly walls and not too carefully scratch a word into Squealer's arse cheeks. It says 'hungry'. By the time I walk out he's already red in the face. There's a solid framework for you, you cunt. Before I even clear the gimp line I spy a beast head the way I have come and Squealer lives up to his name. By the time I am dressed and heading out the general screams have started. Perhaps tomorrow I will have that catch up with Pretty Boy.