You’re fired, Bro!
You’re fired
–You’re fired!
–No, and once again, no! I’m leaving of my own volition, and I would’ve slammed the door if they weren’t automatic!
–Slam your dumb head with your empty wallet, you idiot.
–Boss… umm… I mean ex-boss — this is going too far now. Then I’m forced to inform you that your wife is cheating on you.
–With who?! You trying to say it’s with you, you little weasel?
–With… uh… with that guy… or maybe that one... anyway, not with you for sure.
–Uh-huh, got it. You’re just as bad a liar as you were a trader. Get the hell outta my office!
–At least I’m lower than you — which means I’ve got room to grow!
–That’s the weakest argument I’ve ever heard. Grab your crap and be gone in ten minutes. Clock’s ticking. Louis, you’re in charge and you’ll be the timer. Hope you can handle that role.
–Of course, Sir! You didn’t even need to say it, didn’t even need to think it — I already started counting on my fingers.
The building did not shake after losing such a valuable employee. Now short by exactly one human being, it calmly continued to serve as a trusty cage for the untamable “bulls| and “bears” (those are trader terms, go Google it — don’t make me stick boring footnotes in here and turn this story into Wikipedia).
On a pleasant spring evening, a former big shot in the world of numbers and charts — now unemployed but unbroken — stepped outside into the open air and immediately choked.
Yeah... been a while since he breathed actual oxygen that hadn’t been dehydrated by ruthless AC vents.
In his hands, this faceless, grey figure (just as expected of the satirical “Worker-Man” archetype) was holding a box. In that cardboard Pandora’s cube lay his sad little collection of “essentials”
— the stuff he genuinely treasured.
He hadn’t even considered using a bag. Everyone knows that after leaving a job, your worldly belongings are only to be carried out in a cardboard box. That’s the law of postmodernism, shaped by every movie and TV show ever made.
As he neared the first building in sight, three figures stepped out from around the corner. They didn’t look much like midnight muggers — wrong time of day, and honestly, wrong era too.
One massive brute in a sleeveless top and high-end designer sandals, a girl with a smug look and an African pygmy hedgehog in her arms (which, by the way, looked just as smug), and finally — their leader. He wore a crimson cloak with old-school boxing shorts pulled over it.
The signs by which the Worker-Man immediately understood this particular individual wasn’t a follower but belonged to that rare species of natural-born leaders were as follows: he walked slightly ahead of the other two, had a clearly exhausted expression (a classic indicator of someone crushed by the stupidity of his subordinates), and the big guy was giving him a shoulder massage. The subordinate also tried to run his knuckles down the length of his boss’s spine, but the leader jumped and shrieked:
— This creature is perfect for the Grand Mission I’ve chosen. Nobody will see his face anyway, and his voice is probably just as boring as his box. People will assume I’m too tired to deliver my usual electrifying speech. And even if they think that, so what?
Ticket sales won’t go down either way, because my mighty shoulders will always carry the highest bar set. Casey, Stacey — spin this ferret around and drag him to the concert hall.
Before the Worker-Man could so much as flinch, the strange man’s lackeys were already on him like lightning bolts from a bottle. They draped their arms over his shoulders and whispered politely that he’d better not make a sound — otherwise they’d have to use tickle-torture mixed with Brazilian jiu-jitsu.
He had no choice but to obey.
As the newly formed quartet marched briskly toward their destination, the leader tore off his cloak, standing half-naked, and Casey and Stacey plopped it onto their prisoner. They pulled a
hood over his head, mostly obscuring his face, and somehow dug out a heavy iron belt, snapping it tight around his waist.
— This is my take on the old-fashioned Chastity Belt. — the boss explained, scratching both his own and someone else’s nose — All my neophytes must undergo such an initiation to truly feel what it means to be part of my fandom. Even my hatchlings went through it, right, Casey?
–Yeah, Maître. But mine got really pinchy. –Complained the brute.
–Quit whining, or you’ll never rise to the upper dan and earn the right to wear these. – The chief gestured to his shorts and lovingly stroked them with the tips of his fingers. Then he resumed the briefing:
–Alright, here’s your over-ear mic. My niece Valeria will be feeding you the script through it, and you’ll repeat everything word for word. Meanwhile, I’ll finally get to finish painting a fresh batch of natal charts for resale in the Central Asian market. They move really well there. Even Great Personalities like me can’t escape fragmentary commerce.
Drop-shipping — heard of it? No? It was invented by my ancestors in Tenochtitlan during prayers to their mighty deity Huitzilopochtli. Whatever, don’t overload your sardine — that thing you mistakenly call a brain. We’re here.
Finally, the captive opened his mouth, hiccuped once, then managed to overcome his astonishment. Then hiccuped again. And quite seriously declared:
–But I don’t want to perform! I’m afraid of crowds, I always avoided presentations, even at corporate meetings. Also... thank you for giving me a new job so quickly after I left the old one. But… are you going to pay me?
A tense silence followed, broken only by the rustling of the hedgehog.
The leader’s lip trembled — not with grief or barely-suppressed tears, but with rage. His voice was now laced with pure, dumbfounded fury:
–What do you mean, respect isn’t a currency?! Look at him, Casey — and you too, Stacey. I keep mixing you two up… Can you believe this guy thinks a damn burger is more important than street cred ability?! Drag him to the stage now, before I spiral into a non-alcoholic delirium of pure wrath!
You’re Hired!
And there it was — the pedestal of vanity!
The spotlights beamed, as they do in all semi-respectable productions, the camera crew sweated under their trucker hats, and the audience gazed in awe at the future one-man-theater performer.
Someone loudly slurped pineapple juice through a straw, and the Worker-Man’s heart clenched in rhythm with that deeply disturbing sound.
In his earpiece came the slightly teasing but overall cheerful voice of a girl — like a GPS system trying out empathy. She introduced herself as Valeria and gently asked him to calm down a bit, because all that was required of him was to wave his arms around a lot, run back and forth across the stage, and repeat everything she said.
Then the performance would be over. Sooner or later. Everything in nature has a beginning and an end — including the rental period of this hall.
The mouth opens. The vocal cords are lubricated with spring water from a bottle. And the sound bursts from the speakers:
And here I am! Your Gloriously Known, Adored, and Praised-in-Eddas Mentor and Maître. What is my name? You will say it — for only a thousand-throated roar may utter such a mighty name.
–Maiji Kuiper! Wa-Wa-Gua-Wa, Teacher!
Excellent. You still remember our slogan, my undercooked meatballs, my precious chufuses
who’ve come seeking knowledge from beyond the stars.
Now I shall deliver a heartfelt lecture, which is one hundred percent improvised, because writing down my wisdom on paper or a tablet is an act of pure disrespect — toward Science itself.
Just like having a clear structure, which I’m sure you were all expecting, huh? You probably think I’ll start describing the path of a human being from birth, slowly crawling toward death by some boring auto-asphyxiation, cursed be its name and every cliché-riddled handbook that ever mentioned it!
–No, and once again, no! – Roared the hall in righteous anger.
We will not be discussing harpsichords, Confederates, or Balrogs — all of which are also painfully predictable as the opening to an epic called: “The Beginning of a Chill Life
Promenade.”
In our — or rather my — business guide, which details how to turn a miserable human being into a battle-ready golem of the financial ecosystem, it is important to acknowledge all of the above factors. They complicate your understanding of this lecture — you, my future Dark Lords of Silicon Valley.
–Unhealthy Cynicism – Is Our Multicultural Creed!
That’s right, my precious chufuses! You know it yourselves — all you need to do is listen to Me, occasionally kneel to prevent joint pain (and earn my approval), and of course, don’t be shy about drooling, lest I suspect you (heaven forbid!) of developing some form of intelligence.
Now then — let us talk about physical saturation of the organism.
