Not Praiseworthy Predation
“That Victorian cow is making my life miserable.”
“Well you’re a Postmodern pig, so I guess that evens it all out doesn’t it?”
“Why are you taking her side in this?”
“Im not. You need to be aware that there are two points of view in this case. What you consider to be edgy experimentalism, she considers profane and poorly rendered. And she’s the editor, so tough shit,” Angela said.
“Ah, she’s a menopausal Holstein. She should change her name to Elsie.” He pulled back on the rubber band around the tip of his index finger and he fired it at her. “And, fuck you too, you heifer.”
“Screw you, Richard. Is that all you can manage when you’re pissed-off at us, liken us to cows?”
“Well, you called me a pig! Oh, how quaint repeating grandma’s early ’70’s clap trap. Why don’t you append ‘male chauvinist’ to it, Billy Jean Bovine?”
She picked up the stapler from her desk and flung it at him. It flew wildly to the left and punctured the sheet rock wall. It fell open, next to his laptop, and spewed out two neat rows of staples.
He pecked at his laptop and a string of party horns, kazoos and mooing noises belched from the speakers. “It’s called ‘Dying Cows with Putrid not Praiseworthy Predation,’ and the name of the band is Smegma, just like your breath smells, bitch,” he said.
“Are you serious? Are you serious?! You’re just a Trump voting ‘SpaceHitler’ wannabe aren’t you? I’ve had all the shit I can take from you, asshole. I don’t care that she’s your aunt; she’s had all she can take from you too. Say goodbye ’cause this is probably your last day here.”
“Aw, it looks like my little heifer ain’t been milked yet. What’s wrong? Is it that time of the month? Are your udders sore? Your bra a little tight?” He was pinching his nipples through his shirt as he said this.
“It’s a new day, chickadee. It’s November 9, 2016, babe! Circle it on your calendar with your bloody tampon, bitch. Things is going to be different from here on out. Woo Hoo!” He flicked another runner band at her, this one thicker and harder; it found it’s mark on her left breast. “Bull’s eye! Beam me up Scotty I think the dyke is gonna’ burst.”
“You fucking prick. You’re lucky if you get a severance check after I’m done with you. Pig!” She walked out of the office under a hail of paper clips.
“Moo,” he cat called as she slammed the door. He mock-masturbated his tie at the door. “Bitch,” he hissed. He slapped the volume higher on the laptop.
Richard knew this would be the last offense tolerated at the office.
IT IS A NEW DAY, he scrawled with a red extra wide sharpie just below the gaping hole in the wall. As the intensity of the next song on playing from the laptop, “Madness Mambo,” increased he repeated: IT’S A NEW FUCKING DAY on Angela’s purse, her desk and then in foot tall letters on all the office walls.
“A new fucking day,” he whispered and walked out of Stillwell Publishing for the final time.
“CALIGULA: No, Scipio, it’s clear-sightedness. I’ve merely realized that there’s only one way of getting even with the gods. All that is needed is to be as cruel as they.”
— Albert Camus / Caligula