Daniel Matthew Morganson strode down the hallway, his Florsheims clicking authoritatively against the marble-lined floors. Colleagues of the eminent lawyer quickly sidestepped out of his way, accustomed to his manic depressive bouts of anger and clients looked after him with a mixture of fear and awe. After all, he was Daniel Morganson and at the age of thirty-nine, he was not only the youngest partner of his father's firm, but he was also the most successful. And with that success came his legendary rage which was most overlooked because he never lost his temper in the courtroom.
He didn't see the others who watched his progression down the hallway. He only saw anger. Greyscale static filled his eyes and the heat of his blood filled his face with its life-giving warmth but still, he didn't stop. He stomped up the short set of stairs that led to the Executive Rooms and used his key to open a special room that he'd had built. Inside, he knelt on a burlap-covered cushion, tossed off his jacket and shirt and reached for the short leather cat-'o-nine-tails hanging on the wall.
His anger burned deep today and he rejoiced in every sting that sliced through his flesh. Pain ran the length of his spine, wrapping around his body like an invisible snake and slithering through his veins. He raised the crop and slapped it down again and again, the leather tendrils marking and drawing blood from his already scarred skin. Spikes of pain washed through him and he exulted in each slap, finishing only when he'd reached his personal best count of fifty. Gasping, panting for breath, he slumped to the concrete floor, tears staining his cheeks and his teeth gritted against the pain.
Minutes later, he again appeared in the hallway, a new suit perfectly fitted to his body and his carriage stiff and uncompromising. His executive secretary, Charlene, who'd been with him for years, stared at him until he came to a halt in front of his office door and looked at her. "Grant Alberts is holding on two and your three o'clock has rescheduled to four."
"Fine."
"Are you all right, Mr. Morganson?"
Daniel fixed her with his usual stay-away-from-me stare, giving her a curt nod. "Of course, Miss Pooley." He ignored the look she returned and flung himself into his $2,000 WorkLounge chair, his temples pounding. He rubbed his forehead, picked up the receiver and answered the call from Alberts, responding with all the warmth he could muster at this point. His second call was to the person he considered his closest friend, Franklin Justow and the sound of a crying male in the background made an unexpected smile rise to his face.
"What's up, Danny?"
"I should ask the same of you. I hear you've got company."
