I am Sam Hardman. I was the head of the copy department at Johnson and Dolan Marketing and Advertising in Atlanta, the biggest in the Southeast, and I wanted revenge on both Larry Johnson and Darryl Dolan for humiliating me in front of our biggest client, Bryson Foods. They were the ones who had the final say in any campaign and had put their stamp of approval on both the art and wording of the five posters that stood on easels in the conference room. I have always been a loyal and dedicated member of the organization but was sitting at the round table being vilified by my own bosses as the client continued to disparage my work and the work of my department.
Once the meeting was over, all of the writers in the copy department were called to Larry Johnson's office, and he fired every one of us. The week before Christmas. That was inexcusable and simply unacceptable. Somewhere I read that revenge is a dish best served cold. I now had a new goal in my life: revenge. If that saying was true, I had to be careful and patient.
Before my abrupt dismissal, I recalled watching Darryl's 21 year old wife as she undulated through the hallways to his office. She knew what kind of effect she had on all the men in the office, because she always had this little smirk of self-satisfaction about her. Her name was Sherry, and she always came in dressed like slut; short leather skirt that showed the muscular legs of a dancer (She had been a stripper when Darryl began to pursue her.), very low-cut blouses to emphasize her wonderfully enhanced breasts. She had almost platinum blonde hair which she kept either in a tight pony tail or in pig tails, making her look even younger. Her piercing eyes were almost emerald green. Sherry's skin was completely white so she would never have tan lines as is the preference of most professional strippers. They also wanted to avoid any damage to their skin to reduce the effects of aging. Most of the time, she wouldn't wear a bra. Darryl was mortified but never said a word about it lest she turn on him like a wounded animal. She really had him by the short hairs. Actually, everybody in the office laughed at Darryl behind his back because he was so pussy-whipped.
While I worked there, Sherry would make a point to stop by my office and ask how things were going. Sometimes when Darryl was tied up, she would come in and sit down, crossing her legs so that her tight skirt would ride up to the tops of her thighs. I don't know why she took an interest in me, because at the age of 45, I was 12 years older than her husband. I kept my self in pretty good shape by doing a lot of running, weight lifting, swimming and biking. At six-four and a hard two hundred pounds, I really looked about ten years younger than my real age. However, my salt and pepper hair and the slight graying of my beard gave me away at once. Another feature many people found attractive was my hazel eyes which took on the color of what I was wearing.
Once they had married, Darryl began having to work more than he ever had as his dad was easing himself out of the firm. Therefore, Darryl had begun to eschew exercise, and he began drinking and eating more with the clients. The entertainment part of his job was the main reason his stomach had started to bulge and ooze over his belt, as the rest of his body moved toward complete flabbiness.
I knew Sherry was a tease, and she knew she was a tease. But that did not stop her from coming on to me like a cheap whore. I usually went along with her little games, until the day I was fired. She came by my office while I was cleaning out my desk and said, "I really enjoyed teasing an old man like you, because you looked so much like those losers who sit next to the stage and go gaga over me. I loved it."
"Don't flatter yourself, bitch. You're nothing but a sluttish cunt to me. You always have been and always will be, so go fuck yourself."
She never saw that coming. Her red lipped mouth hung open for a minute, until she wheeled out of my office. Laughing out loud, I hoped Darryl would come flying in here so I could kick his lazy ass. But he didn't. Fucking coward.
I decided I needed a good, stiff drink, so I drove over to Benny's Tavern where I knew a waitress who I'd known for a long time and confided to her often with my troubles. As I walked in the front door, I was immediately aware of two things: a cool rush of air and a pleasant dimness in the lighting. There was nothing better than a semi-dark bar with good air conditioning to help you relax over a few beers.
Slipping into one of the back booths, Lana came over to me and threw a napkin on my table.
"Whadda you want and don't ask me what I got, cause I'm too goddamn busy." This was her way of showing her friendship. She never talked that way except with her good friends. And don't let me run low on the beer."
"What the fuck are you celebrating, Sam?"
"Getting fired."
"Man. That's fucking terrible. What are you going to do?"
