On the way out and there, from the darkness of a side corridor, steps my boss. He's pulled out all the stops tonight, has the badger. He's got a three piece suit on, his tie a genuine article of silk stained royal purple, the pin of his American lapel studded with a legit diamond. He's clad as sharp and chipper as a member of Congress.
"We need you to work overtime," he said abruptly, one beefy paw rising dream like, a long pointy claw the color of onyx tapping my chest. "Carl and Felix called out at the same time. It's a mess."
I'm about to say no. I've had it with this sparkle, the ostentatious glowing spiral. I want my Camry with two hundred thousand miles, a small apartment twelve stories up, half a fifth and the spin of city lights.
"Double Vic. I really need you. It's a special event."
My eyes search his and in their darkness I realize if I say no he won't forget that. It's my choice, of course it is, free country and all...even though when your fangs bite the brass tacks of small lives and desperate bosses it's not. You're either on the line or you're not. Such choices are remembered. That they are.
"Okay," I said, ears going flat. A shiver crawled down my spine.

He grins. The tension leaves the air. "Knew I could count on you!"
After that hearty statement his eyes narrow. "Help in the kitchen, start with that. Carlyle will brief you when the orders slow down."
"Aye sir," I say softly. I'm not sure if he heard. He's already walking hurriedly away, to the place bosses go.
I look at the floor. Time seems to stand still. There's this acrid taste in the back of my throat. The blackened lightning roasted spaces of what the fucks.