The Collected Works of Alex Finkelstein and Clifton Boyd

In the middle of the meeting, for no reason she could discern, she told her boss, “You have a lovely smile.”
“Nice try,” Ms. Pearlman replied, almost smiling from her pathetic ness, “But that’s not changing my decision.”  The room was dead silent as Ms. Pearlman pulled from under her desk a big, brown box with the label, “Old Possessions” on it.  She’d made her mind and that was that.
Slowly, Danielle walked down the cubicle hallway for the last time with her head down in shame as the other employees paid their respects by giving her a “quiet enough so Ms. Pearlman won’t hear me and fire me, too” round of applause.  She’d given this clap many times before, but she never thought that she would be receiving it.  At lest she had survived for a pretty long time, considering her boss.  The average time for someone to stay employed with her was about two years.  Luckily, she’d been here for five years, three months, seven days, and thirteen seconds.  There were big prizes we gave out the person who stayed the longest, so it was important to know the exact time you got fired.  She easily beat the last record of the three years, six months, one day, and five seconds.  But that didn’t mean anything to her anymore.  All she cared about was that she had to leave all of her great friends at Pearl, Inc. 
First, there was Mike and Spike, the two twins that could probably out smart Albert Einstein if they felt like it.  They had a disorder at birth so they hardly grow, but could work faster than a super computer.  Ms. Pearlman was lucky to get them while they were desperate.  They are now known as “The Leprechaun Geniuses”.   
Secondly, there was Ashley Ford a.k.a. “Beauty Queen”.  She has the most extensive collection of make-up and perfume right at her desk.  The men have gas masks but all of us ladies just love it.  She also shares all of it, so 20 to 50% is spent at or somewhere near her desk.
Lastly, there was Pete a.k.a. “Petty Pete”.  He was the one who was always literally an inch from being fired almost every day over the year.  He fights with Ms. Pearlman about every single thing.  I don’t even know why she’s kept him hired for that long.  He’s always the first one to stand up for us employees, so we all trying to follow him by his great example to stand up for workers rights.
As I opened the door to my ’95 Chevy Blazer (just so you know, it’s the year 2005), I put my head down in shame as I gripped the old, brown box lightly.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw four blurry figures walking towards my car.  Tears started running quickly down my eyes as I saw that they were my four best friends, holding up their boxes in confidence.  I slowly made my way out of the car, not believing that they had quit their jobs just for me.  I leaped into their arms, wanting this wonderful hug of friendship to last forever, but we all got in our cars and drove the road as a line; as a team; to go buy coffee for when we’d go through the job offer list in the newspaper. 
 

I pulled my key out of my blue jeans, stuck them in the hole, and opened the old, rickety door.  Tired of doing lots of work at school, I kicked off my K-Swiss into the shoe pile, too lazy to take the time to untie them.  Ready to watch an overly dramatic soap opera (which was the only channel I got on my TV, with an almost broken antenna from the 1980’s), I worked my way carefully through the unfinished kitchen so I wouldn’t step on crooked nails left by the dirt-cheap company we hired for the job.  It ended up being a horrible decision, which we should have known because their advertising was a piece of blank paper taped to the wall with writing on it.  Anyway, next thing I knew I was looking at three guys in my den with guns, looking through my family’s stuff searching for something valuable.
They wore black shirts, pants, and masks; except one.  One wore some flooding blue jeans, an extremely corny shirt with Albert Einstein on it, and some superhero shoes with light-up action.  In short, he was some teenage geek in high school.  He normally wouldn’t be much of a threat, but he had two had guns, one in each hand.  “Who are you?!” the geek screamed at me, automatically pointing the gun in his sweating right hand at my head.  I felt like a deer in headlights, with my wide brown eyes and my heart missing beat, after beat, after beat.
Then, suddenly, he pulled the wet, cold trigger and a small bullet pierced my skin and heart as I feel to the ground in unbearable pain.
The next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed in Beaumont with so many tubes in my body I laid there in shock for about five minutes.  What was I thinking, I thought, I am such an idiot.  I made a small pause.  But at least I’m alive.  My situation could have been a lot worse than what I was, so I thanked God for his blessing as I laid on the bed with the red hole in my chest.  
 

I was walking silently into the hotel with a giant suitcase in one hand and a bagel in the other; dressed just like another inconspicuous person walking to his room, smiling politely at anyone who passed by.  I stepped into the elevator, pretended to push the button, and waited until it closed.  Very quickly, not letting anyone get the chance to get to the elevator next, I broke off the plastic cover to a button labeled “DO NOT TOUCH!”  While the old elevator slowly made its way up to the roof, I unpacked my sniper from my suitcase.  Once on the roof I loaded my gun and then looked at my watch impatiently, waiting for 2:57 p.m.  During that minute, and that minute only, when billionaire John Brown, the manager of Crunk Jam Records, walked in public dressed in all black, sunglasses, and a hat with his hair temporarily dyed whatever color shirt his wife was wearing that moment.  All of a sudden, I saw him on Michigan Avenue, just walking out of Saks with an Armani suit on with the tag still hanging from the sleeve.  Once hidden in the crowd, he started rushing through all of the people, wanting to get back to the safety of his security guards.  Prepared for his speed, earlier I had paid one of the homeless guys fifty bucks to stop and beg some psycho running down the street.  Everything was going according to plan, with Mr. Brown desperately trying to get around this seemingly crazy hobo asking over and over for some spare change.  Then, without a second thought, I shot him.  In an instant, I saw the billionaire John Brown, manager of Crunk Jam Records, fall to the ground in unbearable pain, with a hole bleeding heavily in his chest.  I knew all of that target practice would pay off.  Quickly before anyone would know where the shot came from, I took of my shoes, put on a new pair from my suitcase, and with a mop from the roof, I wiped my sniper and the floor clean.  Leaving everything behind, I walked out of the hotel innocently, feeling a wonderful but somewhat evil sensation flowing through my veins.
I was sitting on my red, leather couch as I turned on my 50-inch Samsung plasma television to watch the news with a devilish grin.  “Please give a moment of silence for the loved and belated John Brown, one of the most well kwown music managers in the world.” The Channel 5 news anchor said with small, but meaningful tears ran down her face ruining her nearly perfect make-up.  In five seconds flat, I was off the couch, pounding my fists against the carpet as hard as possible, with tears rolling down my face; not from sorrow, but from laughter.  I felt absoleutely nothing for that 35 year-old, no good, money grabbin thief.  He stole my father’s beats, and killing him was the only fair punishment.  My dad was a single father, so he was always a hard worker.  He was a DJ for a living, and made up his own beats on the side.  One day he sent his beats to Crunk Jam Records, hoping they’d like his beats and buy them off him; instant money.  But they liked a better idea: they stole them.  Since he had no patton to prove they were his, they got enough stuff to keep cool music coming for years while my dad was forced to walk away with only the tears from his eyes.
“The police say they have a lead.” The anchor said looking at the paper, stunned.  Suddenely I stopped all of my actions, wondering if I had forgotten anything.  “On the roof of a hotel, they found a sniper, a suitcase, and shoes.  The sniper and floor, was wiped clean.  But there was some hair in the shoe which led the police to Fred Jackson, son of the belated John Jackson.”
Quickly, I got a spare hand gun from my room, closed my eyes, and without a second thought, I felt the same pain John Brown felt just as the police kicked open the door.