The Executive (Patreon)

There was a palpable charge in the air at the office that morning. Every employee that arrived could feel it. No one was talking, yet everyone was communicating in hushed voices across all cubicles. Mark, the unit manager had arrived early and only a handful had a first-hand account of the event, though they all conflicted to some degree. Rumor was going from at one end that he was wearing a horse outfit to some "gay leather outfit" in the other. He had walked straight to his office, as always in the morning, so no one had a good look. But they all agreed that his outfit was completely inappropriate and totally out of character.

No one wanted to be late for the 8:00 meeting, but today none of the section managers waited by their desk to compile the latest figures. They all huddled in conference room 401 "Malibu", exchanging possible explanations in hushed voices. Those who usually cut it close saw the rest assembled in there through the glass wall, and hurried in there without passing their desks. Before they could ask what was going on they too assumed the hushed voice everyone else in the room was using.

At 7:58 the door to Mark's corner office opened and he confidently walked across the floor. If there was a buzz before there was a dead silence now. He wore nothing but calf-high 14-eye black Dr. Martens boots, black leather jockstrap, black butt plug tail, black X leather harness, black and red leather bracelets, and tightly strapped around his head a black mohawk mane contraption with a black rubber bit in his mouth. He carried his legal pad and pilot pen in his hand as every morning and walked straight to conference room 401, again as every morning.

Every eye in the office followed him on his one minute forty second walk. Inside room 401 all chairs swivel slowly to track him. They remained dead silent as he entered and closed the door behind him, and made his way to his seat at the end of the table. He put down his pad and his pen and looked at them all interrogative. "Rat?" he asked, presumably saying "What" impeded by the rubber bit.

A second of silence followed, after which Rob from analytics managed to voice a "Good morning, Mr. Turner." Still staring a choir of "Good Morning, Mr. Turner" escaped the rest of the participants. Mark sat down, nodded towards Rob, shaking the mohawk in the process, and asked "Rer are re? Jin?"

Jim Goodman was shocked out of his amazement and on autopilot started to read the latest production numbers from his tablet. He barely managed through the summaries when Mark's cellphone started vibrating. He glanced on the screen, furrowed his brows, and stood up. "I'm schorry Jin, eryone. I've een called to neet ri Mr. Kershar urgently. Eryone leave 11 oen and re'll reschune ren. I'll schend a confirnation no later ran 10:45."

He strode out the meeting room and continued straight ahead to the elevators. He pressed up to go to the management floor. Just minutes later he walked into Mr. Kershaw's office. The door was open, which was unusual.

Mr. Kershaw sat behind his desk, red in is face, with a look of utter contempt. "Close the door," were the first words out of him as Mark entered. Slightly confused by the lack of greeting he closed the door while responding with "Good morning, sir. You wanted to see me."

"What the hell is going on!"
"I don't underschtand, schir."
"You don't understand?! How the fuck can you show up like this? You know damn well that what we do in our free time still reflects on this company. But you've clearly managed to keep things discreet all these years, so while I'm disappointed that's not the issue. It's the brazen attitude to bring such filth into the workplace."
"I... Schir, I don't..."
"So what happened? You were out on some gay club sucking dick and got too drunk and high to bother going home to hose down? Is that it?"
"No, pleasch schir. I rasch home all eening. Nofing happened. Rell, Scham Merchant came by to comflain, but rat's it."
"Who the fuck is Sam Merchant?"
"He usched to run ENEA marketing but rasch let go lascht eek. It rasch in the HR neno fron the eek before."

Mr. Kershaw fell silent, looking more intrigued than upset.
"Schir, I'm schtill not schure rat isch rong."
"What did Mr. Merchant say and do yesterday evening. Tell me everything from the meeting and what you did next."
"It rasch a short eeting, schir. At 8 or scho schomeone rang the door, and I rent and opened. I frobably should have schecked the camera, but I didn't really feel freatened ren I found Scham on the other schide of the door. He rasch alwaysch timid. Art of the reaschon ry he couldn't make the numbersch, I fink. He schaid schomething like I rould regret letting him go, and I told him it raschn't really up to me. He schaid ullshit and left and ren..."
"Then what?"
"Odd. Ren I rasch in the office. I can't recall anyfing after closing the door."

Mr. Kershaw sat in silence for several seconds. He then made a few clicks on his laptop. "Mark, I've booked room 905 for the rest of the day. You know where it is?"
"Yeah, the rindowlesch room juscht acrosch from Booker'sch office."
"I need to go there and stay there until we have this sorted. Don't worry. For all ours sake we need to go to the bottom of this. You'll get all the help you need."
"Yesch. Of coursche. Helf ri rat ough?"