Books written by Ray Sullivan

Friday, 11 May 2012

Project: Evil - The Christmas Party part 2

 ‘Thank God for that.  He may be critical to the success of this project, but he’s one greedy bastard,’ he said.  ‘How is he suddenly a secret weapon?  Do I roll him over the opposing teams?’  Brian shook his head.
‘He’s a walking talking encyclopedia for music questions.  He knows every piece of trivia about the music industry that exists,’ he said.  O’Feld looked confused, held up the sheets of paper Brian had passed him.
‘Why should that matter?  I’ve got the answers,’ he said.  Brian shrugged.
‘I’m contractually obliged to provide you with the information you need to run your business,’ Brian said, quoting an article he’d read in the Telegraph.  Admittedly it was part of a strip cartoon, but, hey, it was the Telegraph.  O’Feld raised his bushy eyebrows, so Brian had to continue. ‘And you never read instructions, even when the success of a project depend on it.  Believe me, you need Froshdu at your side in the quiz.’  O’Feld seemed satisfied with this explanation, so he decided to look for a project update.  ‘When do we leave for the South Seas?’ he asked.  Brian looked at his watch.
‘Straight after the party, the airship’s moored outside ready to roll.  Pilot’s getting smashed on the two-fers and his crew are unfit to stand already.’
Is that wise?’ asked Daw.  ‘Those airship crew can drink one hell of a lot and the bar tab has been calculated on our normal consumption.
‘Good point, Daw,’ said O’Feld, nodding to Brian, ‘we’d better double the tab, there’s no way I’m flying in an airship crewed by drunken pilots with emerging hangovers.  Best we keep them sloshed,’ he added.  Brian nodded as he scribbled a note in his pad.
‘Is he good, the captain?’ asked Daw, aware that he hadn’t been involved in the recruitment.
‘The best, used to work cruise liners off the coast of Italy.  It seems he’s struggled to get regular work lately, so this was a peach of a job for him,’ said Brian, tapping his nose.  Daw looked satisfied, so Brian returned to fussing over the buffet, picking up a handful of sandwiches and placing them to one side.  He fished a laminated sign from his pocket and placed it in front of the food provided by the Head of Catering.
‘Gluten Free?’ asked O’Feld, puzzled.  ‘I thought the whole buffet was free,’ he explained.  Brian didn’t look up, just tidied up the arrangement.
‘It’s a health thing, the second but one bullshit to replace hyperactivity,’ he explained.  ‘Nearly overtook assumed dyslexia as an explanation for thick kids, the one generally used by the thick parents providing the genetic seeds,’ he continued.  O’Feld was more confused; most of his henchmen were thick and proud, and lying about anything was a company requirement.
‘So, this gluten thing, is it common?’ he asked as Brian placed an extremely attractive chocolate cake in the gluten free area, one Brian had found with his name on, in the Head of Catering’s handwriting.
‘Nope, we only have one person who has insisted on a gluten free buffet,’ he said, looking pleased with his efforts.
‘The EVIL Officer?’ asked Daw.
‘I thought we’d had him killed?’ asked O’Feld, irritated that his instruction had been ignored.  Brian shuffled nervously.
‘He pulled your name in the Secret Santa, nobody else wanted that gig,’ blurted Brian.  O’Feld’s eyes lit up.
‘I’d forgotten about that, when is it?’ he asked.
‘Just before we cast off,’ replied Brian, biting into a sausage roll.  O’Feld looked at Daw, who was grinning maniacally.
‘Which evil bastard arranged it so that he got my Secret Santa?’ he asked, impressed that someone in the organization could see how a difficult situation could be avoided while obeying an instruction, even if a little late.  At least he would have the opportunity to pull the trigger himself.
‘It was his last request, to be allowed to draw a name for the Secret Santa,’ answered Daw, looking at his fingernails, knowing what the next question would be – O’Feld never read policies.
‘We grant last requests?’ he said, incredulous.  Daw shook his head.
‘No, policy says we have to give them the opportunity to make the last request, the same policy insists we ignore it.  It’s just a bit of fun,’ he answered.
‘But?’ asked O’Feld.
‘But when he drew your name out, I felt it only reasonable that we allow it.’  O’Feld looked satisfied.  As far as he was concerned policies were rules and O’Feld Industries’ rule number one was that rules were for breaking.  Except rule number one, of course.
‘So, what’s he got me?’ asked O’Feld, absently slipping a dum-dum round into the chamber of the gun he’d found slipped into his hand, wondering who it had come from.
‘What does it matter?’ asked Brian, wiping gun oil down the front of his tux, ‘it’s unlikely to be suitable,’ he said.
‘You provided him with guidance, didn’t you?’ asked Daw, impressed.  Members of staff who provided untrue and erroneous information to work colleagues was not only despicable, it was an essential trait in Human Resources departments; when this project was over, he could have a senior role for Brian.  O’Feld had had enough of the chit-chat; more importantly, he’d filled his pockets with buffet.


The characters, companies and places referred to in Project: Evil are fictitious and any resemblance to people, companies, businesses or places is entirely coincidental

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