Miniature Fiction

Last day on the job, one hour left before I can finally retire after working the federally mandated 55 years. At 73 years old I had finally reached my last hour on the factory floor, I only hoped I had a few years I could enjoy before the doctors decided I wasn’t worth it and put me down. One hour left, one last bite of my celebration cake, that’s all it took to give me my first -  and last - heart attack.

My bosses didn’t know it yet, but tonight was my last show, I’m quitting this bitch. My time as anchor on America’s last highly rated news program was over, I had enough of bullshit TV journalism. So tonight I was going to sign off by telling everyone what I thought of them: my bosses, coworkers, and especially the American public, those bastards.

I wasn’t thinking,  my boss, the CEO of the company, had me write his emails all the time. As his assistant practically my entire job was performing his menial tasks. When I finally had enough of the companies political leanings I sent a company wide email, and out of habit signed my boss’s name.

Mark looked at the latest email from his boss and shook his head. Why his boss was such a ginormous douche, no one knew; luckily Mark had a cure for this. He took out his VooDoo doll of his boss and stabbed him in the heart, which he estimated removed yet another year from Mr. Douche’s life.

“Tom, your fired,” the cold hearted boss told the father of four. Tom tried to protest claiming that he’d do better, that his family needed him, that the company was rich and he’d worked half his life to help make it that way. The monstrous boss who’d grown up his entire life as a member of the 1% leaned back, lit a $100 cigar and blew smoke into Tom’s face, “You think I got to where I am without struggling, you need to work hard to be successful like me, FIGURE IT THE FUCK OUT!”