Laura peers towards me as I'm sitting quietly at my desk on break."When you're off break, could you meet with me?" she asks so politely as she smiles so innocently.
I cut my break short by a few minutes in order to meet with her since I'm concerned over what this meeting might be about.
"Am I in trouble yet again?" I wonder.
I approach her desk on the floor and she motions for me to follow her to "the bubble", a private room where managers discuss issues with employees which may require more privacy. Like if they need to fire you.
"Oh boy." I think to myself, "What's up now!?"
Laura asks me to close the door and she brings up a recording of one of my calls on the computer. It's yet another in the endless series of whiny bitches trying to get a reprieve from the company induced butt fuck called a CIT. Change In Terms. Basically, it's a Dear John Letter from Chase to it's card members who are deemed less than profitable. In essence, it says to the customer that they should pay what's remaining on their account and look elsewhere for a future credit card 'cause they aren't making the bank enough profit and they pose a potential risk.
Should we expose this truth to them? Not quite so concisely.
There in lies the problem with this newest call. I was way too honest with the devalued card member and the bitch took offence. Both of them. The idiot card member and Laura.
*So as Laura is admonishing me about the call, I ensure that indeed the door is locked. I move within inches of her and pick up the computer flat panel monitor. Using the sharp plastic corner of the monitor as a piercing bludgeon, I strike the smarmy cunt hard, squarely in her left temple.
The rigid plastic of the monitor corner digs deep into her head, smashing through thin skull bone and pierces her idiot malfunctioning brain matter. Blood spurts throughout the room and as she slumps to the Berber-carpeted floor of the private conference room, twitching in her death throes, I drop the now broken monitor to her side and cooly spit on her face as I see her eyes roll back and her mouth gasp its last feeble breath.
I wipe as much of the blood off of my shirt and pants as possible, take a minute to compose myself and walk out to the hall. I take the elevator down and quickly, but quietly, exit the building.
As I pass along the hall featuring a museum-like display of JP Morgan Chase historical images embedded in pretty niches in the wall, I look over at the 19th century sepia-toned photograph of JP Morgan. I sneer at him as I walk by and it seems that his eyes follow me as I move down the hall. It looks as if he is watching me.
I don't know if he seems to approve or disapprove of my actions, but with a wink and a nod, I leave his ghostly portrait to come to that conclusion on it's own.
(NOTE: The above story becomes fiction after the asterisk.)