37 - Rastam pumps and Grinding Mechanics
Twigs Marsenitic rolled up to the Carl's Jr. drive through with a break through thought: to order a light meal of food and take it directly to work to eat rather than to eat it in parking lane #3, which was his usual location. He looked up at the scoreboard and thought for a moment, then rattled off his usual order: 3 piece fried chicken meal with extra gravy. He drove on by the greasy face parking lane and headed straight for the lair.
Today was a different day, unlike any other for Twigs. Today his boss had died in the back room at ten to 9, and being that he was the only one to work with his boss, nobody would ever know. He could, for example, eat his chicken off of the old man's desk without giving two shits or a handful of pineapple as a tithing. Yeah, that's right, old Mr. Cleverard wasn't getting the last laugh today. His boy, whom the shop was named after (Rastam) was away at sea at the moment, and didn't care much for his old man anyway. He generally despised the seemingly meaningless pastime of developing better pumps and grinding techniques, which was a Cleverard specialty. Rastam ran off with two homosexuals at the age of 19, one of them being a priestly type tied to the heads of the evangelical movement.
Today Twigs would take special delight in his new found strengths. Eat chicken, smash some bearings into some things, and grind away the table top corner. Things that were extremely disallowed under the old regime. He had time to consider times begone and read the latest issue of People magazine. He was pleased ultimately.
How long would he have though? How long could this continue without somebody finding out his ways? Ray Hulderson and Wade Brabock would be by soon with a delivery of grease guns and torque amplifiers. Would they think to ask? Twigs would cancel all future orders immediately by explaining sadly that business was poor. Luckily Cleverard had no friends that cared, owed to his ceaseless work ethic and him generally being an asshole. Granted, last quarter he did sell $100 thousand worth of pumps, but look where his exploitative and cut-throat capitalist practices got him: dead and bloated in the back room, not a soul crying for his revival.
Twigs threw his copy of People on the floor and crushed up a chicken leg on the desktop. Grease was slicked everywhere. He downloaded porn and a computer virus and scented victory in the air. He used a pump to pump old oil onto the shop floor and never looked back. To cover his tracks he ground up old Cleverard into bits. He put the remains into the oil drum and went home for the day. In his remaining life, he sold a pump now and again and ground down a few steel plates on contract. He always ate wherever the fuck he pleased and stopped reading People magazine, as he learned it was crass, voyeuristic, and mostly boring. He no longer cared about the lives of celebrities.
Today was a different day, unlike any other for Twigs. Today his boss had died in the back room at ten to 9, and being that he was the only one to work with his boss, nobody would ever know. He could, for example, eat his chicken off of the old man's desk without giving two shits or a handful of pineapple as a tithing. Yeah, that's right, old Mr. Cleverard wasn't getting the last laugh today. His boy, whom the shop was named after (Rastam) was away at sea at the moment, and didn't care much for his old man anyway. He generally despised the seemingly meaningless pastime of developing better pumps and grinding techniques, which was a Cleverard specialty. Rastam ran off with two homosexuals at the age of 19, one of them being a priestly type tied to the heads of the evangelical movement.
Today Twigs would take special delight in his new found strengths. Eat chicken, smash some bearings into some things, and grind away the table top corner. Things that were extremely disallowed under the old regime. He had time to consider times begone and read the latest issue of People magazine. He was pleased ultimately.
How long would he have though? How long could this continue without somebody finding out his ways? Ray Hulderson and Wade Brabock would be by soon with a delivery of grease guns and torque amplifiers. Would they think to ask? Twigs would cancel all future orders immediately by explaining sadly that business was poor. Luckily Cleverard had no friends that cared, owed to his ceaseless work ethic and him generally being an asshole. Granted, last quarter he did sell $100 thousand worth of pumps, but look where his exploitative and cut-throat capitalist practices got him: dead and bloated in the back room, not a soul crying for his revival.
Twigs threw his copy of People on the floor and crushed up a chicken leg on the desktop. Grease was slicked everywhere. He downloaded porn and a computer virus and scented victory in the air. He used a pump to pump old oil onto the shop floor and never looked back. To cover his tracks he ground up old Cleverard into bits. He put the remains into the oil drum and went home for the day. In his remaining life, he sold a pump now and again and ground down a few steel plates on contract. He always ate wherever the fuck he pleased and stopped reading People magazine, as he learned it was crass, voyeuristic, and mostly boring. He no longer cared about the lives of celebrities.
posted by fiestawizard at 10:12 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home