The Replacements

Mark Cavit eased into the heavy, leather chair behind his office desk. The phone was on its third ring, and he snatched the handset from the cradle just before it went to voicemail. It was Jackie. There was an eager melody in her voice. She wanted to know how it all went. He leaned back and kicked his shiny wingtips up onto the mahogany. "It's done," he said.

She sounded thrilled. "So what does this mean?"

"This means we're going to have a really nice bonus this Christmas." He felt the smile tug at the corners of his lips, pride. "I just saved the company upwards of five-hundred thousand a year. Probably more when you factor in all the bullshit: salaries, insurance, bonuses."

"That's great."

"Yeah, I'll be home in a while to celebrate. Let me just finish up here."

"Ok, can't wait. Drive careful. I love you."

"Love you, too."

He set the phone back onto the receiver, and he went across the room to his fully stocked minibar (every executive needed one, and Mark Cavit spared no expense on the liquor). He poured himself a glass of scotch, two fingers, and not that cheap shit they give out at office parties, either. This was the good stuff, eighteen-year-old Aberlour. It didn't burn your throat when you drank it. It went down smooth, like a glass of warm butter.

Mark stood before the large canvass of glass and looked out at the horizon of staggered buildings and lights. Red tail lights zipped through the labyrinth of buildings. Even from here he could hear the perpetual honk of car horns, impatient drivers urging the slowpokes to get their asses moving. The human race was just a bunch of assholes – most anyway.

He sipped at the scotch, and then his phone rang again. He walked over to the desk and looked down at the illuminated number on the display. It was Jackie again. What now?

"Hey."

"Sorry, I just wanted to catch you before you left. Would you mind stopping and grabbing a bottle of Motrin on your way home? Sadie's got a low-grade fever."

"Sure thing. I'll be leaving in a few, just finishing up."

"Ok, love you."

"Love you, too."

Click.

Mark sauntered back to the window. He gazed outside, his speech playing like an old victory reel in his mind. Your roles are no longer in demand for the corporation. That was good. It was compassionate, but got the message across. They wouldn't be able to bitch that he was unsympathetic. The company has made the decision to outsource your departments. The room went still. Everyone looked as though they'd taken a collective shit in their pants and were hoping the person beside them wouldn't start pointing fingers. The transition will take three months, at which time you will receive your final pay checks.

He handled it well. There was no sense in pulling people into a room one by one, wasting management's time. One and done, that was the way to go. Talk about taking the I out of team.

The last ember of sun burned somewhere below the horizon. It kicked up a spray of orange that hit the bottom of the clouds. He swallowed the scotch and left the glass on the bar, and on his way across the office he tapped the front of the iron maiden that stood adjacent to his desk. The spikes had been removed, but the device was still intimidating. It worked well at meetings or when reprimanding an employee. It brought a sense of fear to whoever was in the office with him, especially when he left it slightly ajar. It gave him the upper hand.

When he turned away from the contraption the office door swung open, and a tall man walked into the Mark's office.

"I expect people to knock," Mark said. "You don't just go barging into an executive's office."