For as long as he did not speak up, Richard was an impressive man.
His chiselled body was reminiscent of ancient sculptures representing Greek gods. With a chest like an aircraft carrier and legs like tree trunks, he was factory's most recognizable landmark. Eating was his main occupation and forcing food into his mouth, main responsibility. Digesting was his favourite hobby.
Richard suffered from relapses of verbal diarrhoea. Loose chunks of shit frequently passed through his mouth. He was naturally unable to say a good thing about anyone, not even the dead. Saying good things about people made him sick. His symptoms included dizziness, blurred vision, loss of balance and shortness of breath. A prolonged exposure to a positive atmosphere had a devastating effect on his health and Richard prepared for family celebrations like some prepare for malaria before traveling to Africa. Sitting at the same table with the close ones for more than two hours was a torture he was only able to endure because of strength of his character. Even then he struggled to hold a conversation as the family would naturally gravitate toward optimistic commonalities which Richard could not share or enjoy due to fear of getting fever. Every time he was forced by social expectations to say something good about people, he would end up puking. Pretending politeness and interest in subjects different than bodybuilding and football gave him cold shivers. His body was rejecting articulate conversations like a foreign transplant. Christmas and Easter were particularly painful. After a day of polite discussions he would get struck by severe dehydration. "Kevin Home alone" caused him annual attacks of childhood trauma. In a space of few days he would become a shadow of his former self and had to rush back to the gym to regain all his losses.
His wife loved his body but could not listen to him. After she had left, Richard was free to dedicate all his time to gaining, maintaining and measuring the size of his enormous limbs.
He trained before the work, rested during the work and prepared for training after the work. The first two hours of his shift were allocated for recovery, because there was no one big enough to tell him otherwise. From six to seven he sat motionlessly on a small stool, he was not allowed to have, from where, together with the Hooligan, exchanged callous remarks about the management team, directors, owner, wood shop manager, health and safety officer and football in general. It was an exhausting schedule, but Richard knew how to pace himself. He would take a well - deserved break during already taken brake and continue his regeneration with clear conscious up until Ashley's arrival around seven in the morning, when the factory slowly filled up with people and hum of drills, saws and punchers.
Richard would reluctantly get into a second gear, warm up his stiff limbs with some clumsy movement around his bench, while carrying on unstoppable crusade of finding unacceptable imperfections in everyone around for he did not mind pointing out other people's shortcomings and would do so purely out of good intentions. He believed constructive criticism was a basis for an improvement, which he, himself, was a proud personification of. Eating was the only moment when he did not criticise, for he knew talking with full mouth was bad manners. A self - proclaimed champion of good manners, he demanded a proper conduct from everyone around and was more than happy to provide himself as a perfect example of what a proper conduct should look like in case people fell short of his expectations. His unusual capability for a positive self - assessment only enforced his conviction that he was a well – rounded, polite individual.
He honestly thought that the Managing Director was an idiot and openly called him a fat cunt the whole year round till the run up to the pay rise. If he got the pay rise he would start calling the Managing Director a fat cunt after the Christmas. If he did not get it, he would start calling the Managing Director a fat cunt straight away. The fact the company was doing so well under the Managing Director's stewardship meant absolutely nothing to him because only an idiot would not be able to look after a goose lying golden eggs and Richard knew about eggs more than most people for he had ten raw egg whites' every day in the morning for a second breakfast, which he gulped at the first attempt from a large plastic vase to kick off what supposed to be a beautiful day in place full of ugly people. He followed with a set of pills he kept in a small container with in printed days of a week on it. Such a life style was not without repercussions.
Richard's fart belonged to a completely new generation of flatulence, unwanted child born from arranged marriage of anabolic steroids with modern dietary teachings. For evolutionary biology it was a protein rich chemical innovation causing eye damage and irreversible sensitisation of respiratory track. When deluded in water, it was toxic to aquatic life. Even small exposures triggered mild hallucinations. Richard was thick like a plank. Sensitisation did not apply to him but his hallucinations, they were all but mild.
In his own opinion, no one looked better than him, no one worked harder than him and no one was more polite than him which he, most of the time kept it for himself as a sign of his natural humility. When he was sitting on his stool, he was sitting on it better than most people would. His competitive spirit could not stand other bodybuilders for they were either smaller than him and therefore not at the same level which he could not help but notice with unconcealed satisfaction or bigger than him, and therefore overdosing which he could not help but notice with unhinged jealousy.
For Richard there were only two types of people – he and mediocre idiots he worked with and tolerated purely out of his good nature regardless of whether he was friends with them or not. He was proud to have balanced opinions about topics he knew nothing about and found deducting points from the black man to be an excellent exercise sharpening his mental acumen. Yet, despite all advantages of a bright intellect and a healthy body, Richard could not tell for sure who tried to poison him.
- What do you mean someone tried to poison you? – Asked the production manager, when Richard knocked to his door, pale like a sheet.
- Someone tried to poison me – he explained one more time with. His lips quivered from emotions.
- What, with polonium?
- I do not know? I do not know?
- So how do you know you were poisoned?
- They poisoned my food. And Ron's too. They poisoned our food, mixed something in it.
- How do you feel?
- I am not good, I feel weak, and have got like weakness in my knees.
- You have got weakness in your knees. – repeated the production manager.
- Yes, like weakness, and I do not feel well. Terry's the same. Someone here is a bad actor.
- Well, we better find out who is that. Why do not you go to HR and tell them about it. I think it has to be raised to the higher level and I am not quite sure if I am qualified enough to deal with it on my own. Go to HR, talk to them. Pop over later on and tell me what she said.
- She said not to tell anyone – Richard reported when he came back from HR. – useless cunt.
- What else did she say?
- Not to tell anyone.
- Did you tell someone?
- Nope.
- And what else?
- She said I can't prove it
- Can you?
- They even stirred my pasta so that I do not know something was added to it.
- This is unacceptable. Look, do not tell anyone. It's better if we keep it secret. It may be more than one person.
Richard kept his mouth shut and did not say a word to anyone but Ashley and Hooligan. Ashley promised to investigate and spilled the beans to the skinny saw manager, who, without asking anyone for permission, immediately took the investigation into his hands and established without a doubt that he did not know who could be so relentlessly stupid. Nobody believed it could be the black man. To carry on such an operation required a certain level of imagination and it was not exactly clear if the black man had some. Never the less he took the brunt of consequences just because there was no one else to take it and for the next couple of days Richard consistently deducted points from him while the Hooligan moderated the hell out of his face with a friendly jab of his. With the culprit still at large, the skinny saw manager established without a doubt that it must have been someone stupid enough to risk getting in trouble with Richard. He had a point. There were only two people who could do that: The Health and Safety officer, an ex - strongman who wanted to be a millionaire but did not know how, and the wood shop manager. The skinny saw manager suggested the wood shop manager, concluding that for a man who believes in flat Earth, sky was the limit. An innocent suspicion started circulating around in the form of a malicious gossip.
The fitters learned about it in the kitchen and passed it over the surveyors, who in turn passed it back to the skinny saw manager, convincing him that he was correct all along. What started to be an innocent suspicion, turned out to be true. The skinny saw manager then passed it back to Richard as a confirmed fact and the next day Richard hide his pasta at the bottom of his back pack, which he then put in a cardboard box under his bench where it could be monitored for most of a day by either him or the Hooligan.
- But why? – He wanted to know. – Where is this evil coming from?
- He hates you because he is afraid of you. – Explained the skinny saw manager when the saw each other in the kitchen. – Just like the Russians.
- I always knew he was a communist. – Richard replied instinctively.
- He hates your way of life. – Added the skinny saw manager. – Just like the Russians.
The skinny saw manager fed it back to the fitters that the wood shop manager was a communist and although he could not prove it, the wood shop manager could not deny it either. The wood shop manager was guilty of poisoning Richard's food on a basis of his previous record and to make things even, the black man had his points deducted while hiding behind a silly guard attracting Hooligan's jab. The justice was served and a deep sense of mistrust entered the building.
Richard wanted to discourage eventual followers. His eyes glowed cynically in search of guilty conscious, methodically calculating everyone's behaviour with cold blooded accuracy of a mind possessed by the unknown. No one was safe. Every gesture Richard noticed had been evaluated, stored and cross - examined. Every smile he saw, measured with an equal mistrust. Exchanges, which otherwise would not caught his attention, were rewound and analysed. It was a Sisyphean work requiring herculean effort. His chiselled face hardened and his productivity dropped. The Managing Director had to do something about it.
- And Ron's too – Lucy added assertively without a smile or a sign of surprise on her beautiful face. The managing director sat behind his desk like a fat Buddha in pink shirt.
- They poisoned him? – He asked again.
- And Ron's too – Lucy added again. She was a very precise lady with a precise make up making precisely the kind of impression she wanted to make, of a devoted office professional focused solely on facts. The Managing Director placed both hands on his large belly. His thumbs started circling around each other in quick noiseless move. He smacked his lips and said:
- How do they know that?
- Someone stirred their food. – Lucy replied.
- Someone stirred their food? – The managing Director raised his eyebrows.
- Richard pours his sauce over pasta. He opened his container and pasta was mixed together with the sauce.
- Did he eat it?
- He said, he is not that stupid.
- So how does he know someone wanted to poison him?
- He felt week all day. – Lucy explained obediently.
The Managing Director frowned.
- Obviously, if he did not eat anything all day then, yes, he will be weak.
- I have got pictures. Pasta is definitely mixed up with the sauce. I have already taken statements from them.
- And what about Ron? – He asked impatiently after a moment of silence.
- Someone added hot Tabasco to his sandwich. He burned his mouth.
- Does he use Tabasco?
- He says he does not.
- And those sandwiches were his?
- Positive. No one else reported stolen sandwiches.
- With his eyesight everything is possible. How serious was the burn?
- He had tears in his eyes when he came up. Tony advised him to drink a lot of water. He has got gag reflex issues, almost choked to death. Duncan sent him home afterwards.
The managing Director was not impressed.
- What did Duncan say?
- He could not prove anything.
- What did you say to them?
- To keep it quite till we can prove something.
- What did they say?
- It is a conspiracy.
Richard knew it was a conspiracy because nobody openly admitted to poisoning his food. If someone admitted it then it would be something else, but because nobody had done so, it was just about enough to suggest an involvement of a bad actor. Richard had noticed a long time ago that the wood shop manager was a very bad actor. He denied for example that he believed in flat Earth which was just ridiculous, since everyone knew about it from the skinny saw manager. He also denied on many occasions that it was him all along behind a string of disciplinary investigations which had been launched by HR in response to his letters accusing people of drinking tea when leaning against a hand rail. The man had a difficult relationship with the truth and conspiratorial mind-set. It was clear he was too busy conspiring to separate the wheat from the chaff.
- Are you sure about it? – Richard was astounded. His head miniaturised by a puffed up torso bursting with two plateaus of his chest muscle, turned toward the skinny saw manager, who looked next to him like a scarecrow with cloths loosely hanging down on him. - To separate the wheat from the chaff?
- That's the mentality. – Skinny saw manager admitted.
- He is a fucking weirdo – Hooligan summed it up and reached for a small brush lying on his bench. He was bored and could not wait for the weekend. The three of them tried to make some sense out of it and the skinny saw manager bothered his bony ass all the way back from the saw department just to help them see it through. It was natural for him.
- You have to be more realistic, Rich – he continued. – It is what it is.
Richard wanted to be more realistic, but still could not understand why someone would want to poison him.
- He is a fucking weirdo – Hooligan shrugged his shoulders as he brushed his bench.
- Do not be naïve. – Skinny saw manager tried to explain. – He is fucking weirdo ...
- I told you, brother. – Hooligan threw in and put the brush away.
- ... he believes in flat Earth, for God's sake! – Skinny saw manager folded his arms apologetically. – Sorry, mate.
Richard leaned against his bench with increasing anger and confusion.
- Yea – Hooligan resumed. – Gets to the edge and falls off with all his toys.
- Who the hell he thinks he is? – Richard raised his voice in stern defiance.
- He is a fucking weirdo! – Both men exclaimed. Richard was overwhelmed by the crisp logic of their argument. It all started to make sense to him.
- But why the wheat from the chaff? – He insisted on finding out. Food was close to his heart and the more he knew about it, the better.
- It's all about control – Skinny saw manager clarified.
- It's all about cocaine - corrected the Hooligan and grabbed a sheet of glass from the nearest trolley. Skinny saw manager glanced at him and continued.
- Whoever controls the food, controls the population.
- I never thought about it that way. – Richard admitted and his eyes visibly opened up.
- There is no choice. They have to depopulate the world. There are too many of us, far too many. That's why you have got GM, chlorinated chickens, and all this processed bullshit. You think they can't cure cancer? You have to be realistic, Rich. People like him want to poison everyone!
- I think you are right – Richard nodded and his eyes got even bigger than before. The knowledge he acquired, worked miracles. He turned around and grabbed a sheet of glass too.
- It's all about control. – Skinny saw manager wrapped it up and clapped his hands like there was nothing else to add to it.
- You are right – Richards admitted – it's all about money.
- It's about cocaine – objected Hooligan. – It's all about cocaine.
- It's a conspiracy of bankers, Jews and global elite to create a world government. – Explained skinny saw manager.
- Fucking hell – Richard blinked several times. His view point visibly capsized under the weight of their argument.
- You know that, bud. – Hooligan corrected his glass and reached for a reel of black gasket hung on a metal bar under his bench. – They have like a secret society, dress up in robes and do strippers.
- I get the strippers, but robes? What is that all about? – Richard puzzled aloud. Skinny saw manager looked deep into his eyes.
- It's all about control!
- It's all about cocaine – Hooligan waived his index finger with correction. – They are all high.
- He is right – Skinny saw manager cracked a smile and pointed at Hooligan. – He is actually right, they are all high. I mean you have to, right? How else can you come up with shit like this?
Hooligan had a very plausible explanation.
- You hoover lines in your posh office, get paranoid and here we go: a brave new world for you and me.
- You know that! – shouted out skinny saw manager. Having a brotherly soul got him really excited. Two lame pancakes of perceived injustice surfaced on his face with unhealthy rush. - It's already happening in Africa. – He spitted quickly with eyes like poached eggs frying in agitation.
- What is happening in Africa? – Richard wanted to get to the bottom of it.
- Like mass vaccinations to sterilize them!
- What's wrong with that? – Hooligan did not see the problem.
- You do not understand. – Skinny saw manager feverishly pointed out. - For them we are all black. Them cunts are colour blind. We will be next. It's just a matter of time!
- What you mean? – Richard demanded curiously. An expression of deep concern fell on skinny saw manager's face. He almost erupted, but composed himself just about enough to throw out of his chest with exasperation.
- Them cunts will engineer a global pandemic and chip us all!!! – His eyes jumped from Hooligan to Richard and back to Hooligan. – That's what I mean!!!
- Two generation, I give you two generations – Hooligan pit his wits.
- And then what? – Richard queried. It was clear as mud his capsized point of view sunk to the very bottom of some pretty dark waters.
- And that's it – replied Hooligan, almost sad. It was 11 am already and he had not jabbed the black man even once. They stood like that for a moment wrapped up in silence. Something prophetically final resonated from Hooligan's "that's it", an ancient wisdom they accidently uncovered, like there was nothing else after that, not just nothing to add but nothing at all. Not even cocaine.
- I bet this fat cunt belongs to them too. – Richard mentioned half – jokingly just to disperse unpleasant clouds.
- He is the president. – Hooligan clarified with a smirk.
- Honorary president – added skinny saw manager and went back to his saw. – You can go and ask him. – He shouted. - I bet he will deny.
He was right. The Managing director flatly denied there were instances of deliberate poisoning within the business when few days later the rumour contaminated the office and became a public knowledge prompting his personal assistant to report that some ladies were reluctant to leave their food in a fridge. The Managing Director would rather blow on cold before it gets hot and called the Production Manager for Richard and Michael to be sent upstairs. They were told to help with a new desk in the office.
Michael welcomed the news with opened arms. He had no doubt it was an official invitation to informally introduce himself to the key decision makers within the business, a perfect opportunity to make a good first impression. As much as he did not care about it, he also had no intentions of letting it slip through his fingers.
There were untapped deposits of pure greatness in him, lying right beneath the surface, ready for extraction and Michael could not wait to show everyone what kind of great guy he really was, an honest, hard – working, intelligent young chap with a good soul and a good sense of humour, someone smart men and Richard instinctively look down on with a healthy mixture of mistrust, contempt and distain. Richard had obviously his reasons when he promenaded out of the factory accompanied by enthusiastic cheers and whistles every time he stopped to pose his biceps, triceps and chest.
- I am going to the office – He announced to his fans after every posture. – To suck some cock.
Michael trailed right behind him with a compulsory smile welded under his nose, feeling intense pressure to pose his biceps, triceps and chest too. He resisted the temptation. It was not the right time for him to take a piss from a bodybuilder, who badly wanted to prove that honesty mattered in life and ranted at the top of his lungs the most obscene vulgarities about the whole of the office upstairs, just to show everyone that he would always be himself even when called to assembly a desk, which turned out to be a predrilled piece of cake made of high quality Chinese MDF with a separate drawer on four small wheels.
The office upstairs was a good one. It was an almost square space of unfulfilled promises and wasted qualifications, dipped in usual politics of climbing up the ladder, where ladies of different age and different sense of fashion were hypnotised by their computers' screen and a distant mirage of further personal development. The air conditioning was set at 19 degree.
They entered quietly and looked around indecisively.
Right in front of them there were three desks facing the door, with another four located on the right and few more hidden deeper on the left, where sporadic clattering against a noisy keyboard interrupted otherwise sacred silence they were welcomed with.
Three ladies behind the three desks in front of them had their faces radiant with rows of data emanating from their monitors. All three of them raised their eyes like they were connected together by a remote controller, a part of obligatory examination. One of them broke the silence and said "hello". Her voice rang with calm and confidence. Richard tucked his head inside his enormous shoulders like they were inflated pillows, mumbled under his nose timid "hello" and made a step forward unsure where to go.
- She will be with you in a minute – said the second lady and smiled politely.
- She is on the phone – said the third one and showed her teeth.
Michael smiled back to them. He could sense the dynamics and instantly accepted Richard's capitulation.
- That is not a problem – he replied kindly, glad his voice rang with equal confidence. An air of feminine curiosity warmed up to 19 degrees. He could sense their intrigued vaginas conducting subtle observations. It was very cute. He smiled one more time, pushed his chest out and put both hands inside his pockets, conveying a relax and positive picture of a world class talent in dirty factory trousers, steal capped shoes and company's dusted jumper begging for a wash.
Lucy, the exact head of HR came up exactly a minute later. She looked elegant and classy with a simple office outfit highlighting her slender figure. She smiled, showed them flat – packed desk waiting in the corner of her small cubicle and told them where it supposed to go. She then smiled again, provided them with two screwdrivers, which she gave to Michael, one flat and one Phillips, and went back to her small cubicle where she spend some time looking elegant and classy.
Michael could read in between the lines. He was right all along. The company did not just want him to set up a new desk. The company wanted him to introduce himself. He was free to show his best side. There were no obvious restrictions placed on him. He could hold the screwdriver in whichever hand he wanted to. They were not interested in university degree in marketing or exceptional numeracy skills he did not possess. They just wanted to know what kind of an idiot he really was. It was a pretty reasonable request given they paid his bills and Michael did what everyone else would do in his situation. He shut his mouth, forgot about untapped deposits of pure greatness lying in him and focused solely on setting the goddamn desk up with an enthusiasm and energy of a perfectionist. He worked efficiently and methodically, aware of feminine curiosities conducting their subtle observations. His moves were precise and his decision making - decisive. He made sure both side panels were of the same length before assembling them. He then checked the worktop was not upside down. Once that was done, the rest was a walk in the park minus fresh air. Richard huffed and puffed like an old steam train as he moved two empty desks to make some space. It was a great example of a coordinated team work in between two people who did not know each other, never spoke with each other and had no intentions of changing that under any circumstances. Michael linked it with an instinctive understanding of basic social norms they both shared. He was optimistically wrong. Both, him and Richard, did not share basic social norms and he quickly found out about it when Lucy left her cubicle where she looked so elegant and classy and asked them if they needed any help. Michael did not need any help to understand that she was in fact trying to make some conversation about topics different then weather. He smiled to her in response, flipped the screwdriver in the air, caught it nonchalantly and presented it like he would present a bouquet of flowers.
- I think we are fine – he replied with confidence, a true boyo covered in glory. Richard bulldozed this little intimate moment without even noticing with a trademark honesty of his.
- A little bit too late, love, isn't it? – He sneered.
Sporadic clattering on a keyboard in the far corner stopped. Michael's eyes turned in his direction. It got so quiet he could hear them squeak in his eye sockets.
- Help us with what? Holding a screwdriver? – Richard continued venting his frustration. Michael looked at the screwdriver in his hand with an ever deepening sense of unveiling unreality. It withered and collapsed sideway like in a fairy tale when an evil queen spreads her decay. From unbearable the silence became suffocating and then completely paralysing. Michael could not move. He was free to enjoy the most unnecessary moment of his professional life and there was nothing he could do about it. He could not protest, raise his objections or articulate a bright defence. He could even not run away. As always, there was nowhere to hide. He was up against a stupendous mass of muscle and veins on a verge of yet another attack of verbal diarrhoea. Richard's voice thundered out like a bell and a fine piece of loose shit flu out of his mouth in a such a naturally anaesthetic way that Michael's whole body went momentarily limp. For a fracture of a second he thought he just had a stroke.
- What a bitch! – Rumbled out against the walls.
Michael moved his eyes left and right and realized much to his horror that he was guilty by association. His whole American dream turned into a ruin in a space of few sentences. The scale of devastation was so excessive, his whole body went from limp to tense. His muscles contracted suddenly and he flushed with cold shiver followed by fiercely hot sweat. He wanted to say something uplifting and positive but his voice got stuck uncomfortably in his dry throat whizzing out of its shaft every time he took a breath like it was supported by an industrial size ventilation system. Lucy smiled apologetically. With his eyes fixed on her and an out of date grin desperately attached to his face, Michael tried to pretend that Richard was merely an act of their shared imagination and in fact did not exist at all. It was silly but almost worked, if only not for Richard who did not cease to exist and called their bluff when he looked at them both and said "All right?" Michael felt like someone caught shopping for discounts. It was a cocktail of embarrassed, shame and guilt. He did not even know it was possible to behave in such an openly stupid manner, with complete disregard for any kind of consequences. It was scary and eye opening at the same time. He swallowed heavily and turned around in mute plea for help but it was all quiet on the western front. Not a single pair of eyes was raised to look at him in a show of support. There was very little condemnation either. He was guilty by association. Richard erased him as a person, downgraded his stock as an employee and relegated him as a man to a lower league. It was a lesson in humility Michael found difficult to swallow. And then, as if that was not enough, Michael noticed the blonde girl he had seen in the corridor downstairs, the blue eyed angel of his, he wanted so badly to fall in love with him, and realized Richard also devalued him as a sperm donor.
In a sophisticated game of making a good impression he was handed a comprehensive defeat, his personal Vietnam multiplied by Waterloo. He could hear a rage inside of him, calling for revenge, a death by a thousand cuts.
- Do not even fucking think about it – Richard warned, when he came down stairs and noticed Hooligan getting ready to jab the black man. Hooligan turned around and lowered his fists.
- What you on about?
- There are certain rules in life – he lectured. The black man giggled and hoped away to his bench where Ashley hollered at a window with apoplectic rage. – A boxing match without a referee? That's not right, is it?
- He run away – Hooligan complained. – Hey, come back here, you lousy son of a bitch!
Ashley burst in generous laughter and came back to his apoplectic rage. The black man did not come back.
- I saw her upstairs – Richard changed the subject.
- Did you really? – Hooligan got very interested.
- This new Michael guy looked at her, pal.
- What you mean? – Hooligan's face got serious.
- He looked at her, like he likes her or something. – Richard bent down to grab his back pack from the cardboard box he hidden it in. He rested one hand on the worktop and lowered himself down clumsily. He was too big and too stiff for bending down.
- Are you being serious? – Hooligan could not believe his ears.
- Yea, he is a little bit iffy, you know what I mean. Can't really talk to a bloke.
- And what, he looked at her?
- Yea. He looked at her – Richard confirmed and straightened up. – Are you gonna do something about it or what?