Mary checked in--counting on her boss to yell at her for being late, of course. She had a nice little vial, all picked out for him. But for now she was willing...even eager...to spend a few moments of listening to those unfortunates--worhty unfortunates, in Mary's eyes and ears--about to take a drink out of the spiked fountain. She leaned her chair back and broke open her candy drawer. A girl has to have something to do, after all.
She had kisses, peanut butter cups, chocolate bars and a good supply of cookies and gum for emerganices. There were also a good number cellophane wrapped boxes...those office gifts people give, half suspecting that some of the food will rot at home, never suspecting that ALL the food will rot in the desk drawer. Or, at least in Mary's desk drawer. She had a vague suspicion--a correct suspicion--that she was recieving the food no one else wanted.
She dumpped this supply into the trash and began unwrapping kisses and sprinkling them with different vials. If she left them out, that damn janitor would eat them and the effect would be...satisfying. Even if she couldn't watch it happen.
The first water victem arrived almost EXACTLY on time, and Mary leaned back to listen.
Clark St. Cloud--fancy name, boring man. Mary had an intence dislike for him...especially because he had "done" her in return for covering at work for her. He checked in for her, did as much of her work as he could (which wasn't much...she being a receptionist and all) and turned it all over to the boss. The man had less brains than poor, innocent Peter had, and his sweet tooth was worse than Floyde Harper's. He also had the figure, complexion and hairline of the dedicated sugar addict...generous, infected and absent, respectively. Mary had never seen a man who was both balding and inflicted with a blizzard of dandruff before she met Clark. The only good thing about that skin-snow was that it camoflaged the powdered sugar.
And Issac latched onto him immedately and began relating a tale about Floyde Harper and Elizabeth Lark, which was about as plasuable as a purple unicorn-elephant balanced on a cue-stick. It involved the back seat of a car, a meteor shower, Elizabeth in something from Victoria Secret and about ten condoms. And posisions an Olympic Gymnist and a Contortionist would have difficulty reaching. Honestly, Mary thought, You CAN'T copulate with those particular arms in THAT pardticular posision...and ESPECIALLY not if you're trying to do THAT at the same time. I should know. I've TRIED.
Then came the trade...Clark wasn't going to get away without a similarly scandelous story about someone ELSE in the office...and it had to be pretty good, or bad, to beat the local Christian and the local...black...African American employee trying to find new ways to play hide-the-salami. And, of course, that left only one other pair in the office space.
Mary and their boss. And Yes. It WAS about Mary and her boss. And Mary had to smile to herself. She would have been crying softly to herself, hiding in her cubicle at the unfairness of it all, if she hadn't known Clark was about to...well, get squeeking!
She leaned out as far as she could risk and saw the beginnings of a rat-tail forming in the shadows of Clark's pants.