Mark Conelly (former head of Research & Development) Am I bitter? Not really. We were on top, and when you're on top everyone else just waits for their chance to knock you down. That's the game, baby. I've played it myself. Sure, they've got no problem coming to your parties, drinking your liquor or nailing your chicks while they wait, but once you wander into those headlights, BANGO! All I'm saying is that in this business its fuck or be fucked. Not in a literal sense, but, well - you follow me, right? Good. And of course everyone prefers to be administering the fucking rather than being its recipient, but I think that goes without saying. Unless you're one of those flamers, that is. Not that I've got a problem with, you know - that. Its just not my style. Shit, I probably sound like some ignorant hick right now, but I'm just saying there's a reason you don't see many fags calling the shots. It isn't a discrimination thing. When you're used to being fucked - I mean, literally fucked, you lose some of that predatory instinct. I'll say this much though, the few fags who do go places in this business are some of the most ruthless bastards I've ever met. Two sides to every coin, I guess. So anyway, as the story goes some piece of shit Junior Executive goes to the police with pictures of our main man in charge - Joe Harrison - goes to the police with pictures of Joey in a less than favorable position with some high-ranking city official's underaged daughter. The cops bring him in and Joey loses his shit. I'm talking complete fucking breakdown. He's crying and pleading and praying to a God I didn't know he even believed existed. Rumor going around at the time was that the sad bastard pissed himself right there in the station. I don't know if the cops felt bad for him sitting there with his puffy eyes, sniveling in his piss-filled jeans, but they cut him a deal and the cocksucker actually takes it. They'll drop the charges if he resigns quietly and outs the rest of us. Nabbing a bunch of corporate suits sounds like a DA's wet dream, eh? Anyway, Joey comes into the building that next day without a care in the world. compliments the receptionist on her new rat's nest haircut, goes into his office and the next thing we know, a gunshot pops off quicker than a virgin on prom night. We all rush into his office and the dumb fuck is on the ground, writhing in pain and bleeding all over that Oriental rug some brown-nosing lackey with no chance of being promoted spent too much money on last Christmas. I guess he flinched at the last second and tried to turn his head away as he pulled the trigger, but didn't quite beat the bullet and it ripped through half of his face. There's this suicide note on the desk explaining how he loves his wife and respects his co-workers and how he can't live the rest of his life with the guilt of betrayal weighing heavy on his concience. He's lucky we called for the ambulance before reading that shit. Otherwise, I don't think anyone would've argued against letting him bleed to death right there on the Goddamn floor. Oh, the pictures? Word has it, the pictures were taken by some scumbag private investigator hired by that Junior Executive at the behest of Mrs. Harrison who he'd been fucking - quite literally, I mean. I guess she'd been looking for a way to call it quits without violating her prenup and here this dumbshit kid looking to make a name for himself shows up practically begging to be exploited. This asshole figures the entire mess is going to be traced back to him, fuckhead that he is, and instead of facing the music, he jumps out of his office window. Right onto Joey Harrison's fucking stretcher. |