When Psychos Get Titles

I used to work for a small public relations company here in the Big Apple. And let me tell you, this company boasted many high-up executives with more issues than the Yellow Pages. Mostly socially retarded, some with severe personality defects and one with a phobia of all people in any situation and zero ability in dealing with any of them.

One of the bigger calamities was the company CFO, a nasty little rodent of a man despised by literally everyone, including his female boss who used him as an easy go-to man for her dirty deeds, using him to spy on employees, commit acts of probable fraud and generally partake in underhand techniques to ensure the company continued to pull in a tidy profit and keep its executives in caviar.

Don’t feel too sorry for him though. The man was (and still is!) a dastardly little pimple on the butt of society. He was never happier than when he was trolling around the halls, snooping in people’s private mail in their inboxes, peering over their shoulders when they were typing or making sarcastic or smarmy comments that didn’t even thinly veil his self-loathing.

I had the displeasure of working for this man in some capacity for a short while. Everything about him was objectionable – the way he plucked boulders out of his nose right there in front of you while barking commands, the way he stalked down the corridors picking his pants out of his ass crack, his never-ending supply of shit-brown loafers and sensible corduroys, the way he added suffixes to people’s names and his fake-sincere cheery manner. Then there was the way he pulled rank at every conceivable opportunity and his using my time to have me type out his train schedules and make him lists of personal shit that normal people wouldn’t even contemplate. He would creep up behind you stealth-like from absolutely nowhere and watch what you were doing, then make a comment about it, in his faux-happy, good-old-boy voice.

“That IS company business, right kiddo?”

“No Sir!” I wanted to cheerfully reply, “It's a letter of intent I aim to send to the first hit-man I can find willing to shoot you in the knackers with a nail gun!”

He prided himself on his fake nice guy demeanor which didn’t fool anyone. We learned fast that he was not a man to trust or befriend. I’m pretty certain that he had a 666 tattoo somewhere on his person and maybe some sawn-down horns though I wasn’t up for getting close enough to him to find out.

Whenever we had a pretty, teenage intern who was usually the daughter of another client we were trying to curry favor with, he would take her under his wing with his, “I am your best friend kiddo!” routine, while leering at their teenaged legs in that summer skirt or that blouse unbuttoned below the collar bone where he could envision their young, firm breasts bouncing in his face. He was a sleaze of the highest order and everyone knew it.

The whole firm was pretty dysfunctional as a whole. The partners hated each other with a violent passion and avoided each other where at all possible. No excuse was too far fetched to get out of that monthly partner meeting. The place was stock full of ass-kissers who would say or do anything to get ahead, then talk about everyone else behind their backs with gusto. There were people who’d openly diss some boss or other then stick their tongue down their waistband ten seconds later. But this unpleasant little CFO was the worst. I used to wish that one day he’d hit on some cute, meek-looking, little blonde thing who was a secret black belt in martial arts and who would then karate chop him into next week, then sue what was left of his ass. Even now, years later, when the company is a dark, distant nightmare, I have faith that one day, somehow, it will happen.