I stumbled into a conspiracy quite by accident and my life is in fucking danger.
So I run through everything again in my head and how it all happened and all that. I was left astounded and perplexed after I deduced everything and came to a conclusion that sent shivers down my spine. It can't be. It can't fucking be. The cook, that dagglenailed filthy woman with a weird hair and leecherish persona, must have been accumulated through years of smutgery. WTF, no, I need to do something and stop that filth like her from ruining those good people's lives in the company.
So, with that thought, I got out from the Metrobank building and went straight to Fuente Avenue to buy my favourite DVDs of Bob Dylan, the Carpenters and other collections of both wholesome and perverted videos. I then went also to a convenience store and bought some stocks of Gilbys, rhum and chicheria. The short walk to my underground refuge had done me some good to clear off my head of some doubts, allowing me to digest everything and plan my course of action. Well, after a moment of some serious reverie (about three seconds), I got everything thought out, and you can also say, under my control – thanks to those high school days of reading books by Sheldon and Ludlum, of which I learned much about counter-conspiracy measures, among others. So with that, I enjoyed the rest of the night watching Lerner's The Other Side of the Mirror of Bob Dylan, sipping my gin and read a book of Nietzsche before I went to some nice repose.
That morning, armed with chocolate bars, a flask of gin hidden in my pocket and a folded Cosmo Magazine also hidden in my Kappa jacket, I approached boss Charisse and told her that the company is in danger and that I got some ideas on how to stop it before everything is too late.
'Hi, boss,' I said as casually as I can with the taste of gin still in my mouth.
'Oh hello, now, Jonas! Good day, isn't it?'.
'Now what? Oh, let me guess. Is this still about that vocalist at Asle, isn't it?'
'No..not him, boss. This is something more serious. The thing they called a matter of life and death. Really. Now listen carefully boss. You might have guess this already but I think somebody's planning to take over this company. A devious somebody I must say and she can do that easily with her cooking. Well, they call it that but I call it “cherookeifuckeery” – an ingenious cuisine develop by the ancient Croukeerokee tribe to lull other Malay tribes that they would soon annihilate or make into slaves and... –'
'Okay now, Jonas, spare me the gory details. So what's exactly in your mind right now. Now tell me straight what we should do provided, of course, that your hypothesis inkling or whatever is correct.'
I now took one bar of chocolate from my side pocket, tear the wrapping nicely and took a little bite.
'But, of course, yes, I notice some things are not right here these past days.'
I offer the rest of the chocolate bar to her and said: 'I suggest that the company should fire the cook. Nobody likes her cooking, you see. What she has accomplished so far in the company is extorting money from ordinary employees like us and she can't cook. Oh, c'mon, don't pretend you like her shomai or smeary vegetable soup. It was not supposed to be that smeary, right? And I attributed to her so-called cooking the reason why I had those days of upset stomach and not to mention writing in that dismalposition.
'Okay, I get the picture. So what exactly do you propose?'
'How about hiring an American hitman to exterminate her and her cohorts . They do that in movies, right? It's quite simple actually. A Kalashnikov's automatic assault rifle model 47 would do.
While she and her bunch are cooking or preparing their ingredients in the toilet, or so I heard, the hired hitman would do them some nice skirmish and everything would be fine again. Johnny Depp did that to the Mexicans.'
Boss was busy nibbling the last square of the chocolate.
'I tell you boss, if you notice how she deals with our people in the company, one can easily reach to the conclusion that she's plan of taking over the company.'
“You mean the cook can possibly know how to do the LTV or TLSA?
“Well, why not, she can buy us with her accumulating money and we would still be the one to do the LTV and TLSA for her. Oh, c'mon, boss! Wake up. She can't do that to us. We are not like a fucking government. This company is owned by a British gentleman. And I have this suspicion that the cook look at us like we are no different from them stupid government that she must have had some dealings or even manipulated in the past.'
'Excuse me for a while boss, somebody is behind our back, reading us.'
Hey you, yes you, we can no longer discuss this thing with you. You see this is now mark classified. I mean that all caps "CLASSIFUCKINGFIED". Now move along.