Krisper's Legacy

By Wm Paul DeMent 


Ms. Perchance continued with her daily secretarial duties while keeping an eye on the jittery, uncouth young man as he wandered around the reception office closely scrutinizing the old framed photos and newspaper articles that adorned the walls. “Mr. Page,” she said, “you might want to have a seat. Mr. Rooney is a very busy man, and it might be a while before he has time to see you.”

Carl Page made no move from his current position standing just in front of the collection of the oldest photos on display. He studied them closely, starting with the original Krisper’s factory featuring the old man, and a handful of others, standing stoutly in front of the entrance.

Mr. Krisper himself was decked out in a boulder hat and sporting a stylish handlebar mustache. Each photo was followed in progression of updated offerings as the company grew and the processing plant expanded from it’s humble beginnings to the massive complex as it was today. The management team grew larger in each, the support team filling in behind. As the years rolled by, the photographer found it necessary to move farther and farther from the building to accommodate the ever growing staff, as well as the expanding structure behind them.

Carl shrugged a dismissive shoulder without turning. “I’ve got nothing but time,” he said as he stepped sideways to the next group of photos.

‘You might have,’ Ms. Perchance thought, ‘but it won't be here.’ She shook her head and returned to the department schedules that she looked over before turning them in to Mr. Rooney for his final approval. It was one of dozens of tedious tasks that she performed as the General Manager’s Executive Assistant, but she loved her job here and felt that her work was a benefit to the well-being of thousands upon thousands of lives. After all, the Krisper Cat Feed manufacturing complex was no longer the small town, local commodity that it started out to be, but had been a nationally celebrated brand name for many, many years. After all her years here, most of the work had become S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure.)

Allen Rooney drummed his fingers on the last pages of, Mr. Carl Pages’ employee file. He was actually a bit surprised when the young man showed up at his office demanding an immediate appointment, rather than personally having security bringing him in at his own convenience. ‘Such turns are our lives’. He thought and gave the desktop a wrap of his knuckles before reaching for the intercom button on his desk phone.

Carl was looking over the series of pompously framed paintings of the founder and subsequent C.E.O’s of the company, from Krisper himself in 1947, to the presently residing, Mr. Rooney. He was just about to read Rooney’s adjacently framed biography when the uppity secretary’s phone buzzed. He turned slightly to watch from the corner of his eye as she picked up the phone, speaking in that tone that only professional desk minders can achieve. A monotone that could not quite be heard by the casual eavesdropper, but with a quality of voice that seemed designed to make you feel inferior. It was a tone that implied that you were nothing but a temporary annoyance. ‘Oh, we’ll just see about that.’

After a bit of indeterminate mumbling, Ms. Perchance ended her brief conversation with a clearly enunciated, “Yes sir.” She gave a stern nod in Carl’s direction and announced, “Mr. Rooney will see you now.”

‘It’s about damn time.’ Carl thought. He grunted a halfhearted “thanks” as he walked to the  office door. It was an old-school, frosted glass window in a solid oak frame number, and it gave an impression of times well past. Allen Rooney, General Manager of Operations was scripted in hand painted calligraphy, glossy black against the translucent white. He grinned to himself when he noticed the antique knob and lock. It was a lock that he could pick with a couple of paperclips in just a few seconds if he had the mind to.

He opened the door to the office and stepped through the threshold like he owned the place and closed the door behind him without a second glance. He stood for a moment in consideration of the office, taking in the ambiance, and then he met the eyes of the room’s only other occupant.

Carl’s first impression of the space was one of self-centered, unabashed promotion. The walls were nearly completely covered with awards, certificates and Krisper Cat Feed advertising posters dating back, he was sure, to the very humble beginnings. Photos showing former C.E.O’s with dignitaries, shaking hands and accepting more acclamations, as well as the movie and T.V. celebrities that had pitched their products over the years. Shelves were packed with trophies and ribbons, all trumpeting Krisper’s achievements. 

The large picture window, that took a good section of the wall directly behind the old man's desk, held the main body of the factory and the huge smoke stacks that bellowed their white to blue cook steam out into the sky 24/7 was framed like a living tribute to the enterprise.

It was the floor that caught him off guard. It was finished in the same, glossy gray concrete as was the rest of the factory floors. No rugs or tile, just that same cold, bare, hard sealed stone. ‘Cheep bastard won’t even spring for a rug?’ He wondered as he looked past the 2 visitor’s chairs. The opulent contours of Rooney’s desk contrasted greatly with the hard polished floor. It was obviously a well cared for antique, yet the desktops corner space was adorned with the latest top of the line computer system and high definition monitor screen.

"Mr. Page, I presume,” Rooney said, giving the young man the once over. “I understand you have a ‘very urgent matter’ to discuss with me.” He waved a hand of invitation to the chairs placed in front of his desk. Allen Rooney took in the man’s cocky, aggressive body language. The way he flipped his overly long hair from his face when he met his eyes. He was dressed in the factory issued uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue, long hemmed smock. The man’s hairnet could be seen poking out from one of the oversized side pockets and his non-slip shoes squeaked as he made his way to the offered seats, making his attempt at a swagger nearly comical. “Always glad to share a moment with new employees.” Mr. Rooney offered as Carl slumped down onto the seat at his right. Allen noted that there was no attempt at offering a hand in greeting by the young man, and he himself had no interest in offering him even that, the most basic preliminary show of respect.

Carl saw the old fellow had no intention of rising from his seat to greet him and that was just fine. When he finished with the fat old fart he’d be groveling at his feet. He sat down in one of the old, but not completely uncomfortable, chairs and flipped his bangs from his eyes in response to the old geezer’s remark. “I’m hardly new,” Carl said with a bit of sarcasm, “I’ve been working here for nearly a year.”

“A whole year?” Rooney quipped with a whip-crack gleam in his eyes. He turned the loose pages in front of him to the cover sheet. The page showed Mr. Pages’ basic information, as well as the boldly stamped letters; C.F, which marked Carl as a hire through Krisper’s, Second Chance program. It also told Mr. Rooney, Carl’s start date of just over six months ago. “I’ll tell you Mr. Page, I have team members that have been working in this plant for over forty years.  That’s forty years mind you. Give me say, another five years of continuous service and I may consider you to be a regular, full-time employee.” Rooney folded his hands comfortably over the open file on his desk and looked upon the insolent visitor without trying to hide his obvious irritation. “So just what is this, ‘most disturbing matter,’ that you wish to bring to my attention?”

Carl relaxed further into the chair and gave the nails on his right hand an inspection, trying for nonchalant and achieving irritating twit. “I guess you could say I’m here to discuss my early retirement account.” Carl looked up to gauge the old man’s reaction, hoping for stunned surprise, he instead could only read a quiet contempt. “Look, Mr. Rooney,” he said in a flat, calm voice, “I’ve got information about the operations of this place that are either going to cost you a lot to keep between us, or cost you everything if we can’t come to a mutual agreement.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Rooney spread his hands to look down at the pages on his desk. “Let’s see now.” He started flipping the loose sheets of information back toward the beginning of the file. “Ah, here we are. I see that you are currently assigned to the canning and labelling lines.” Rooney looked up at Carl with a grin that would make a wild coyote wince. “Don’t tell me that someone is gluing the labels on upside down, or maybe drawing mustaches on Mr. Boot’s photo?” 

Carl shook his head as if he was talking to an insolent child. “Listen up Rooney, I’m here to tell you that you've got trouble coming your way, and that the shit your people down in processing are pulling ain't gonna fly no more, no more.”

"Is that right?” Rooney eased his considerable weight back into his well fitted office recliner and steepled his fingers over his barrel of a chest. “And what pray tell kind of ‘shit’ is being pulled in ‘my’ factory that fails to meet with ‘your’ approval?”

Carl reached into his pants pocket and produced his smart phone. He waved it towards Mr. Rooney in a mocking manner. “The close this shit-hole down kind,” he said, and awkwardly fought to return the phone back into his pocket.

"Is that right?” Rooney asked again. “And just what Earth-shattering revelations do you believe you have there Carl? Oh, mind if I call you Carl?” Rooney continued without waiting for Mr. Page to reply, “The operations of this processing center are run in much the same manner as they have been since the original factory opened on this site in nineteen-forty seven.” He shook his head at the rude young man as if scolding a toddler. “I dare say, if there was a procedural problem it would have come to light well before the likes of you.”

Carl jumped to his feet in frustration over Rooney’s disregard of his information, his cool character facade fading as fast as his fantasy of the old man’s caving to his damning information. “Listen here,” he spit, waving his arms wildly over Rooney’s desk, “you can’t just chop up road-kill and stuff it into the grinders and call it meat! There are procedures and Government inspections and regulations that have to be…”

“Mr. Page, sit down this instant!” Mr. Rooney said in a commanding tone that had been developed over many years of overseeing hundreds of factory workers. He sat forward in his chair and watched as Mr. Page slowly regained his seat. “I don’t care much for the disrespectful tone you have taken, or the erroneous accusations you have barged into my office with.” He tapped the desktop with a thick knuckle. “I assure you that this attempt of yours to profit by undermining the operations of this well established organization will be fruitless.” Allen took a scant moment to collect his professional disposition and opened his palms to Mr. Page and asked, “Just what is it Carl, that you hoped to accomplish here today besides losing your job?”

Carl’s jaw nearly dropped. This conversation was going nowhere near the direction that he had imagined. “You can’t fire me over this.” He said trying to regain the confidence he should have as the one presumably holding all the cards. He gave the phone in his pocket a pat for reassurance before he continued. “I’m protected under the Whistle Blowers Act,” he said and was greeted with another of Rooney’s canine cringing grins. “I’ve got the proof I need to shut this place down,” he repeated, hoping to reinforce his own resolve. “You’ll be out on your ass in a week if I sell these photos off to your competition. Or better yet, I’ll flood the web with this outrage.”

Mr. Rooney had fully recovered from Carl’s blatant insolence and shook his head once more. “Carl, Carl, Carl,” he began, giving a ‘tsk-tsk’ quality to his tone, and then swept a hand at the surroundings. “What is it that you see adorning the walls of this office? I’ll tell you what I see.” Rooney once again settled into his richly upholstered chair and looked fondly out over the walls and shelfs of memorabilia. “I see generations of acclaimed service. Awards from six, that’s six mind you, Governor’s of this fine State for implementing and continuing with the Convicted Felon, Second Chance program.” Rooney gave Carl a little wink. “Why did you know that ninety-seven percent of the parolees that have entered our program are never arrested again?” He rapped a Knuckle on his desk. “And there, Certificates of Excellence issued by the F.D.A. year after year, fourteen Good Housekeeping product of the year awards, the Chamber of Commerce’s, Business of the Year recipients for decades in a row. Never has this facility failed even one visit by the Health Department or any other State or Federal agency, and yet you think you can come into my office with a few illegally obtained photos and try to, how do they say it? Shake me down?” Carl started to stand and Mr. Rooney froze him in place with a stare. “So just what is this damning evidence you believe you possess?”

Carl squirmed a bit in his seat as he tried to make himself comfortable. “Well, you see, I was just wandering around on my break and happened to end up in an area posted as, Processing Area Three. Does that ring a bell? What I saw down there made me sick, and I’m sure the authorities will agree.” Carl shook his head in disgust. “And if they won’t act, I’m sure your competition will pay a pretty penny for these photos. That is, if we can’t reach some sort of agreement ourselves.” Carl spread his hands as if to say, ‘and there you have it.’

Mr. Rooney reached for his phone console and pressed the intercom button. “Ms. Perchance, do I have access to the footage that Mr. Springer promised me yet?”  

Ms. Perchance’s voice lifted clearly from the speaker. “Yes sir, you will find it in Mr. Pages’ e-File under the heading of; Unauthorized Access.”

  

Mr. Rooney gave Carl his winterish grin and thanked his assistant before moving to his right and pulling his keyboard into range. After just a few strokes, the monitors reflected light gave Rooney’s face an eerie blue glow. “Ah yes, here it is, and there you are. Why it’s simply amazing that you were able to just wander your way into an area that would normally require the use of three different clearance pass-cards to activate the automatically locking doors. What is even more interesting is this, stamped and dated video of you crouched in the corner of the Area Three corridor, directly under a sign that reads, ‘Authorized Personal Only.” He looked up to give Carl a seething smile, this time full of teeth. “Oh look, here comes Tad Bentley, heading his way towards the break room no doubt. And there you are sneaking in to catch the door just before it closes and then slipping inside.” He looked back to see Carl shifting uncomfortably in his chair and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “It’s a good thing our security cameras are motion activated, don’t you agree? Ah, there you are. Why it seems to me that you are sneaking around between the support columns and equipment doing your best not to be seen.” His point blank stare looked right through Carl before he returned to the screen. “This would appear far from being a casual stroll around the factory to me. Could it be that you knew you were in an unauthorized area all along?”

 

"That’s not going to change the images I captured,” Carl said in a show of force.

"No?” Rooney replied, “Well let’s just see what other kind of mischief you got up to, shall we?  I see you snuck all the way into the sub-processing area. Quite the accomplishment. Ah, now we have something. Why here is clear footage of you slinking around in the shadows as it were,  and there is old, Dave Walton, preparing carcasses for the grinder, and you with your little camera phone out taking pictures.” Rooney smiled to himself. “Did you know Dave himself is a successfully rehabilitated C.F? He’s been with us for over twenty years, ever since his release for…well, that’s not important now, is it?”

Mr. Rooney tapped the keyboard a few times and the blue glow dropped from his face. “Mr. Page, I surely hope this isn't the all damning evidence you came to me with. Surely you realize that processing the carcasses of dead animals for the use in our feed products is what we do here.”

“That’s not chicken, or a side of beef,” Carl said, throwing his hands about as he spoke, “that’s straight up road-kill. I got pictures of that dude skinning squirrels for Christ's sake, and a few more shots of a dozen, throat-cut rabbits hanging over a drain sink down in that hell hole.”

Rooney spread his hands in confusion. “I’m still waiting for this great bombshell of information that you think you have. Surely a few illegally obtained photos taken by an unauthorized employee in a restricted area isn’t all you have to present to me?”

Carl once again came out of his seat and leaned over Rooney's desk. “Are you freakin kidding me man? You think you can just dump anything you want into your cat food and get away with it? That’s just disgusting man. and I’m betting it’s illegal as hell.”

Carl saw the blood rise in Rooney’s face and his voice was equal to an erupting volcano when he spoke. “Sit down Mr. Page!” Carl reluctantly returned to his seat, watching closely as Rooney seemed to pull himself together in the matter of a relaxing breath.

Rooney spread his hands again in his little wondering gesture. “I still don’t see your problem Carl. Mr. Walton was clearly wearing his F.D.A. approved, processing gloves, as well as his hairnet and safety goggles. He seems to be in full compliance with all the Health Department as well as O.S.H.A. regulations that pertain to his position. Oh, and just to let you know, those rabbits and squirrels you saw in sub-processing are by far and away fresher than most of the beef, chicken and horse that we ship in from the larger distributors and it is far from the road-kill that you so rudely called it. You should also be informed that many of our processing line team members are licensed distributors and make quite a good extra wage when bringing in proteins under our ‘Secret Ingredient’ clause, a provision that has been on record and in place since Mr. Krisper founded this company some seventy years ago.”

Carl started off on a seemingly rehearsed rant. “Horse? You even use horse? Do you have no bounds? You can’t just dump anything you want into a grinder and sell it to the unsuspecting public. There has to be inspections and quality controls, you people are disgusting. You can’t just…”

"Now now, Carl, you need to settle down.” Mr. Rooney now seemed to be amused at Carl’s adverse reaction and hoped to string him along a bit farther. “Not only do we use horse, which by the way is fully inspected and approved for animal consumption by the F.D.A. We also have occasion to use mole, raccoon, muskrat, deer, wild turkey, crow and duck. Why just a week ago, Ben Spears brought in three, that’s three mind you, beavers. He picked up quite the nice bonus for those beauties.” Rooney settled himself comfortably back in his recliner. “As I said, we pride ourselves for giving our dedicated employees the opportunity to earn extra money by providing proteins of many varieties as it has been since our founding, and all perfectly acceptable under our exclusive, ‘Secret Ingredients’ clause which is highly regarded as one of our most effective marketing tools.”

 “You are one sick old man.” Carl said in a near whisper. “Don’t you have any remorse for what you're doing just to earn a buck? Not to mention the fact that you must be breaking a dozen laws.”

Rooney’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the audacity of this young fellows accusations. “Let me ask you Carl, if our furry little meal tickets were out in the wild, feral and free, what do you think they would hunt to survive? A cow? Or maybe something a little smaller, say a rabbit? Feeding wild proteins to our fine feline friends is, as I see it, the closest thing to compassion as we can provide.”

Carl sits forward in his seat, seemingly sure of himself once again. “Look here Rooney, you can put all the lipstick on this pig that you want, but it still ain't gonna win no beauty pageants. If you don’t want to do business with me, I’ll take my business elsewhere.” Carl started to stand as Allen’s meaty fist slammed the desk top.

“Sit down you insolent little pip!” Rooney almost stood himself in his anger over the insubordination this insignificant trouble maker had shown him. He fought to regain his composure as Carl slumped back into the chair. Rooney took in a long, cleansing breath and let it slowly escape. He looked down at the pages of the open file on his desk and slowly looked back up at Carl.

“Mr. Page, I’ll ask you once again, now that we know what your so called leverage actually consists of. What exactly is it that you had hoped to accomplish by coming here today? You come to me with illegally obtained photos, taken by an employee that has gained access to areas that he knows are restricted and off-limits without prior authorization, and then you complain about the long held traditional practices of this establishment, which your seven months as a labeler has surely made you an expert of. Then you wave the erroneous, inadmissible evidence you believe to be in your possession in front of me and call me and the dedicated employees of this establishment disgusting, law breaking deviants as you yourself attempt to extort monetary gain.” Rooney shook his head in disbelief and actually managed a laugh. “Seems to me a case of the pot calling the kettle black as it were.” He tapped the open folder in front of him. “If you haven’t guessed, this is your employment file. Let’s just see what we have, shall we?” The diligent Manager leafed through a few of the loose pages until he found what he desired. “Ah, here is a form detailing the restricted area access policy. Do you recognize the signature at the bottom? I believe it to be yours, yes?” He turned the page and slid it forward to rest in front of Carl, who chose to stare daggers at Rooney instead of looking down at the form.

When Carl failed to answer, Mr. Rooney continued, “Oh, what is this? I believe this form outlines our standard rules of employee behavior. Number nine clearly states that, the use of cameras is prohibited without the prior authorization by management.” Allen made a show of leafing through the pages. “Funny, I don’t see a request form for photography in your file.” He flipped the next page over. “This is one of my favorites, this legal and binding piece of paper basically states that you understand that no one, currently or formerly employed by the Krisper Cat Feed Manufacturing Company or it’s subsidiaries, may at any time, verbally or in written form, divulge any of the Krisper’s Secret Ingredients, in part or in full, without facing prosecution to the fullest extent that the law will allow.” Rooney turned the page for Carl’s attention. “I believe that is your signature at the bottom of this ironclad disclosure agreement, is it not?”

Carl glanced quickly and gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Well maybe you recognize this simple form? This is the standard agreement by you, that allowed us to do a pre-employment background check on you.” Rooney tapped the page and flipped it towards Carl. “And this,” Mr. Rooney said shuffling through the remaining pages, “is the result of that search.” He now saw that Carl was squirming a bit more. “Shall we start with your past employment, or go straight to your arrest records?”

Carl jumped to his feet once again. “You can’t have those.” He protested in a near whine. “No way is it legal for you to have those.” Carl pointed at the file on Rooney's desk. “Those files were sealed when I, when I…”

"When you changed your name?” Rooney finished for him. He waved a hand at the vacant chair. “Take your seat Mr. Page, or should I say, Mr. Chapman?”

“That’s it!” Carl said. He began to shake uncontrollably at the knees in anger and his hopes of cashing in on his find the easy-way had all but evaporated. “I’m out of here.”

Mr. Rooney came out of his own chair for the first time since the interview began, his considerable weight was balanced to advantage when he placed his hands flat out on the desktop and leaned over to get as close to the insolent Mr. Page as he could. In a demanding, but dangerously calm voice he said, “Mr. Page, you will take your seat!” Rooney stared the younger man down, and Carl once again found himself sulking back into the chair. Mr. Rooney followed, lowering himself back into his own seat then added civilly, “Please do not leave that chair again until I say our business is concluded.” He stared at Page until Carl finally acknowledged he had heard the instruction with a flip of his hair. Rooney noted with satisfaction that Carl had developed a bit of a twitch in the corner of his left eye.

“Fine,” Rooney continued, “I don’t understand why someone that joined us through the C/F program would find it so hard to believe that we would have access to their criminal activity. I’m sure there was mention of that before you were hired as well.” Rooney stacked the pages and bounced them on the desktop to even them out. “Let’s have a look, shall we?” He flipped the next available page. “Oh, let’s start with the basics. You are twenty-nine just this past June. Single, never married. Raised by the State, a few random foster homes and finally juvenile detention until the age of eighteen.” Allen lifted his eyes for a brief glance. “Hard times for a child. But I guess it made it easier to blame everyone else for your problems and ditch any honest effort on your part, eh?” He asked in earnest and flipped to the next page.

“Like you would know.” Carl mumbled as he rung his fingers out in turn.

“It says here,” Rooney continued as if he hadn’t heard the retort, “you have had three jobs in the last three years, all of which were in different States, and two of which you filed erroneous lawsuits against, both of which were dismissed for lack of evidence.”

“Well I’ve got the evidence now don't I, Rooney.” Carl patted his pants pocket with a false hope of having had the last defiance.

Rooney flipped another page and began to recite the information like he was presenting a contestant on, This is Your Life. “A petty theft charge at twelve, and two others at age thirteen. Then at fourteen you graduated right to grand larceny, attempted rape, and even an assault with a deadly weapon, which only landed you in juvenile detention for two years. But, even then you couldn't behave.” Rooney paused for a moment to read ahead and get the math right. “Age fifteen, three more charges while in detention. At age sixteen, it would seem that you tried to walk the straight and narrow.” Rooney gave him an appraising glance, “Or is it that you were just getting better at being deceitful?” He shuffled the pages. “Age seventeen you seem to have straightened out enough to be granted a work release, and within a week you were once again facing an attempted rape charge.” Rooney shook his head in disgust, not bothering to give Page a look this time, and turned to the next page.

   

“I don’t know what you think you are trying to prove…” Carl said, his anger building anew. “It doesn't change the facts.”

   

“Indeed.” Rooney agreed, “Yours or mine.” Carl squirmed and Rooney flipped another page. Assault, assault, resisting arrest. Two drunk and disorderly arrests, a handful more for other controlled substances and then you stepped it up again and tried your hand at extortion. Oh, that didn’t end well did it? Three years in the State Farm. Then, less than a year after your release, and this is my least favorite of all your deprivations, you were charged with child molestation and rape of a minor.” Rooney finally looked back at Mr. Carl “Chapman” Page, the steel in his eyes was forged in pure revulsion. “It would seem that you developed a few traditions of your own. And you had the nerve to come in here and call me and the hard working people on my staff, sick and depraved?”

  

“It wasn’t like that,” Carl tried weakly to defend himself. “she was my girlfriend and I was just a few years older…”

   

“You were nearly twenty-three and she was a mere fifteen. That’s a difference of over seven years, seven long years mind you. How dare you try to justify your destroying of an innocent child. It is you young man that sickens me, to my core.” Rooney gave Carl that hated, wild-dog grin, coupled with the dark steel gaze. “It’s going to be my extreme pleasure to terminate you personally.”

 

Carl stood up in a flash of anger and set his hands on the fashionable old desk so that he could lean in to deliver his last words to the pompous old dolt. “Listen up Rooney, I don’t give a carpenter’s swinging hammer about your disgust of me. You can’t fire me you old fool, I quit. And you better believe I’m getting paid. I’m taking my pictures on-line and straight to your competition to sell to the highest bidder. Let’s see you bullshit your way outta that.”

   

Rooney calmly reached under the main desk drawer and removed the small caliber hand gun that was fastened in place by a magnetic holding clip as he spoke, “We hired you, when only maybe three other companies in this entire State would give you a chance to make an honest living, and at a very fair wage. We gave you the opportunity to make a clean break from being the miserable little shit that you are, but instead of being grateful, you turn on us like a rabid dog and try to take a bite from our helping hand.” He brought the gun up in one fluid motion. “I hate dogs,” he proclaimed and shot Carl “Chapman” Page point blank in the heart, just as Carl finished shouting his last words, “I’m going to ruin you and your traditions.”

 

The sharp report echoed once through the office with a clap.

  

Carl’s eyes didn't leave Rooney’s until he crumbled to the cold, polished gray floor.

  

Rooney leaned over the desk, and into the heavy smell of the dissipating wisp of cordite, to see that Carl’s eyes were now fixed on nothing in particular at all. “Well, look on the bright side Carl; you'll never be arrested again.” He sat back down heavily into his well appointed chair and without much thought, slid the gun back under the desk drawer until he heard and felt the magnet take hold with a familiar, fast click of motion. He wrinkled his nose against the bright, stingy smell of the ignited gunpowder and brought his hand back up onto the desk to find the intercom feature button on the console.

  

“Yes sir?” Ms. Perchance said into her phone.

  

“Ms. Perchance, would you call down to Area Three Processing, and inform Dave Walton that I have some overtime work available if he’s interested. Oh, and have him stop by receiving for a large delivery cart. Also, have maintenance standing by. It would seem that our newest proteins contributor has spilled his sample on my floor.”

  

“Will there be anything else sir?”

   

"Oh yes. Please have Mr. Pages’ file show that he has been permanently terminated as of three days hence, for lack of attendance and failure to notify us with an excuse for his absence. I would also like you to add that his current address is unknown.”

  

“Very good sir, now that you're free, I’d like to notify you that, Mr. Springer called in while you were in conference. He asked me to inform you that, a C/F, named Wilmer Hodges has tried to breach security twice this week, attempting to gain access to the Personnel file room. Apparently he had made friends with a recently terminated C/F, and has been snooping around ever since, trying to find out where he went off to, etcetera, He was wondering what your schedule was like?”

  

“What kind of background do we have on Hodges?” Rooney asked into the speaker.

  

“Convicted of spouse abuse. The last time, he beat his wife so bad that she had to have three surgeries which included the amputation of her left hand that he had pulverized with a hammer.”

 

“Sounds like such a nice fellow. Let’s keep Mr. Hodges honest until at least the middle of next week, shall we? I have the Shareholders meeting on Friday, and I’ll be golfing with the Mayor this Monday.” Rooney drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. “Have Springer let him slip through on, let’s say Wednesday, shall we?” Mr. Rooney paused for a moment in consideration of the Krisper Legacy and all that have come before. “That should do it for now, yes?”

  

“Yes sir.” Ms. Perchance agreed and turned her attention to her phone’s keypad with a little dog-eat-dog grin on her face. “S.O.P.” Her words whispered through the empty room as the gracefully aging portrait of Krisper himself smiled down on his bustling legacy.                          

© Wm. Paul DeMent

  8/30/2017