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A Christmas Story

Jon Wesick

    No matter the time of day, the boardroom of Specter Toys, a division of Specter Missile and Defense Systems, remained cloaked in shadows. The chief executive officer sat behind a desk on raised steel flooring and stroked his cat’s long white fur. Both had a predator’s pale blue eyes that pierced their victims’ bowels with icicles of fear. A livid purple scar ran from the CEO’s left eye socket to the top of his shaved skull. Perhaps the way he pinched his black cigarettes between thumb and index finger gave his subordinates some clue of his origin, but they referred to him only as Number Two.
    A Japanese man stood before Number Two’s desk. Although short in stature, his erect posture gave him the air of command. Liberal use of gel kept each of his gray hairs in place. Behind him a woman in a tweed suit and tortoiseshell glasses held a clipboard.
    “The Junior Backyard Nuclear Waste Storage kit’s authorization is making its way through Congress. This time there will be no failures.”
    “Excellent, Number Three.” Number Two formed a steeple with his fingers. “Now tell me about the Tina Anorexia doll.”
    “We launched the product last week, complete with miniature scale, exercise cycle, and case of diet cola.”
    “And the scale model Guantanamo prison kit?”
    “Yes, sir, I’m told the interrogation rooms are quite realistic.”
    “How are the sales?”
    Number Three swallowed. Despite years of practice in high stakes corporate negotiations, a tremor appeared on the corner of his mouth. “They’re not buying, sir.”
    “What do you mean, they’re not buying?”
    “Times are tough. They’ve decided to spend their money elsewhere.”
    “I don’t pay you to let them make up their minds.” Number Two pressed a button on his armrest.
    A trapdoor opened. Number Three fell into the pool under the steel platform. The water boiled with hundreds of piranhas, each biting a thimble of flesh from his body. Within seconds the skeleton sank to the bottom.
    “Congratulations on your promotion, Number Four.” Number Two stroked the cat and fingered the gold ring on his right hand. “Make sure merchants start playing recorded Christmas music the day before Thanksgiving, and keep it up until the shoppers’ minds are numb. Have our corporate affiliates double their employees’ unpaid overtime. Guilty parents spend more during the holidays. Aside from that, have our TV stations show Miracle on 34th Street over and over again. Encourages gullibility. What advertiser wouldn’t love it? You may go.”
    The new Number Three scribbled notes on her clipboard and left to set Number Two’s plans in motion.
    “You know, Wotan.” Number Two spooned caviar into the cat’s crystal bowl. “This could be our best Christmas ever.”

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