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"Shred It!"
Mister Blister, Regional Manager of the Alamo Mouse Pad Boutique, was
adamant. A vein stood out like a big blue worm on the raw red meat that was
his forehead when he was angry. He was almost always angry. Ranting was
good for his blood pressure, because releasing stress keeps the strain from
becoming chronic. It wasn't good for anyone else in the room.
"But, but, but... " sputtered Chartreuse, his secretary. Despite the
pounding of her pulse in her ear drums, she had a squeaky "but." She didn't
chatter back abuse the way a squirrel would, so all of the angst collected
in her arteries.
"Your lunch shouldn't be on top of your desk. I told you to keep it in the
drawer."
"I do, but you sent me to the bank as soon as I got here and I was here
early."
"Don't tell me you didn't have time. I'll do it myself." He picked up the
white paper bag and carried it to the shredder.
"Don't, Mister Blister. You're making a terrible mistake." Her eyes were
flat, emotionless, echoing the moment of shock when one surrenders to
inevitability.
"It's you who made the mistake. I'm just correcting it. Let this be a
lesson to you." He dropped the bag into the wood chipper because it was the
only thing that could keep up with his passion for shredding documents,
family photos, any excess offal the business or his worthless employees
generated. He prided himself on running a clean shop. "Hey! That's not a
pickle. It's money."
"That's what I tried to tell you, sir. I carry my lunch in a brown bag. I
use the white bag to carry money and receipts between here and the bank."
"It's money!" shouted Mister Blister.
Chartreuse barely managed to tackle him before he jammed his hand into the
shredder to retrieve the greenbacks. "Just push the reverse button," she
said. She pinned him down and pushed the button. They were showered with a
confetti of ground bank notes.
"Good work," he said. "Now gather up all of the pieces and tape them
together."
"Oh, that shouldn't be necessary I'm sure the bank has something that can
scan and count the pieces and credit it to the account. This probably
happens all the time. I have the transaction slip. I'll just take it back
to them. Do you want me to do that now?"
"Yes, what are you waiting for?"
She was immediately on her knees, sucking the evidence of his weekly
shredder fiasco into the Dustbuster(tm) she kept for that purpose.
"Be more careful in the future," he said. "I don't ever want this to happen
again."
"Oh, I will, Mister Blister," she said. "It won't, sir." She put the
chopped lettuce into a new white bag and carried it to the Federal Building
where she asked to speak to Agent Neville Orange.
Agent Orange peered into the bag. "Shredding currency is a federal offense.
Only the Federal Reserve and the Treasury are allowed to do this. Where did
you get it?"
"From my boss, Mister Blister."
"Will you testify?" asked Agent Orange.
"You betcha," she said.
"He's going up the river for a long time," said the agent.
John A. Ward was born on Staten
Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60's, sold his first poem to
Leatherneck magazine, and became a scientist. He is now in San Antonio
running, writing and living with his dance partner. He has published in
Doorknobs & Bodypaint, Clockwise Cat, Apollo's Lyre, Toasted Cheese, Green
Tricycle, Ascent Aspirations, Alighted Ezine, Lit Bits, Cenotaph Pocket
Edition, The San Antonio Express-News, Antithesis Common, Wild Child, Holy
Cuspidor, Idlewheel, Cautionary Tale, Sentence, Sun Poetic Times, Byline,
Quirk, ken*again, R-KV-R-Y, The Smoking Poet, Long Story Short and Rose &
Thorn.
Email: John A. Ward
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