Status Quo

“Marley, what time is it?”

The barkeep glanced at the clock. “Time for me to call you a cab, Tim.”

I noticed a new shadow at my elbow. “I'll take Mr Border home.” The voice was deep and wet, as if he had to hawk a huge loogey lodged in his throat. A chill ran up my back and down all the way to settle in my groin. “Get him another whiskey, and I'll pay his tab.”

“It's closing time, stranger,” Marley said.

“No, it's not, Mr Maxwell,” Phlegm said. “You seem to be confused.”

The barman started to say something and closed his mouth. He looked at the clock again and checked it against his watch. “Closing in one hour, everyone! Last call!”

Even my blurry eyes could see it was closing time, but hell! Who was I to turn down a free drink and a clear tab?

“Let's get a table. What I have to say is for you only.”

I didn't want to go to a booth with Phlegm. I didn't want to be within a thousand miles of him, but I followed. He was tall, nearly seven feet if an inch. He was dressed in a business suit and black overcoat. He looked nearly obese but his clothing bulged in the wrong places. I tried to not stare, but he seemed a bit out of focus. Not from the booze, but more like from looking through a fish tank. I hoped he would be quick, as I didn't know how long my stomach would hold out.

“Mr Border, I believe I can help your situation,” Phlegm said.

“Oh? What situation would that be?”

The man smiled and I felt I had lost part of my soul. “Whichever problems you have: a difficult marriage with twins on the way; an impending layoff; a sick son and not enough money for medicine. Should I go on, Tim?”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh, Tim, I know everything. You were sitting pretty: A wonderful house; a loving wife. . .your brave son. Even finding out he would need medication for most of his life was no hardship.”

I found myself nodding. “It's true,” I said. “Then the economy crashed.”

The man went on with that voice boring a hole into my mind. “Yes, and with it came the cutbacks. And then the bonuses were gone. Finally, they did away with insurance -- insurance your son relied on. You've been paying for his health with your savings, haven't you?”

“It's almost gone,” I said. That was probably the reason my marriage was failing. Our conversations always degenerated into arguments about money.

Something writhed under his suit as the man reached into a coat pocket and placed a snow globe on the table. It contained a building designed in an old, ancient architecture. “I can help you, Timothy," he said. "I can make sure you don't lose your job.”

“How you gonna do that?”

“That's not important really, is it? You just need to do one simple thing.”

“What's that?”

“It's nothing, really. In your house, somewhere it won't be disturbed, write down one desire, such as keeping your job. Then shake this orb and place it on the center of the paper. Do it every morning for five days before you leave for work.”

The man dropped me off and I stumbled inside. As quietly as I could I creaked open the basement door and descended. I knew there was an old crate I could use. On a small piece of Christmas wrapping I scrawled in my drunken hand “Avoid layoff” and placed the globe as instructed.

Every morning the following week I crept into the basement and shook the glass ball. My boss soon noticed that my work was improving with each day so that by Thursday I knew my position was secure.

My wife was not satisfied with my assurances that everything would be okay. Even though I would stay in the firm our money would not increase, and so, as my wife was fond of pointing out, we were still no better off.

Friday I was informed officially that I would not be included in the layoff but, no, I would still not be receiving a pay increase. I left work early and discovered myself once again at the bar.

My new friend was sitting in a dark corner and waved me over. “How did it go?” he asked.

As I spoke he nodded his head in agreement. When I had finished he said, “Would it be better if you were as if the recession had not happened? That will be more difficult. But do as I say and I can help.”

I glanced out the window. Almost dawn! It had to be done just at sunrise. I looked around the basement. The design on the floor was as he described. The crate had been converted to an altar. I read the text once more to make sure I had it memorized.

I cringed at the last requirement, but some things must be done to retain status quo. I wheeled out the table and checked the woman's pulse.

The first rays of sun peeked through the window and my sanctified blade slashed across Mrs Gleason's throat. I watched as the blood pooled in the pan.

My secretary was weeping as I entered my office. “Oh, Tim! It's horrible. Just horrible!”

“What is?”

“Mr Ferguson had a heart attack. He didn't make it.”

I sat down as the CEO got off the elevator. He slowly approached me and held out his hand. “It's terrible what happened, I know you were close to him,” he said and shook his head. “Listen, Tim, I know it seems too soon, but I want to avoid any greedy bastards sucking up to me. I would like you to take John Ferguson's office. You are the only person I feel able to fill his shoes. It will, of course come with a raise and all the benefits your friend enjoyed as the operation manager."

Word Count: 999