FIRED

Called to the back room—the manager's office—

and sat down, crossing my legs casually.

Small talk drifted from the other side of the desk.

Customers, the price of fruit, and even the best parking spots for employees.

I try to look him in the eye, but fail.

Two horns and a pig's snout rest atop slouched shoulders.

My polite mask never twitches as I blink.

Horns disappear. A pimpled face once again.

His hand lay dead on the Formica desktop,

curled in an unassuming fist.

A formal meeting instead of a pink slip?

Leaning back, his voice baritoned.

Babbling lies crawled from his mouth like cockroaches.

Late, no customer service, throwing food—

Who in their right mind throws food at customers?

Motionless, a statue in the chair.

Are you that much of an idiot?

His concern evaporated as he smirked.

Lips tightened, forcing myself to swallow the putrid taste

building in my mouth, dammed by teeth.

Finally, the bottom line: “You're fired.”

He was destroyed a thousand times in my mind.

Maimed, mutilated, and tortured every conceivable way.

A smirk carefully hidden behind distress.

Really, I'm heartbroken.

Rising, I mumble, distracted—

I have not yet exhausted my supply of murderous fantasies.

A chair scrapes as he extends a hand.

Are you kidding me?

My back ignores him as I twist the knob into freedom.

He can rule this kingdom where a call for price checks floats above the aisle;

but he can not rule me—

not for $7.25 an hour.