When you don't want that raise | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: When you don't want that raise | Previous Challenge Entry
By M. I.
05/11/07
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All I saw was “nice jacket.”
The next thing I knew; he was dead.
I was walking down the street towards my favorite Chinese restaurant to meet my employer for a nice chat about the newest member to our law firm, how he was developing, blah blah blah. We both knew it would curl around to me getting a raise—how much, exactly, depended on my performance.
As a result I was rather anxious to get there.
It was a nice day. Pigeons flew from beneath my feet, hawkers accosted me, dead chickens hung in store windows. But the sun was bright, the air smelled of fast-food, and I was getting a raise! Rejoice; citizens of Chinatown! Be happy!
So there I was, just strolling along, and I noticed a man standing outside some little Chinese gift-shop. If I had been in the city, I might not have given him a second glance. But he was tall and Hispanic so he stood out against everyone else.
But beside that, he was wearing a leather jacket. An Armini leather jacket. With gilded cuffs. In fact, it was the exact jacket I had been planning to buy with my sumptuous raise-to-be.
So I did what any happy guy would do. “nice jacket,” I said, brushing past him.
Well, you would have thought I’d said ‘I hope you rot’ because the guy’s face mashed in a mix of horror and shock, twisting to stare after me as I walked past. I glanced back at him to try and figure out why he looked so upset, when it happened.
It was so slow.
So fast.
I didn’t even know what was happening—there was just blood. And a boom; like the world had exploded.
I’m ashamed to say I did nothing. I just stood there and gaped at him, numb with shock, while others screamed and ducked for cover, prattling of curses in Chinese. But this guy, the one who was shot, staggered up to me and gripped my lapel.
“Why?” he gasped. “Why’d you say it? WHAT DID I DO?”
He spattered red drool on my shirt. I gagged. The guy collapsed.
By now there was a crowd. They pressed inward and I found myself being knocked back, shoved aside, my legs wooden lumps that just sort of teetered to keep balance.
That. Guy. Was. Dead.
Suddenly there were police sirens, and I realized that I had about five seconds to get out of here. I’d seen cop shows. Who would believe that I’d had just an accident encounter, that I had no clue what really happened? I took a step back, and another, and another, and then I hit a brick wall.
Arms wrapped around me. Tight arms. They slithered around me in some nutzy contortionists wrap, so I couldn’t budge, and I couldn’t kick; and worst of all, on of them was squeezing against my windpipe.
I choked and strained and accomplished nothing.
I was gong to be murdered ten yards from a police officer.
And then, out of the crowd, someone appeared.
My boss.
“Help me,” I groaned. It came out as a wheeze.
“Leave him alone Cipher” my boss said.
Behind me there was a hiss, a whine. The arms let go. I slumped to the ground. My boss looked at my pityingly.
“Come on Peter,” he said, nudging me with his toe. “Man up. We need you.”
“Huh?” I wheezed. “what’s…happening?”
“Don’t you know?” My boss glanced up to whoever was behind me, and frowned. “you did get the memo, yes?”
“No” I grunted. I rubbed my neck.
My boss reached out his hand. “alright then,” he sighed, “Get up. You can’t save the universe looking like that.”
“What?” I shouted.
My boss grinned. He took off his glasses. It was the first time.
His eyes were orange.
“I told you,” he said. “You’re getting a raise.”

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