Page 7 of Loathing My Boss
It was too far.
Duly noted. Now, let’s not be dramatic, Viktor. All assistants throw ice water on their bosses every so often, as a joke. I’m a silly little guy, full of great jokes—but I still get impressive results. And, obviously, if you didn’t want to be woken with a bucket of ice water, that should have been outlined in our work agreement.
’Twasn’t.
Manipulation tactics ever intact, I allow all joy to fizzle from me, turning my sweet voice pitiful. “Not necessary? I’ve put so much effort into the charts. I was hoping this schedule would allow you to meet your writing goals ahead of time and give you free evenings, so you aren’t up all night working. It’s not good to be up all night. Bad for your circadian rhythm. I have a report on that I can send you if you’d like?”
See, Viktor?
I’m an angel, thinking only of you, and now I’mso sad.
The pause bodes well.
As does the sigh.
“Fine, we’ll review.”
My lips curl.
“But—” he says.
My stomach clenches, and I fortify myself for the worst.
“—we will also discuss something else I’d like to…test.”
Something elsehe’dlike to test? He’s not the tester. I’m the tester. He’s my little torture experiment, not the other way around. The only reason I get him to agree to any of my plots is because I present them with logic, science, and Canva Whiteboards.
Color-coded Canva Whiteboards outlining the precise times for water breaks—which I uphold, rigidly—does something to the bowl of jello that is his brain.
The man is particular beyond belief.
His book outlines go straight through the septenary level, usingGreek charactersfor those subpoints. And, in interviews, he coarsely states how he is aplanner, and,no, his characters donot“run away” with the plot. That’s ridiculous.
They aren’t real.
They can’t run.
He tells them what to do and creates them in such a way that they’ll do it.
He once, literally, said,I’m not God; free will doesn’t matter to me, so why would I give it to my characters?
Big hugeI tell you to jump, you say, “How high?”energy between him and his poor abused leads.
“Crisis?” he asks, while I’m blacking out and twitching, trying to discover what exactly he could possibly want totestinvolving me. I make him millions and trimmed his working hours each day down fromfourteento seven. My evil little methods work; I need no reciprocating evil little methods.
And I’m positive I can convince him of that. No matter what his jello bowl brain has come up with.
Bouncing back, I say, “Yes, Mr. Bachelor?”
“Take the morning and afternoon off to go over the data you’ve collected. I’ll pick you up for dinner, then we can analyze how to proceed.”
“Sounds perfect. What time should I expect you?”
“Six. Sharp.”
The call cuts before I can reply, so I sag.
Six sharp. I have to make a lovely, bright, calming presentation by six sharp. Should take but a few hours. And it’s still five in the morning.
