Page 8 of The Revenge Game
He appears to revel in his own stink.
However, he does use the dog shower vouchers I’ve given him for Kryptonite. So she’s a big contrast to her owner, with fluffy white fur perfumed with a crisp lemon scent.
“Hey, Justin. Ready for your do-gooder moment to start your day?”
That’s Amos. His tongue is sharp. The nastier he is to me, the more I like him. He’s real. He doesn’t sugarcoat anything. And it sometimes feels there’s not much in my life that is actually real.
“Totally. I always look forward to the buzz I get from feeling morally superior to everyone else who just walks past you,” I say.
“Wankers,” Amos grumbles.
“Yep, but I’m a wanker too,” I say brightly as I hand him the sandwich.
“At least you’re a wanker who gives me food.” Amos unwraps the bacon sandwich and takes a bite.
He doesn’t pretend to be grateful. I don’t pretend I give him stuff out of love for humanity or because I’m a profoundly good person.
Sometimes, it’s nice not to pretend.
I do it because it makes me feel slightly better about myself. Like, for a split second every day, my life intersects with someone else’s in a positive way. Amos is hungry and needs food. I give him food. It’s a simple, straightforward transaction that works for both of us.
If only everything in life could be that simple.
Amos is already engrossed in his sandwich, patting Kryptonite absently with his free hand as she tries to nose her way closer to the bacon, both of them ignoring me now that the transaction is complete.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, and Amos mutters a sound that could be vaguely construed as positive.
I’ll take it.
Leaving Amos and Kryptonite behind, it’s time for my usual morning routine of entering the bowels of the earth to become intimately acquainted with a stranger’s armpits. Also known as traveling on London’s underground tube at rush hour.
When I arrive at the sales department of DTL Enterprises, the usual chaos awaits me.
Pete and Dave have set up an elaborate mini-golf course using office supplies, including a water hazard made from sticky notes and what appears to be a sand trap crafted from spilled coffee grounds.
“Fore!” Dave yells as he lines up his shot with his makeshift golf club—a yardstick with a stapler Blu-Tacked to the end.
“You don’t need to yell fore for a putt, numpty,” Pete says. He’s wearing his lucky tie today, the one with tiny soccer balls all over it.
“I like to err on the side of safety,” Dave says solemnly.
He wiggles his hips, then draws back his stapler-enhanced yardstick to give a gentle tap. The stress ball skitters across the carpet, weaving through the sticky-note water hazard and coffee-ground bunker before rolling to a perfect stop in a mug.
“And he scores!” Dave lifts his arms in triumph.
“Pity that’s the only thing you score in,” Pete says.
“At least I’m out there swinging,” Dave fires back, propping his makeshift club against his desk. “Can’t say the same for you. You spend too much time polishing your nine-iron.”
Pete quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe, unlike you, I don’t want to slice it into the rough all the time.”
I try to tune them out as I boot up my computer. My workspace screams Texas sports fan, from the Houston Texans mouse pad to the vintage Spurs pennant pinned to my cubiclewall. The finishing touch is a photo of me in my old high school football uniform, back when I was still trying to convince myself I could be exactly who everyone expected me to be.
“Speaking of people who need to get their ball in play,” Dave says, swiveling toward my desk with a grin. “We need to work out how to help Ken here find his Barbie.”
“Nah, I reckon he’s more of a GI Joe. The all-American hero. So he needs his GI Jane,” Pete says.
My skin crawls with a squirmy, uncomfortable feeling like I’m wearing a shirt made entirely of itching powder.
