“This is a nice fucking desk,” I said to myself. I looked around my office at all the novelties corporate success had brought. The painting on the wall, by an artist I’ve never heard of, cost $10,000. The cigars I smoke cost $50 each and are ashed into a $1,000 designer glass ashtray. “Life ain’t too bad,” I thought, as I lit another cigar and refilled my glass with scotch.
The phone on the desk started to ring on the interior line. No doubt, it was my fake-breasted secretary calling to let me know the band had arrived. I began to wonder why she hadn’t asked for a raise since we started sleeping together, but pushed the thought out of my mind as I reached for the receiver.
“Hey, sweet thing,” I answered. “Are you trying to take me out to lunch again already?”
“Oh Mr. Johnson, you’re too much,” she said, giggling.
“Send those rascals in baby, don’t keep me waiting another minute,” I said and hung up the phone.
A few moments later the office door opened and four sultry characters sulked into the room. They reeked of cigarettes and vodka to the point that I wondered if their leather jackets had been cured with the stuff. I wouldn’t give two shits about these bums if I saw them on the streets, but for now they were the highest earning band on the label. Naturally, they received my undivided attention.
“Why can’t we meet with her?” one of them asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Those tits cost me a fortune,” I said with a grin. “But not near as much as that last bar fight.”
“Those fuckers had it coming,” the same shaggy figure said.
All four took chairs in front of the desk. They were called The Smokes and they were the hottest number of the year. They were the hottest number of the year because they were on my label and I hoped to keep it that way. The band was made up of Rob Kerns on guitar, Greg Thomas on drums, Mathew Michaels on bass, and Jack Nielson at vocals. Kerns and Thomas were great musicians, hell, even Michaels was good in his own right, but Nielson made the band.
Jack Nielson had been trouble from the start. Bar fights every week, statutory rape suits, assault charges, drug possession, and that was when he was feeling tame. He detested me personally and everything my company stood for. He was a god on the mic though, so I had to put up with his shit. Even now he sat in silence, lips curled into a sneer, and cocaine eyes flitting around the room. Rob Kerns handled most of the band’s business though, so I turned to address him.
“It’s about that time again,” I said.
“Ah yes, we sign our souls over to you so you can continue to make millions of dollars while we get shit for royalties,” Kerns said.
“Come on now, I told you I’ll raise your royalties when you quit costing me so much in legal bills,” I said.
“Oh, bullshit,” Nielson mumbled.
“Don’t give me any shit, Nielson,” I said. “You cost most of them.”
“You’re just a greedy, old fuck,” Nielson said.
“You better watch your mouth while you’re in my office, you drugged up punk,” I said, starting to raise my voice.
“Fuck you and fuck this label!” Nielson shouted.
He stood up and grabbed the glass ashtray of the desk, throwing it at the window behind my head. The window cracked, the ashtray shattered. I acted fast, hardly thinking I stood up and threw a right across his face. He was surprised, so I followed with the left. His nose crushed under my fist. The next thing I knew I was being dragged over the desk and thrown to the floor where Nielson’s bony fists hit any part of my body they could find.
We rolled around on the ground, getting hits in whenever we could. The other band members reacted mildly; Kerns stood still with his arms crossed, Thomas lit a joint, and Michaels simply walked out of the office. I got the top and thought I had Nielson down, but he was too coked up. He rolled on top, getting a few more hits in on my face. I was about to roll him over again when he suddenly pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open. He stuck it flush against my lower right eye and I felt blood begin to trickle down my face. The action froze.
“Whoa, calm down Nielson,” Kerns said.
“You don’t have the balls,” I said.
“You are a pretentious, ugly, old fuck,” said Nielson. “And you aren’t worth a damn.”
Nielson stood up and casually walked out of the office with the remaining band members following behind. I lay on the floor for a while wiping blood from my face. Whether it was Nielson’s, or mine I had no idea. “That was one hell of a band meeting,” I thought. The phone started to ring on the interior line again, no doubt the fake-breasted secretary wondering what the hell happened. I lit another cigar before reaching for the receiver.
“Hey, doll face,” I said, draining the glass of scotch still perched on the desk.
“What the hell happened, should I send security?” she asked, exasperated.
“No babe, listen,” I said. “Call The Smokes’ agent, sign them to a five year contract and double their royalties.”
“Alright, are you sure you’re fine?” she asked.
“I’m fine, just clear my schedule for the day,” I said and hung up the phone.
I settled back into my chair and glanced around my expensive office, which was now destroyed. I refilled the scotch and drained it to Jack Nielson being the next big star. It took a lot of balls to make it in this business and I planned to stay on top.
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Despite the language, this is shaping up to be something of a 1940s gangster movie. The situation is a little unbelievable though. More descriptive adjectives would help. Build up the characters before the fight in whatever way a short story allows. And destroy the office a little more. Not sure the title fits, consider pluraling either dog or snake, whichever the gang is.
Good first draft.
I found this very funny, but I also found myself wondering why nielson became addicted to drugs and basically I wanted more on his background. Maybe you could do some flashbacks to when he was good but then explain how he got bad. overall this was very good but I want more detail.
Very good story. I’m can not write about grammar because I’m rookie in English Language, but I’m realy appreciatte the way you finish a story. Some slangs i can not understand, but your piece has a nice flow. Keep writing!
Ok, I’ll give it first draft treatment. I woun’t go into motivation of characters etc. I’ll just hit on a few rough spots.
First a few word usages and puntuation improvments -
Third sentence – comma after “each.”
“—ring on the interior line.” is unclear, likely you mean “interoffice line.”
sixth paragraph omit “few.” Same paragraph, “sultry” isn’t the word you want, likely “scuzzy” comes closer.
tenth (?) paragraph repeating “hottest number of the year” is very awkward. Rephrase one of them.
Comma after “personally” in the next paragraph.
Should “god on the mic” be “god on the mike?”
“You cost most of them.” should be “You CAUSE—-”
“threw a right across his face” is better as “threw a right cross into his face”
Add a comma between “fake breasted secretary” and “wondering”
That should be enough to get you started. Keep writing.
sultry -- You’re describing guys here--sultry is not the correct adjective
Aside from the above, I really don’t have criticisms to offer you. This piece was very entertaining, in a perverted sort of way. In a way your character Nielson reminded me of Dave Davies of the Kinks, only Dave would never have pulled a knife.
Nice short story. Knowing the music business as I do, you created a scenario that might not be so far from the truth.
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