Yargo (Part 3)

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“Who the heck is it? If you don’t have your crap ready for the deadline, I’m not even going to consider an extension.” Came the voice from the other side of the door.

“It’s me, Walter.” Walter replied in a shaky voice.

“Who?” The voice forcibly requested.

“Walter, I work in section five…”

“Yeah, and I’m the blasted Easter bunny, what the blazes do you want at my door?” Anger was still dripping on each word.

“You asked to see me sir.” Walter replied with a bit more assurance.

“Hmmmm… So I did, well don’t just stand out there with your thumb up your butt, get in here… NOW!!” With that Walter jumped to attention and grabbed the doorknob and started pulling like a maniac. After a couple of seconds he noticed a little sign above the handle reading ‘Push’. Feeling like a moron he opened the door and slowly slumped in.

Mr. J. Stairwell was the name embossed upon the name plaque. The plaque was very elegant, unlike the dirty man that sat behind it. Mr. Stairwell looked like an obese dwarf on a bad day. He had an army of fat rolls around his belly, which was covered, as best as it could, by a t-shirt with the profound statement ‘This is not a beer-gut, this is a fuel tank for my love machine’ placed on it. His hair was brown and had a few dread locks in it, obviously not meant to be a fashion or religious statement. And he had a very distinct odor reminiscent of a fast-food-restaurant trashcan.

Walter thought it his duty to start the conversation before Mr. Stairwell forgot he was there, “So, Mr. Stairwell…”

“Yes… What… What the heck do you want here, I told you stupid people I’m not buying any of your damn religious hogwash. I don’t…”

“Mr. Stairwell, my name is Walter, I work in section five.”

“No you don’t.” Mr. Stairwell stated matter-of-factly.

“Yes, I distinctly remember working there yesterday.”

“I mean you don’t anymore, muttonhead!”

“You mean you’re laying me off?”

“Well, Walter is it?” He changed disposition to something almost motherly.

“Yes.” Walter was getting angry at his Mr. Stairwell’s insanity.

“I like to think of it as getting rid of useless weight, taking out the trash, actually I prefer the term… You’re fired! You cotch, get your crap and get out of my business”

Walter would have liked to say something that described the true ugliness of this man; how terrible he had been to Walter. How much he wanted to beat the living piss out of this man. How just the mere sight of his putrid body made him want to puke every last bit of stomach lining he had out through his nose (I would not suggest trying this at home). But alas, the only thing that came out of his mouth was, “Sure be out in fifteen then?”

“You have ten, now get out of my office and off these premises before I send the dogs after you.”

-V-

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Yargo (Part 2)

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Walter was a man who enjoyed music very much. He was a firm believer that music soothed the savage beast (and was unsure about the effects regarding the normal beast). Through his hangover realized that he had no music playing in his car, even though there did seem to be a random percussionist beating on a large assortment of items in his head.

He was deeply perturbed when he reached down to turn on the stereo and his hand met with a void where the power switches used to be, he felt he needed to inspect further. The entire rest of drive to work he spent assuring himself that the missing stereo needed a break from the daily grind and would probably return itself to the car later that day.

The trip to work was an exceptional drive for Walter, as he nearly caused six accidents without even being aware of it. He believed that it must have been some newly sanctioned car horn-honking holiday. Every person in a car that passed him had something descriptive to say, but since his muffler seemed to be on holiday with his stereo, he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He imagined they were complementing his extraordinary driving technique.

Walter was surprised that he was able to get to work on time and felt his day was actually starting to shape up, but when he got there some jerk with a red sports car had parked in his parking spot. The hate began to swell up inside of him. He had been parking in this spot for seven years now. How could anyone not know this by now?

He needed revenge and he needed it fast, so he parked his car in the corner of the parking lot, placed his sharpest key in his hand and nonchalantly walked into work. A person with a very acute sense of hearing might have heard a scratching sound of metal on metal, but thank the powers for Walter, no one was around.

Have you ever wanted to be invisible? You might think it would be great (you know sneak into the girls changing room, and what not). But to have no one, save cockroaches, acknowledge your existence (and only because when you happen to step on one it makes a crunchy, squishy noise) is bad. This was the feeling Walter got as he entered is work building.

It probably would not have been so bad, thought Walter, had it not been for the door: when the automatic door doesn’t even recognize you in front of it, then you know you have a problem. He walked smack into the glass door. He had to wait for someone else to come along and actuate the door, so he could get in.

Walter finally got to his boss’s office door, after much rubbing of various parts of his body from other run-ins with objects that didn’t bother to get out of his way like the soda machine in the hallway. He gently knocked upon the door. A sickly, raspy voice as if having had smoked about ten thousand too many cigarettes called out.

-V-

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Yargo (Part 1)

It was a sunny day in Yargo; the clouds were acting as if they were agitated with themselves, staying as far away from each other as they could. The grass in the town square was as blue as dragon’s scales and the sun beat red-green light upon the land. People in the town square were busy with the hustle bustle of daily life, trying to ignore the town drunk, Waldorf.

Waldorf could normally be found hanging around the square begging for any drinks or money (but preferably drinks, and usually the strongest you have, and oh hey is that a flask you have in your breast coat pocket. It’s just; I know what that looks like from the outside and I bet you could spare a swig). Today Waldorf had found himself a new drink of choice, which by smell alone could put hairs on a fully-grown woman’s chest, and take them off a man’s chest at the same. This particular drink was known as Jargon’s special ale.

This ale led to the demise of many a restrained man. And it was one man in particular that had the joy of feeling the after-effects named Walter, where our story really begins. Walter, who stood about five feet eight inches tall when in his stocking feet, had blue-gray eyes and was a rather plain person. He kept to himself most of the time and tried desperately to keep his brown mess of hair as in line as he could, but it was a constant battle that he lost consistently. Right now he was nursing a very strong headache from the previous night’s festivities.

Walter unwillingly woke up at the crack of dawn; he had been told to be in the office first thing in the morning for an important meeting with his boss. He was blasted into wakefulness by ice-cold water spewing from this shower spigot. After three minutes of soap, lather, rinse he couldn’t feel any of his appendages and felt it would be a good time to try and warm up.

Dressing was also a bit of a hassle. Why is it when one needs to be somewhere everything seems to be in the wrong place or just generally slow you down? After pulling on what he felt were his best choice of work clothes from the floor, at least they didn’t stink too badly, he walked outside to locate his car.

The previous night he had gotten himself into all types of trouble he would never have the pleasure of remembering. He fumbled with his keys in the lock. Got the door locked and spun around ready for the hunt. The search ended much quicker than he expected, he found his unsightly black car parked halfway through a young sapling on the lawn of his apartment complex.

It stood about three feet off the ground, resembling a cardboard box, and was held together with so many coat hangers one might have mistaken it for a mobile closet. Being particularly clever (or so he thought), he sauntered up to his car and quickly drove off before any decent being could report him.

-V-

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