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[Durty South Swamp]

Herb waited reluctantly for the elevator to reach the ground floor. In his younger years he would have just taken the stairs to avoid the entire fiasco but as his age crept upwards, so did his weight. The college knee injury that never quite healed and his recent move from the 3rd to 6th floor didn't make matters easier. As the elevator bell sounded and the door began to open, Herb stepped forward and in. He quickly pressed the 6th floor call button and turned to see if anyone was headed in his direction. "Safe" he thought as the door closed in front of him and he breathed a slight sigh of relief. The idea that he would run into Claire once in the building was always something that unnerved him.

Herb had been engaged to Claire for about a year before she broke it off with him 8 months earlier. Claire was quite an enigma to Herb; attractive, charming, charismatic and full of life. The two met on a business seminar two years prior and quickly developed a friendship that turned to more once Herb admitted his feelings for her. Seemingly the opposite of Herb in many ways and being ten years his junior, many wondered what the dark haired beauty saw in him. He often wondered as well. Herb loved Claire's spontaneity, her zeal for life and the ability she had to help him find his passion and happiness in a way no one else had ever been able to do. Herb was devastated when Claire broke off their engagement and admitted that she had found someone else. To make matters worse, her company had recently opened up a branch on the fourth floor of the same office building he worked in. Now each morning and afternoon Herb would begin to sweat when he reached the parking lot or readied himself to leave his desk fearing that he would bump into her somewhere between the elevator and his vehicle. As the elevator passed the fourth floor Herb's stomach relaxed and he adjusted his tie. "One down, one to go" he thought.

The fluorescent lights of the cubicle farm cast a soft, faint tint over the entire wing; as he briskly walked to his desk, the light surrounded every inch of Herb's body as if to personify his melancholy mood with pale yellow shades of soft pastel. In the background the steady drum beat of copy machines, ringing phones and water cooler chatter could be heard. Herb eased into his seat, adjusted the seat back ever so slightly, and let the monotonous drone of the office machinery slowly take his mind elsewhere.

 

[playzwtrux]

Once Herb felt securely nestled into his office chair, he began to reminiscence of days gone by, back to a time when he was new on the job, and had aspirations to be so much more than he is today. The dreams quickly faded as the days clicked off and he turned to anxiously wishing that lunch would come sooner, and weekends were longer.

Snapped out of it by an email alert, he quickly hurried down the hall to his supervisors office. Once he arrived, he gently knocked notifying the occupant of his presence. "We have a special task for your Herb" Estelle, his supervisor announced. "There is a new start-up that we need investigated, they could pose a problem to our market share." "Who are they, and how deep do I need to dig?" Herb asked. "FasCorp, and we need you to go as deep as you can, find everything, keying in on any skeletons that they may have in their closets. Everyone has skeletons." "Do we know anything about them yet?" Herb questioned in an attempt to find out why Estelle appeared so threatened by this new company. "At this time, we're only giving you what you need to know, we want you to start immediately. You're excused."

Disgruntled by the lack of information he was privileged to, Herb murmured to himself as he returned to his inadequate personal office space. As his investigation began, he quickly lost track again and his mind began to wonder...



Not a complete chapter, but it's all I got right now. Ox only gave me 1 hour.

 

[GatorTAG]

If you truly want a novel you need to un-ban Alvin and Sid.

 

[ThreatMatrix]

Kill Herb in the next chapter. Make Claire the main character. Then kill her.

 

[WobbleGator]

If you truly want a novel you need to un-ban Alvin and Sid.

Or just let TLB write it.

 

[GatorTAG]

Or just let TLB write it.

. There's a few long winded posters around here.

 

[TLB]

Or just let TLB write it.

There's too much I could do to wreck this. I'll leave it to it's own course.

 

[t-gator]

Where is pasty on this? Is novel gonna go anywhere?

 

[stephenPE]

Herb woke with a start. His tiny window to the rear parking lot told him he had slept past 6pm and would be late to happy hour at that roof top bar with the pretty one armed waitress. Sometimes she smiled at him when he left a larger than normal tip. If he was lucky the blowhard with the loud ties would not be sitting at the end of the bar extolling the virtues of mid-town real estate. Disliking elevators more than ever he took the stairs to the parking lot. His 7 year old Toyota, still needing a paint job, was one of just 3 cars left in the lot. Why paint it when you never know when a real problem will arise and you have to spend money. Turning out of the parking lot onto the highway he checked his text messages. Still no answer from his dad about borrowing $400 so he could take that cruise in March. Herb had never been on a cruise but he had heard that on the Royal Caribbean line the girls were much more approachable. At least Harry in accounting always had a story to tell about them.

As he neared the bar he remembered he had not worked out in three days. The bar or Anytime Fitness? Feeling how his pants were now tighter he turned the car toward the work out club with a renewed attitude about getting fit. He could almost bench 200 now and cardio was his new passion. The machines even had book holders so he could read the new issue of SI while he raised his heart rate.........##($%&#*# Damn it.......wth hell happened..........he looked over the steering wheel through a haze of airbag powder and steam rising from his front end. He had rear ended a city truck and was now dead in the road beside a bus stop. People were walking over wondering who could miss a big city truck like that.

 

[TheDouglas78]

poop

 

[Loogis]

When the elevator doors opened up to Herb's floor, he decided he was done with this world. Herb went to the nearest window and jumped. With the wind flowing through what was left of his hair, a smile came across Herb's face. Herb experienced a joy he had not felt in a long time.

But his smile turned to consternation when he glanced towards his car for one last moment, and noticed the homeless vet he blew off was breaking into his car

 

[PastyStoole]

He felt mildly proud of himself. He'd made the right choice this time. Gym over bar. Yet he was still more worried now than he'd been anytime in the last 21 days. Twenty-one days. They don't give chips for that, but they should. They tell you that's how long it takes to create a new good habit - or beat an old bad one. But, yet, he still had that crawling skin, he was still wrestling with the "Grouch and the Brainstorm," he was still hearing that voice inside that told him how unfair it is to be caste to this life. The refrain, "the dubious luxury of normal men" rang more and more hollow. He despised life as a sober man. He hated his sponsor, he hated the trite, banal, overtly spiritual, child-like message of the program. He hated himself.

Herb had been to bars during periods of sobriety. Drank coffee. His sponsor had forbidden it. F*ck him. But today would have been more difficult. Sobriety had woken him to a sad, boring reality. Life's failures writ large. If he got the cold shoulder from the waitress, it might send him over the edge. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he was amazing on a bender. He wished he could harness that; the daring feats he performed, the problems he solved, the out-of-his league girls he was able to talk into perverse tristes. But then there were the messes. Far too many and too often, and worse with every episode. Jail time, blackouts, waking up in cities 800 miles away, felonious rages and wholesale property destruction, family and friends who would never talk to him again.

He muttered a half hearted prayer for the wino he'd encountered in the parking lot. That's what they told him to do. Then he chuckled and said aloud, "Thanks for being so disgusting you f*cking piece of sh*t, I'd probably be on a bender now if it wasn't for you."

 

[Durty South Swamp]

He felt mildly proud of himself. He'd made the right choice this time. Gym over bar. Yet he was still more worried now than he'd been anytime in the last 21 days. Twenty-one days. They don't give chips for that, but they should. They tell you that's how long it takes to create a new good habit - or beat an old bad one. But, yet, he still had that crawling skin, he was still wrestling with the "Grouch and the Brainstorm," he was still hearing that voice inside that told him how unfair it is to be caste to this life. The refrain, "the dubious luxury of normal men" rang more and more hollow. He despised life as a sober man. He hated his sponsor, he hated the trite, banal, overtly spiritual, child-like message of the program. He hated himself.

Herb had been to bars during periods of sobriety. Drank coffee. His sponsor had forbidden it. F*ck him. But today would have been more difficult. Sobriety had woken him to a sad, boring reality. Life's failures writ large. If he got the cold shoulder from the waitress, it might send him over the edge. He'd never admit it to anyone, but he was amazing on a bender. He wished he could harness that; the daring feats he performed, the problems he solved, the out-of-his league girls he was able to talk into perverse tristes. But then there were the messes. Far too many and too often, and worse with every episode. Jail time, blackouts, waking up in cities 800 miles away, felonious rages and wholesale property destruction, family and friends who would never talk to him again.

He muttered a half hearted prayer for the wino he'd encountered in the parking lot. That's what they told him to do. Then he chuckled and said aloud, "Thanks for being so disgusting you f*cking piece of sh*t, I'd probably be on a bender now if it wasn't for you."

That's gold pasty!

 

[PastyStoole]

CHAPTER 4

On Chestnut street there stood a fifty-four story sky-scraping architectural masterpiece that was the pride of the city. A ring of nation flags adorned the mezzanine level on all sides. Four stories above the building’s grand entrance façade were three larger flags: The United Nations peace flag, the United States Stars and Stripes and the black and gold banner of the EDR Richmond company. Today that flag flew at half-mast. Anson Hillbridge had ordered it so yesterday. “The company,” he messaged to EDRs 98,000 employees, “will be in an indefinite period of morning.”

Hillbridge stood at the 54th floor looking over the great city. He was waiting for the remainder of The Trust to arrive. He thought about all he’d accomplished in his 33 years of life and the greatness that lay ahead of him. He’d been featured in the Journal more than any other CEO in the last 3 years, he was on a first name basis with some of the most powerful people in the world. He could call favors from a list of a hundred respected politicians. He deserved every bit of the power he’d accrued, he thought. He’d come from middle-class farming stock, worked and grinded and fought for everything he could get, got a scholarship to Yale. He graduated with honors and hit the ground running. There was no end or restraint to what he would do to advance his career. There were eggs to be scrambled, he joked to himself, some of them will need to get broken. He married the best girl he’d ever dreamed of meeting. She had all the right connections, old money, Kennebunkport credentials and a perfectly WASPy style, smile and grace. From their engagement announcement on, they were prominently featured in Town & Country magazine.

On his ambitions, Hillbridge would never discuss them, he would never allow anyone else to suggest them, and he’d never even allow himself to think of them for more than a brief moment. He didn’t have to. He knew what would be his in three year’s time. It’s what he’d dreamed of since he was a boy and what his mother told him he would become. Only a fading, 226 year-old document stood in his way now. That old, decaying parchment told him he was two years too young to take what was his. He was a man of destiny, he would often remind himself, patience and diligence will prevail the day.

The two other Trustees finally arrived. They were their customary ten minutes late and were, as usual, unapologetic about it. They didn’t like Hillbridge at all and made no effort to conceal it. The two men dismissed the security detail carrying the strongbox and offered their tepid greetings.

“Good morning, Arthur!” Hillbridge replied with a phony smile.
He wondered if his smile belied his fervent wish that Arthur would keel over with an aortal aneurism.

Then he turned to Douglas French IV, “Good morning, Douglas!”
As Hillbridge said these words, the visual of a black background and white lettering lingered in his brain. The letters spelled out “DIE.”

 

[PastyStoole]

After his workout, Herb headed back to the grocery store to grab something for dinner. He had more energy now. Things were looking up. He’d beaten his demon one more day. Still, he needed to be cautious. “Things are never as good or as bad as you think they are, Herb,” he’d often try to convince himself. He laughed at that remark as it floated around in his head. He’d recently moved into a new apartment, and the thought of going back to it depressed him. On the other hand, there was something about his inner dialogue today that gave him an odd hope. “I’ve done some fairly amazing things when I’m on a drunk. And I actually tripped in college and was astounded at what I could produce. Is there a way to stay sober and tap that?” He recalled that he once took a class in Radiation Transport Theory, a complex math class that had no exams, only six very complicated problems to solve over the course of a semester. Early on he’d struggled with the class. One night, out of frustration, he decided to try to work the first problem on an LSD tab his roommate had provided. He completed it by the morning, and to the professor’s amazement, set a record score for the class over the course of the semester by using the same strategy. That same semester, he finished off a brilliant creative writing assignments while drowning himself in 12 shots of bourbon one night. During finals week, he went on a three-day cocaine binge and aced it. He routinely took black beauties and drank beer to give him just the right focus for completing assignments and taking exams. He worked out formulas for his chemical use and kept a journal with the precise “doses” of different substances for different coursework.

By the time Herb graduated, with honors no less, he was an addict and a ticking time bomb. He spent the next 15 years faking his way thorough life and underachieving. He took his current job at MacElroy and Associates as a temporary fallback. Now, seven years later he was locked in it like a prison sentence. He had nowhere to go. Any new job in his field would require a fresh background check and would surely reveal his record of misdeeds. He was lucky MacElroy hadn’t found out about his arrests. They did not require renewals on background investigations for employees. Not yet, anyway.

As he walked toward the grocery store, Herb stepped around a bum who had propped himself, seated, against a wall and was snoring loudly. He took a few steps and realized it was the old wino from yesterday. He took another step and stopped. Something struck him in that moment. The wino had triggered something in him he hadn’t felt in awhile. He couldn’t quite put finger on it. Herb walked over to the old man, crouched down next to him and took out his wallet and produced a twenty. “Empathy,” he thought. “That’s what it is.”

The old man woke with a start. “Wha…? What is it?

“Here,” Herb said, handing him the twenty, “Sorry I woke you up.”

The wino took the money suspiciously. “Yeah…” he said, “sorry I shot you the bird yesterday…” And then looked back down at the bill and frowned. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” said Herb. “I’ve been where you are, in a manner of speaking, and I think I just needed to do someone a good turn today.”

The old man looked at Herb for a while, then burst out laughing. His laugh was an odd bricolage of years of progressively worse scotch whiskeys, cheap plastic tip cigars, and middle-of-the night vomit. It seemed to strike several discordant notes on a pentatonic scale all at once.

“Ahhhh, the Twelfth Step!” the old man guffawed. “You’re wasting your time with me, my friend.” Before he could realized what was happening, the old man had given Herb back his twenty-dollar bill and walked off, shaking his head and laughing.

 

[oxrageous]

Great stuff. Pasty must have a lot of personal experience with this stuff.

 

[PastyStoole]

Great stuff. Pasty must have a lot of personal experience with this stuff.

Yes, but not in a way you'd think. I watched my sister struggle with my brother-in-law's addiction. Horrific. Family, friends, and co-workers debilitated by it. Probably not that much different than most people. I read through some of the AA book once, though. It's pretty interesting. There was basically nothing out there until the 1930s when this kind of crazy guy wrote this book and started doing meetings. Before that people ended up in sanitariums.

 

[Durty South Swamp]

I was going for the dull, boring, monotonous life of Herb Atwood until he stumbles upon something crazy and is forced to play the reluctant hero. Pasty clearly was thinking something else

I was gonna write some more but now I'm gonna have to think about it. Not sure if I can measure up with all the drug lingo and what not that I'll have to interject into Herb's mindset from this point forward.

 

[PastyStoole]

“ABASOLO, Maricarol SIU-16020113”

Herb picked up the file, and took another sip of coffee. He was lacking sleep and a foggy blur covered the processing lobes of his brain. The suicide dreams had returned again last night. He’d woken up several times in the early hours, sweating. By the morning his bed was soaked.

He opened the file and looked at the cover page:

File Name: ABASOLO, Maricarol
Case Number: HR-16020113
Case Type: Wrongful Termination
Status: Under Investigation
Investigation Plan…

Herb didn’t think he could handle another no-load employee vs. sh!tty boss case today. He grunted, closed the file and pushed it to the side of his desk. He pulled the file sorter close to him and looked at the tabs. Before grabbing the next file he looked around his desk and cubicle. Unlike his co-workers, there was nothing on the walls. And there was nothing on his desk except a computer monitor, a phone a stapler and a file-sorter. He’d been at this desk for seven years and it still looked like it did before he’d moved into it. No photos of family, no calendars, no memorabilia from conferences or sporting events. He wondered silently for a minute about what that said about him.

He thumbed through the tabs:

BENITO, Benedict HR-16010331
FINKLE, Ray WC-15120247
HAYNES, Margret and James P. LIA-15090141

He paused on the next one:

FASCORP INT-16020044

Herb remembered his boss telling him to dig deep on it without giving him any good information. He also remembered his boss telling him to get started right away. That was two days ago.

Herb pulled out the file and ran his finger along the edge before opening it, then he flopped open the cover:

File Name: FASCORP
Case Number: INT-16020044
Case Type: Internal, Business Intelligence
Status: Under Investigation
Lead Investigator: Herbert Atwood
Secondary Investigator: Stephen Davis
Status: Under Investigation
Investigation Plan…

Herb read the details. They hadn’t given him much. He hoped Steve had worked the case in the last couple of days. Herb had nothing.

Herb's desk phone rang. “Sh!t!” He thought.

“Good morning Special Investigations Unit, this is Herb Atwood,” he began. Then he choked out, in a stilted voice that belied his lack of both sleep and enthusiasm, “you are on an unsecure line, how may I help you?”

Herb thought that second part was asinine, and just one more reason to despise his boss. His boss had made that greeting a departmental requirement. Maybe he thought it sounded official. Maybe he thought it gave them a spy agency, cloak and dagger feel. Maybe he thought it would make them sound like they weren’t doing the seriously banal and boring work they were actually tasked with. In any case, Herb never used it unless his boss was hovering over his cubicle or calling his desk, which was the case now.

“Herb, it’s Donald,” his boss began.

Yes, I know that, you idiot, your name is on my phone screen.

“I’m checking in to see what progress you’ve made on that FasCorp case. The suits upstairs are putting the screws on me.”

Did it ever occur to you that right at this very moment you’re wearing a Banana Republic “Mad Men Collection,” suit, you pretentious ****ing poser?

“Just working on it now, as a matter of fact,” Herb lied. “I’m chasing up some leads and should have an update for you this afternoon.”

“Don’t let me down on this one, Herbie,” his boss told him before he hung up, “this one means a lot to me.”

“****!” Herb said as he put down the phone. He flipped through the file a little more then walked over to Steve’s cubicle.



“How’s it going, Steve?” Herb asked when he’d arrived at Steve’s spot.

“You’re here about the FasCorp case,” Steve replied without answering Herb’s question. “Let me show you what I’ve got so far.”

Herb exhaled. It was fairly noticeable that he was relieved to hear Steve had made some progress. Steve was kind enough to ignore Herb’s lack of effort up to this point. Herb liked that about Steve. He was strictly business.

As Steve spoke, Herb looked around his cubicle. It was remarkably similar in appearance to Herb’s. Nothing personal on his desk or walls, not much more than a planner and a leather notebook with worn pages.

“175 employees in four locations according to D&B. They are very close to the vest at their corporate offices and haven't disclosed much else. I’ve made a few pretext calls to key employees in the last couple of days. They either don’t take my call or work around my inquiries if they do.” Steve told him.

“Have you considered using *67?” Herb joked. He was riffing on a joke that had gained currency in the unit. His idiot boss had recently sent out a directive urging investigators on the floor to make sure their pretext calls were anonymized.

Steve ignored the joke, “Their shares are held in a trust.”

“A trust?” Herb asked. That was a little unusual.

“Yea,” Steve answered. “Trust managers are Millicent and Jeremiah Halton age 66 and 68 of Doe Run, Missouri.”

“Wow.” Was all Herb could say. "Okay."

“I took the liberty of visiting the travel office downstairs,” Steve said, holding up two airline tickets. “I hope you don’t have anything planned for the next couple of days.”

 

[Durty South Swamp]

Ok, pasty needs to take over... im fascinated at this point...