The hum of industrial strength air-conditioning keeps the insane summer heat at bay.
Tristram sweats anyway. He needs this sale and has been nervous all morning for a meeting that seems to be over before it really got started.
“These cups are 100% biodegradable, fossil-footprint responsible.”
“Can you beat a thousand for seventy-eight,” The fat-manager with a shiny pink scalp, dressed in an over starched white oxford-button down, asks with a smirk. His little name badge, hanging from the tip of a monstrous left tit, says assistant-manager.
It might as well say gatekeeper.
Tristram dips his chin and shakes his head no.
The fat-man laughs derisively, turns from the table he did not even sit down at and walks away with his pants riding up into his buttcrack.
Tristam curses, wishing his brother-in-law had never convinced him to invest in his paper-cup business.
He stands to make his next appointment across town, his thoughts returning to the idea of an insurance scam.
A slip and fall.
A nice little warehouse fire.
Suicide by cop.