by Drew Hayes
Back in the office, Dr. Caruthers at last found his voice. “I cannot believe such an important project was handed over to that impudent little bastard.”
Mr. Henderson nodded his agreement. “It was a real disappointment, especially given how outstanding his references were. When he first showed up his letters of recommendation were so glowing I thought they were fake. That’s why I kicked the decision up to you.”
Dr. Caruthers felt a scathing jab wither on his tongue. He’d nearly forgotten that he’d been the one to approve Clint Tucker’s hiring. That complicated things somewhat. He couldn’t throw Mr. Henderson to the wolves when it was the Caruthers’ name on all the documentation. Well, Tucker had admitted his own folly in front of two witnesses and been summarily discharged. The shareholders would have undoubtedly preferred a scapegoat that was higher on the food chain for this snafu; however, Dr. Caruthers was confident he could work with what he had.
“It’s surprising he was able to do so much damage, given that he was just brought on to help the project meet deadline. I mean, he was barely here longer than a week.”
“A lot can happen in a week,” Mr. Henderson replied.
“So it seems,” Dr. Caruthers agreed. “I suppose that will be all today. Get your people busy on a fix for Project Jefferson. I want it by…” Dr. Caruthers hesitated. “Well, how long do you think it will take them to complete?”
Mr. Henderson smiled confidently. “I am positive they can get it done in four weeks.”
“Excellent,” Dr. Caruthers said. “Have it ready in two.”
* * *
A young couple walked happily along the stone path, taking in the sights of the island as they adjusted to the tropical heat. Kenowai was a tourist mecca, offering inclusive resorts or secluded getaways, depending on a traveler’s preferences. Ahead of the couple, a tan man with dark hair and rippling muscles carried their bags. They hadn’t bothered to ask, but the fellow was a native named Mano. He’d worked at this particular hotel for many years and carried the bags of many couples. A few times a year he’d also carried some new bride with panicked regrets into the highest levels of carnal bliss, but that was a dangerous hobby and one best observed only in small amounts. On the whole, he worked here because the owners were nice, the visitors cheerful, and on the rare occasion when he got to work the pool bar, it meant he didn’t have to spend the whole afternoon sweating.
They drew close to their building, a several-story complex that looked out of place against Kenowai’s unspoiled vegetative scenery. They were nearly to the double doors when Mano held up his hand to stop them. The couple obliged, unsure if there was some additional check-in procedure or quaint island tradition they needed to observe. Instead, they stood still as a cat walked across the path in front of them. It was the color of midnight across its entire body, except for the tail, which had a tip that was gold as sunlight dipped in honey. The cat paid them no mind as it skulked along, its eyes fixed on the world before it.
“Sorry, folks,” Mano said with just enough accent to be charming. “Got to give right of way to the King of the Island.”
The newlyweds stared at him for a moment, then began laughing at such an adorable concept. They went in and got their room keys while Mano set down their bags and noted what an appreciable bottom the woman possessed. He already had a feeling this was the kind of day that could end in trouble, but Mano had stayed out of trouble for a long time now and that was dangerous, too. Mano was firm in the belief that you had to visit trouble every now and then, like a needy relative, to keep it satiated. If you didn’t visit it then it was likely to get lonely and come looking for you.
Outside, the cat came to a dune that overlooked the beach and took a seat. He stared out at the ocean, dreaming of all the fish that flew beneath its waves. The cat’s name was Sprinkles, and the reason for that is a story within itself. The humans thought they were joking when they called him King of Kenowai. They didn’t know it, but they weren’t. Sprinkles was a cat and a king and one thing more, and it was this third part that nagged him as he gazed out from his dune. Something was gathering, some confluence of events that would lead to his island. He wondered what it would be, though the wonder was less of a worry than the natural curiosity inherent to all felines. After all, Sprinkles was sure he could protect his island from any threat.
You see, while most cats were certain they were of divine blood, if not outright gods, Sprinkles was an aberrant piece of data in the equation. Oh, he had the same certainty as the others that he was cat, king, and godling, but Sprinkles was different.
Sprinkles was right.
* * *
Clint sat in an Irish pub, nursing a beer that was dark as a storm cloud and twice as angry. Normally he would be sitting on a stool at the bar; however, the gentleman soon to be joining him insisted on a booth so they were less visible. If Clint had been pressed, he might have offered up a theory that working to be less visible only made you more interesting to look at. It didn’t matter, though: the company policy said that the client was always right. This was less out of a desire to provide excellent customer service and more from the desire to be able to claim blamelessness should the client’s preferred meeting method end in discovery. Not that what the company did was illegal, per se: merely frowned upon ethically.
A figure in a raincoat and a hat slid through the door of the pub, keeping its eyes to the floor and moving quickly so as not to draw attention. Of course everyone noticed it, but when they realized it was neither a deranged shooter nor a beautiful woman, attention quickly waned. There was a groan from the booth’s boards as the figure settled its sizable heft across from Clint.
“You… are amazing,” came a strangled voice from the poorly-concealed face. “You saved my job. My whole department.”
“It’s what we do,” Clint said simply. “I’m glad it worked. Did you pad your schedule this time?”
There was an adamant nodding of the mystery man’s head, one shake so vigorous it caused the hat to slip and nearly reveal the purple vein that bulged against the bald head. “I told him four, he gave us two, which is one more than we should need.”
“Sounds like things are good then,” Clint said. “Just be careful what you authorize for beta-testing in the future. The businesses who lost their e-mails were howling for blood over lost orders and documentation. Even we can only do so much.”
“I understand.” From within the jacket the figure produced a thin envelope and slid it across the table. “Your severance pay, as specified in your contract. To be honest, I’m surprised they agreed to it when they hired you.”
“If your references are fantastic enough, they’ll do anything to get you. Speaking of which, I trust we can count on you for a letter of recommendation and an amazing review when you get called?”
“Of course. Your company held up your end, I’ll hold up mine.”
“I think that’s everything then,” Clint said simply. “Would you like a beer?”
“No, thank you. I’ve spent the last month certain I was going to get fired. I’m spending tonight at home, celebrating with the wife.”
“Understandable.” Clint watched as the large man worked his way free of the booth and hurriedly shuffled out the door. He took another sip of his beer and looked at the check in the envelope. It was all there, of course. Corporations were always fastidious about contract adherence. That was part of what made a position like Clint’s possible. His official title was Freelance Consultant for Withersby Positional Solutions Incorporated. They specialized in bringing in employees just before bad news became known to the higher-ups in a company, and then proceeding to take the blame for whatever that particular brand of catastrophe entailed.
To put it simply: Clint Tucker was a professional scapegoat.
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About the Author
Drew Hayes is an aspiring author from Texas who has now found time and gumption to publish a few books. He graduated from Texas Te
ch with a B.A. in English, because evidently he's not familiar with what the term "employable" means. Drew has been called one of the most profound, prolific, and talented authors of his generation, but a table full of drunks will say almost anything when offered a round of free shots. Drew feels kind of like a D-bag writing about himself in the third person like this. He does appreciate that you're still reading, though.
Drew would like to sit down and have a beer with you. Or a cocktail. He's not here to judge your preferences. Drew is terrible at being serious, and has no real idea what a snippet biography is meant to convey anyway. Drew thinks you are awesome just the way you are. That part, he meant. You can reach Drew with questions or movie offers at [email protected] Drew is off to go high-five random people, because who doesn't love a good high-five? No one, that's who.
Table of Contents
Foreword
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Epilogue
Pears and Perils Preview
About the Author
