Four de Force
Ken Eversauff was a broken man in a broken life and as was emblematic, he found himself sitting in a broken chair at the pub.
“Barkeep!” he hollered. “This chair rocks. I need a replacement.”
“Well, then, I sure hope you get one,” was the pub manager’s comeback.
Eversauff glowered at him. He felt himself a man who commanded respect, but one quick appraisal would tell the whole story: this man had the curse. It was the curse of the cosmic decree that legislated his highest achievable status—also-ran, squib, shū- shū,* forever someone’s tolerated assistant.
Eversauff knew better, always, with the accompanied envies and indignations.
Standing five-foot four, wearing 110 lbs, his stature embodied his cosmic decree; nevertheless, he propped it up as a persona. He wore his three-piece suit, angularly tailored, to portray past his fecklessness. He only fooled himself. His hair was thin but present in a gelled, straight style of shiny, dark porcupine needles combed tightly straight back. The whole package was as a self-appointed β-male peacock.
With mange.
Forever demoted into career-corners, he was an angry little man constantly on the look-out for an underling to suffer his angry little authority.
The bartender knew him well.
He rocked angrily on his chair, sipping his Jack and Coke. Who would change his chair for him? Certainly not him. It was the newest power struggle of an endless series of power struggles that daily defined his sense of self-worth.
He looked up and saw Walsh come in. He waved him over. Walsh took a seat opposite him which sat squarely, successfully, on its four legs.
“I was over at the other place, waiting,” Walsh complained.
“Sorry.”
“It was inconsiderate. You could have told me.”
“You should have assumed. Here, let me order you a drink”: apology in Y-chromosome code accepted, although the beverage was declined.
“No, thanks,” Walsh answered. The drink came anyway, and Eversauff merely queued it up as his next. “You want that promotion?” Walsh asked him, with one raised eyebrow that lifted above one side of his sunglasses.
“Yes,” Eversauff answered.
“I can make that happen.”
“This is the meeting that’ll make that happen?” he prompted Walsh.
“Yes it is, Ken.” He smiled at him. "We need a fourth-in-command.”
“Fourth?”
“Llorente’s second. Leeper’s third. You know that.”
“What would fourth in command do?”
“All the things Llorente and Leeper can’t.”
“Or won’t,” Eversauff sneered, feeling the setup for another fall.
Walsh, with his sunglasses on, hid his scornful glare. “Look,” Walsh told him with the tone of destiny, “you’d be lucky.” His tone in their conversation suddenly became hostile, like in any good bipolar conversation. “Because it’s fucking prestigious!” He settled back down. “It’d be an honor to be number four for God’s sake! You’re not gonna get higher than that. You’ll be a minor big shot. Finally, a success.” Eversauff simmered.
“Look, Walsh—”
"C’mon, Eversauff! If you’re not with me, you’re nothing. Do you understand? Nothing!” Walsh was right and Eversauff knew it.
“When would I get my badge?” Eversauff asked. Walsh reached into his pocket and jingled a good many of something, then he fished one out. As if he handed them out all day, he tossed it at Eversauff. Eversauff missed the catch and it fell to the table. Eversauff regarded it for a moment, then reached to retrieve it. Walsh put his hand on Eversauff’s sleeve and squeezed.
“You accept?”
Eversauff freed his hand politely from Walsh’s grip, grasped the badge, and applied it to his lapel. It looked good, even upside down from his vantage.
“What now?” he asked Walsh.
“Now you go to Control and when you arrive, Leeper will meet you with all of your stuff. After that, I have a surprise for you, No. 4. Don’t bug me about it; just wait for it when it comes.”
A surprise? And Leeper will meet me, Eversauff beamed. Leeper—Number three—playing a chauffer; he fingered his badge salaciously. This probably called for another Jack and Coke.
And definitely a new chair.
If the bartender knew what was good for him. Fucking bartender! As if!