They Walk Among Us, viz., Behind Us

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, and suffered the accompanied envies and indignations.

Standing five-foot four, wearing 54 kg, his stature embodied that curse, his cosmic decree; 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.

He rocked angrily on his chair, sipping his favorite drink. Who would change his chair for him? Certainly not he. 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 me come in. He waved me over. I took a seat opposite him which sat squarely, successfully, on its four legs. "I waited for you."

"Well," he said, "here I am."

“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 I declimed the beverage.

“No, thanks, I’m in uniform." The drink came anyway, and Eversauff merely queued it up as his next. “You want back?” I asked him.

“Yes,” Eversauff answered.

“I can make that happen.”

“This is the meeting that’ll make that happen?” he prompted me.

“Yes it is, Ken.” I smiled at him. "We need a fourth-in-command.”

“Fourth?”

"Yes."

“What would fourth in command do?"

“All the things the others can't.”

“Or won’t,” Eversauff sneered, feeling the set up for another fall.

“Look,” I said to him with the tone of destiny calling, “you’d be lucky to get in at all. Do you know why it has prestige?"

"No. Tell me."

“Because it’s fucking prestigious, that’s why! You’re not gonna get higher than that. You can be a big shot. Finally, a success.” Eversauff simmered.

“Look, I did some pretty impressive work for the—”

"Stop. You're kidding, right? You’re nothing. Do you understand? Nothing!” I was right and Eversauff knew it. He fantasized about prestige—people would notice that.

“When does it happen?” Eversauff asked.

I put my hand on Eversauff’s sleeve and squeezed. “You accept?”

Eversauff freed his hand politely from my grip. “What now?” he asked me.

“Now you go to this address. When you arrive, No. 2 and No. 3 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? Eversauff beamed. This probably called for another drink.

And definitely a new chair.

What he didn't realize is that number 4 never wins. It doesn't place. It doesn't even show. But you gotta play what you get.