Now What?

I got him. I finally got him. And now I have to make sure I don’t take the fall for cleaning up his mess. The number of people his horrible standards and instance on long hours put in the grave. The safety codes he ignored. All of it. Foreman, as he insisted upon us using the title instead of his name, was no more.

The foundry is dangerous enough, and casting bronze is a tricky business. Artists trust us with meticulously crafted molds, and his asinine disregard for the basics, like two men on every pour, and using the crane for the long ones put fatal flaws in statues and in all the miniature copies that came after them.

Sand casting and polishing versus lost wax method for the original, made work for more than a dozen craftspeople who brought the rough textured castings to the exacting standards the sculptors demanded. Details had to be attended to, and now I’ll attend to his funeral. Or should I say cremation? He wasn’t the first to trip and end up in the old fashioned melting pit.

He was about to disappear and become part of the floating scum we skim so carefully when we make alloys. No trace of a body. They might find prints from his shoes in front of the pit, and evidence of him tripping to his knees, because I’ll stage it that way. All I have to do is open the grate, and he’ll be gone.

The creaking groan of the grid sliding out from under him barely registered over the roar of flames and industrial fans. It was late, and he was the last one out as usual. His habits a rut not one of those who work here wanted to fall into. Rotating into different positions kept eyes fresh, but he said staying in the same position made it easier. Right, lazy ass. He just didn’t want to take the time to properly train anyone. Well, who’s laughing now?

My silicon soled steel-toed boots left no prints. The only thing I had to make sure of? Don’t brag. Ever. For James, Elliot and Cameron, I said a quiet prayer. Finally my co-workers will rest in peace.