But with his stomach growing louder with each passing floor—and the damn floors crawling upward at a cruel, glacial pace—hope began to slip. Something was wrong. Was the elevator broken? Had this building finally decided to kill him?
And just when he thought he might make it—
Bing!
The doors slid open. Diane gave Freddie one last look that said, Godspeed! cut with pity and relief that it wasn’t her trapped in Walter’s narrowing attention funnel, and shot out of the elevator faster than Freddie had thought her short little legs capable of carrying her.
Walter, of course, lingered.
Walter, with his black, canine stare and knowing smirk, already scenting blood. He stepped neatly into Freddie’s path, blocking his escape to the bathroom. In doing so, Walter made himself the only casualty of what followed: the fuming wreckage of Freddie’s inner rectal sanctum.
“My God!” Walter gasped.
The look vanished, replaced by active wrenching. Freddie muttered apologies as Walter staggered away, clawing for fresh air. Joke’s on him. There were no open windows. Walter retreated down the hall, gagging, muttering apologies of his own as he fled toward his desk.
Freddie’s stomach settled.
It had only been gas. No immediate panic. No urgent need for a wardrobe change. He exhaled, offering a silent thank-you to his body’s newly discovered defense mechanism.
Could he do it again? Trigger it on command?
Had he stumbled onto a private weapon of mass destruction?
The thought was comforting.
Somewhere behind him, a bathroom door slammed. Someone retched.
Freddie checked his watch. Less than thirty minutes until his presentation.
He wasn’t even supposed to be presenting today. That was the worst part. Meetings like this had a way of materializing around you, fully formed, like traps you only noticed once your foot was already inside.
He sat back in his chair and craned his neck toward the glass-walled conference room where middle management had begun to gather. They shuffled papers, exchanged pleasantries, sniffed one another for weakness.
Walter might be temporarily out of commission. Freddie might have won the battle. But the war remained, and he was no soldier.
The expense reports on his desk stared back at him. Projections. Graphs. Ammunition—not to win, but to survive. Enough numbers to dull the room, to make eyes glaze and questions lose interest.
One page slid free from the stack and drifted to the floor. Freddie stared at it, then bent to retrieve it—only to realize it was the wrong version. Last quarter’s numbers. He slid it back into the pile anyway.
Half the numbers didn’t really exist anyway. Not in any meaningful sense. They were projections of projections, requests made in bad faith, meant to be answered badly so someone could feel superior about it later.
He wanted to fold into himself. Sink into the chipped lacquer of the desk. Become invisible.
But buoyed by his single, glorious fart-victory, a pulse of bravery flickered.
They’re just people, he told himself. Not even good people. What do I have to be afraid of?
Maybe they should be afraid of him.
He let the fantasy bloom. Those sharp faces going blank. Nervous. Maybe he’d march in, lean back in his chair, hands behind his head, and wait, smiling, for someone to try him. Maybe this time he’d have the right words. Maybe he’d parry cleanly, slice away their condescension, and declare victory over the bleak machinery of corporate America.
Walter reappeared in the hall.
He paused at the conference room door, looked directly at Freddie, and shook his head in disgust.
The spell broke.
Freddie sank lower in his chair, courage evaporating on contact with reality. Maybe bravery could try again tomorrow. Who was he kidding? Just keep your head down and get out. As fast as you can.
There were no winners in corporate America. Only survivors.
At that exact moment, Freddie noticed his left hand was swollen, his fingers pale and sausage-like. He didn’t remember injuring them, but perhaps his body had simply decided to revolt against the chair, the lights, the air. Anything was possible.
He looked back at the conference room. The pack clustered tighter, laughing at their own jokes, starched ties gleaming. His own shirt was wrinkled, the tie forever crooked. Sweat darkened the armpits.
“You’re doomed,” Diane said softly from above.
She leaned over the partition and watched the Karens with him, the way people watch something unfold when they’re safely removed from it, like tourists on safari. “Wish I could take you with me.”
Freddie sighed. “Every man for himself.”
Diane sighed too. “Right.”
Somewhere down the hall, a familiar voice laughed too loudly, the sound all nasal and wheezing.
Not a Karen. But one of their flying monkeys. A monkey who understood the values in Freddie’s inflated spreadsheets.
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