Team Building

I had been interrupted from pretending to work for this bullshit. We all sat around and waited for him to start. Beads of sweat and lonely strands of hair occupied his forehead like unwanted guests. There was a ponytail. It was a last ditch effort to cling to the youth that was as faint as the remnants of a fart released into a pillow three weeks prior. Age was not his problem though. He was simply a fat cunt. Hey, what’s this about? said a voice to my left.
Not sure, I said and I turned my head. A guy I had worked with for ten years but for the life of me I couldn’t remember his name. I didn’t even know what he looked like. I was looking at him now but it was like the first time I had ever seen him. Do you ever hold your dick like a cigarette? he said.
What?
You know? Between your fingers, he said.
What are you talking about?
I just want to know if you ever hold your dick between your fingers like a cigarette?
Why?
Forget it, uppity prick, he said and stopped talking to me. Thank fuck. Every word I exchanged with that guy had brought me closer to a coma. This place was risky and the danger money was shithouse. Fatso grabbed the belt that held up his stomach and prevented it from smashing into his cock every time he took a step in any direction. He ran his hand over the strands and picked up some sweat on the way through. This all ended up on his pants when he wiped his hand on them as part of a routine that would be repeated over and over again. Thanks for joining us everyone, he said.
Hey, boss! Do you ever hold your cock like a cigarette when you piss? said the guy from before.
Of course I do, said Fatso.
See! he said and I could feel his never-been-laid filth burrow it’s way into the side of my face just by looking at it. I refused to look in his direction. Keep staring at me and I will kill you, I said.
Anyway, why are we here today? said Fatso.
It’s your show CUNT! said a voice from the back.
Tone down the language, said Fatso.
Can we get this ball rolling? said a woman.
We’re here today to do some team building, said Fatso. He then went into a convoluted and meandering retelling of a manager’s retreat he had recently attended. Lots of feelings. Lots of hand holding. Lost of tears. I really think we can benefit from some of the ideas I was introduced to at the retreat, he said.
How much did all this cost? I said.
That’s not important, said Fatso.
Pretty typical question from a guy who doesn’t hold his dick like a cigarette, said the other guy.
What are the benefits of holding it like a cigarette? said the woman.
Well, it makes me feel tough. How about you, boss?
I imagine myself to be the leader of a gang of hoodlums. This takes place in the toilet, obviously, but I imagine I’m in the street. My dick is the cigarette, my piss is the smoke coming out of the end of the cigarette which is actually my dick, but you get the picture, said Fatso.
Wow, said the woman.
And that’s why he’s on the big bucks, said the cigarette cock guy.
Can I go please? I said.
That’s what this retreat was all about. Visualising. So I’d like to do something similar with you all so that we can get to know each other better, said Fatso.
I don’t want to see your cocks, said the woman.
Want the first time to be special do you? said the guy up the back.
I’ve seen plenty of cocks, she said.
Slut, said the guy up the back.
I’m happy to get my cock out, said the cigarette cock guy.
NO. STOP! It’s got nothing to do with exposing genitals, said Fatso.
Well, cough up. I have work that I have to pretend to do, I said.
I’ve had a great idea, said Fatso.
Lose weight? I said.
DIE?!?! said the voice up the back.
No, neither. What I propose is kind of like a guessing game. I want you all to go home tonight and bring in a photo of yourself and give it to me.
That’s not really a guessing game, said the cigarette cock guy.
I don’t like photos, said the woman.
Go home and photograph your arsehole and I will pin it to a poster for display in the office. If you are able to guess whose arsehole is whose, you will win a voucher, said Fatso.
For what? I said.
For a free coffee from the guy down the road.
He pisses in that coffee, said the woman.
I have evidence, said the cigarette cock guy.
FUCK THIS SHIT, said the voice from up the back and this was followed by a fart. Then there was silence. More sweat formed on Fatso’s brow and he held onto that belt like he was on some sort of ride at a theme park where the theme was boredom. Well, I am not showing my arsehole to anyone, said the woman.
I don’t want to see it, I said.
That’s good, because I don’t do arse stuff, she said.
That’s good because I would never want to see it or do anything to your arsehole, I said.
HOW DARE YOU! she said.
What? I said.
What you just said was pretty hurtful, said Fatso.
So how do you hold your cock? said the cigarette cock guy.
Apologise, said Fatso.
Fuck this shit, I said and stood up. The woman was crying now. Fatso pulled up the belt and gave himself a wedgie. I don’t know why you won’t answer a simple question, said the cigarette cock guy.
I’m going to have to report you to Human Resources, said Fatso.
Well, while you’re at it, report this, I said and picked up my chair and threw it. Points had to be given because he did try to duck, but I hadn’t aimed at his head. The chair hit him in the chest and he went over like the forty-five year old divorcee that just needs that cock, any cock. There were gasps and the sound of the door closing behind me as I left the room. I could still hear the woman crying from the other side. I may have been hearing things but I was also pretty sure three or four more questions regarding how I held my cock were throw at me through the timber.

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