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Anonymous prompt: Mal punishing a new "employee"
4 years ago
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[[re-posting this here because I hate the way FA makes you upload a writing doc to post stories, and it feels easier to just post a title and text in journal form; will be doing the same with my last few prompts. I'm open to feedback, though, so if posting my writing as journals is unappealing to y'all then let me know. I honestly don't care about faves when it comes to my writing stuff, I'm a man who thrives on comments.
BTW, I'm still taking prompts for future writing shorts this month, so if you want to see a character of mine in a certain (sfw) scenario, leave a comment and I may devote 100+ words to it.]]
“Snake’s coming,” the bartender breathes as she swipes up an empty glass.
Before he can ask what she means, a massive hand tangles itself in Douglas’s hair and slams his head down on the counter, smashing his nose against the wood where the glass tumbler had sat not two seconds earlier.
“Your break ended four minutes ago, Mr. Faye,” a deep voice says cheerily.
Douglas feels blood pouring down his chin as the hand yanks his head up and sideways to meet the merciless eyes of his employer. Mal Serpico is leaning an elbow against the bar-top, chin resting on one sinewy hand, expression casual as if he hadn’t just ordered one of his goons to assault the new pit boss. He gestures vaguely to the bartender—Casey, her name tag reads—who quickly places the glass in front of him before crouching down to find something under the bar.
Casey comes back with a bottle of something far more expensive than Douglas has ever tasted, robotically pouring it into the glass and placing it on the counter once she’s done. Mal, apparently, doesn’t care for ice in his drinks, which makes sense considering where he’s from. He sips slowly from the glass, coppery eyes still locked on Douglas as the man struggles to breathe evenly through a bloody nose.
“Listen, Douglas,” Mal says, smacking his lips, “I’m gonna let you off with a warning, since this is your first slip-up, but I need you to understand that we do not tolerate this sort of behavior here at the Cottonmouth.” He speaks like a disappointed parent, head cocked and tone admonishing; then he smiles, his bared teeth an obvious threat, “I’d hate to have to take away any of your employee benefits.”
“Benefits?!” Douglas finally sputters, incredulously, pawing at the hand still tangled in his hair, “What benefits?”
“I don’t need to give you breaks at all, you realize,” he drawls, lazily swirling the liquid in his glass, “Not only is there no law or union to enforce that down here, but the… conditions of our little contract mean that the only thing I am required to do for you is keep you out of jail. A bed, hot meals, consistent scheduled breaks; those are all privileges here.”
He gestures to the goon still holding Douglas in place, “Take Ezra, for example! He’s always on call, he eats when I see fit, and he sleeps whenever I don’t need him immediately on task. So really, Douglas, things could be a lot worse.”
Mal leans forward, mock-conspiratorially. “Between you and me,” he stage whispers, loudly, “I think it’s started to fry his brain a little bit. A shame but, really, it’s not like I hired him to think.”
He throws back the last of his drink, and the glass thumps down on the bar-top as he gets up. He then snaps his fingers in the direction of the goon—Ezra—and points him toward the exit.
“Take him to the infirmary. Tell West I want him cleaned up and back on the floor in thirty minutes.” He turns his gaze back to Douglas and pats him roughly on the cheek, “Get up an hour early tomorrow. You’ll want to make up for the time you wasted.”
Mal finally leaves, sauntering away in the direction of his office.
Behind the counter, Casey audibly exhales and begins to busy herself with wiping down the bar.
The hand in Douglas's hair lets go, dropping gently onto his shoulder and letting him slump forward over his knees. Ezra’s thumb begins rubbing circles into Douglas’s back; apologetic.
Douglas wipes the blood away from his mouth and wishes he’d taken his chances in prison.
BTW, I'm still taking prompts for future writing shorts this month, so if you want to see a character of mine in a certain (sfw) scenario, leave a comment and I may devote 100+ words to it.]]
“Snake’s coming,” the bartender breathes as she swipes up an empty glass.
Before he can ask what she means, a massive hand tangles itself in Douglas’s hair and slams his head down on the counter, smashing his nose against the wood where the glass tumbler had sat not two seconds earlier.
“Your break ended four minutes ago, Mr. Faye,” a deep voice says cheerily.
Douglas feels blood pouring down his chin as the hand yanks his head up and sideways to meet the merciless eyes of his employer. Mal Serpico is leaning an elbow against the bar-top, chin resting on one sinewy hand, expression casual as if he hadn’t just ordered one of his goons to assault the new pit boss. He gestures vaguely to the bartender—Casey, her name tag reads—who quickly places the glass in front of him before crouching down to find something under the bar.
Casey comes back with a bottle of something far more expensive than Douglas has ever tasted, robotically pouring it into the glass and placing it on the counter once she’s done. Mal, apparently, doesn’t care for ice in his drinks, which makes sense considering where he’s from. He sips slowly from the glass, coppery eyes still locked on Douglas as the man struggles to breathe evenly through a bloody nose.
“Listen, Douglas,” Mal says, smacking his lips, “I’m gonna let you off with a warning, since this is your first slip-up, but I need you to understand that we do not tolerate this sort of behavior here at the Cottonmouth.” He speaks like a disappointed parent, head cocked and tone admonishing; then he smiles, his bared teeth an obvious threat, “I’d hate to have to take away any of your employee benefits.”
“Benefits?!” Douglas finally sputters, incredulously, pawing at the hand still tangled in his hair, “What benefits?”
“I don’t need to give you breaks at all, you realize,” he drawls, lazily swirling the liquid in his glass, “Not only is there no law or union to enforce that down here, but the… conditions of our little contract mean that the only thing I am required to do for you is keep you out of jail. A bed, hot meals, consistent scheduled breaks; those are all privileges here.”
He gestures to the goon still holding Douglas in place, “Take Ezra, for example! He’s always on call, he eats when I see fit, and he sleeps whenever I don’t need him immediately on task. So really, Douglas, things could be a lot worse.”
Mal leans forward, mock-conspiratorially. “Between you and me,” he stage whispers, loudly, “I think it’s started to fry his brain a little bit. A shame but, really, it’s not like I hired him to think.”
He throws back the last of his drink, and the glass thumps down on the bar-top as he gets up. He then snaps his fingers in the direction of the goon—Ezra—and points him toward the exit.
“Take him to the infirmary. Tell West I want him cleaned up and back on the floor in thirty minutes.” He turns his gaze back to Douglas and pats him roughly on the cheek, “Get up an hour early tomorrow. You’ll want to make up for the time you wasted.”
Mal finally leaves, sauntering away in the direction of his office.
Behind the counter, Casey audibly exhales and begins to busy herself with wiping down the bar.
The hand in Douglas's hair lets go, dropping gently onto his shoulder and letting him slump forward over his knees. Ezra’s thumb begins rubbing circles into Douglas’s back; apologetic.
Douglas wipes the blood away from his mouth and wishes he’d taken his chances in prison.
