Like most of you, I am a popular writer of highbrow thrillers and suspense novels in my spare time. Beginning today, I will be serializing my latest work, THE GRONE PROTOCOL, here in my “blog” (short for “web blog”) every weekend (unless I forget or don’t feel like it or die something). Here’s the third chapter, which should fill your daily quota of gripping intrigue. If not, go visit your grandma and steal a book from her; I hear that Sue Grafton is almost done cycling through the alphabet.
Jameson P. Greeley sipped his glass of milk through a straw, savoring each drop like a kitten would vodka, if the kitten were an alcoholic and/or Russian. Greeley took twenty-minute milk breaks thrice a day, regardless of how much work there was to be done. He drank only whole milk; he was fond of saying that he would rather drink his grandfather's shit than 2%. He had considered copyrighting that phrase and selling it to the Whole Milk Advocacy Council, but discovered after some research that such an organization did not exist.
As soon as he finished his last sip, his watch beeped, letting him know that it was time to get back to his duties. He put back on his manager hat, fastening the chinstrap with a satisfying click. The hat was cumbersome and hurt his neck, but he knew it inspired respect in his employees. A manager without respect is as useless as a male prostitute with his butthole sewn shut, he thought. He paused, then fished a pen out of his drawer and wrote down what he had just thought of. He chuckled to himself, picturing the admiration he would win from his fellow managers at the next Grone Corporation Strategy Fiesta Weekend. He would have to get some motivational t-shirts made.
Little did Greeley know that he would never be attending another Grone Corporation Strategy Fiesta Weekend. A day of reckoning was fast approaching, and no matter how big his manager hat was, it would not be able to stave off what was about to happen.