all about finesse and keeping the politics under control. Next day, the New York Times reported a terrorist bombing. That’s when the job is truly complete, when the paper of record prints your target’s epitaph on the front page and shovels coal into the formidable engines of the Bullshit Express.
Back to Bendini, Lambert & Locke and asshole lawyer guy. I didn’t have the time to whip up as good a concoction for him. First off, El Injerto is no longer available, due to rebel activity in that region. You can get it black market, but it’s up to 1,500 euros a pound, and that kind of price gouging is reserved for rappers who think eating contraband whale at a sushi restaurant is cool. I have a backup pound of Diablo Gold Coast from Colombia—Juan Valdez, baby.Not only is this an amazing coffee, but it’s also inexpensive. Only twenty-two bucks a pound. Yeah, I know you can buy a pound of that free-trade Starbucks dreck for eight bucks a pop, but you might as well brew up a pile of hobo whiskers and call it a day.
So, I grind up the Diablo, pour some boiling Fiji water into a French press, and brew it black and strong. It’s inky and oily and smells like the victors of the Spanish American war looked . He takes one sip and raises an eyebrow. Now, some people say they like black coffee because they think it makes them manly, like saying you like cigars, even though they taste like rolled turds, no matter how expensive they are. But this guy is a true connoisseur of black coffee. Thank God, because if he hadn’t been, he might have been coughing up blood by now. He takes another sip, like a lion sucking marrow from the leg of a twitching gazelle.
“Intern maggot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you are not at my desk at oh-seven hundred every single fucking day of the week with this coffee, I will personally see to it that the only job you ever get in the state of New York is the monkey shit shovel boy at the Bronx Zoo. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“John.”
“See you tomorrow, James.”
That afternoon, the admin who brought me up to the Barracks comes to tell me I’m being assigned to a different department—asshole lawyer’s department: Wills and Trusts. When I ask her if this means I can move out of my dank ass dungeon office, she just laughs and tells me not to push my dumb luck.
If you’ve ever wondered why death is so fucking complicated—not for the dead guy but for the family he left behind—it is because even the most expensive law firms love to charge exorbitant fees tohandle their Wills and Trusts but hate to do the actual work. They know that when you are dead, you aren’t going to do shit to them and neither is your blubbering, grief-stricken family. So they don’t care about fucking things up royally. My assignment was to update as many wills and trust documents as possible, based on the reams of legal addendum notes that someone bothered to type up after client meetings but never bothered to actually execute in the Wills and Trusts. You wouldn’t believe how many of the beneficiaries in these older wills were people who were already deceased. That’d be a kicker at the reading, right? Welcome to probate hell. Your golden goose just took it in the ass.
I gather up a truckload of the ancient file boxes that have been left to rot, sneak them out through the service entrance in a laundry cart, and take them back to HR, Inc. Now, with this type of shit, Bob is a fucking rock star. He has a team all ready for me, and these guys work ’round the clock popping dexies as they tackle the mind-numbing task of updating these documents. Bob may not be the best with providing intel—and never forget that is by choice—but he sure as hell is the king of field support. And with the paper-pushing cage match they had going over at the firm, I needed it more than with any other gig.
Needless to say, when I show up thirty-six hours later with no fewer than two
Back to Bendini, Lambert & Locke and asshole lawyer guy. I didn’t have the time to whip up as good a concoction for him. First off, El Injerto is no longer available, due to rebel activity in that region. You can get it black market, but it’s up to 1,500 euros a pound, and that kind of price gouging is reserved for rappers who think eating contraband whale at a sushi restaurant is cool. I have a backup pound of Diablo Gold Coast from Colombia—Juan Valdez, baby.Not only is this an amazing coffee, but it’s also inexpensive. Only twenty-two bucks a pound. Yeah, I know you can buy a pound of that free-trade Starbucks dreck for eight bucks a pop, but you might as well brew up a pile of hobo whiskers and call it a day.
So, I grind up the Diablo, pour some boiling Fiji water into a French press, and brew it black and strong. It’s inky and oily and smells like the victors of the Spanish American war looked . He takes one sip and raises an eyebrow. Now, some people say they like black coffee because they think it makes them manly, like saying you like cigars, even though they taste like rolled turds, no matter how expensive they are. But this guy is a true connoisseur of black coffee. Thank God, because if he hadn’t been, he might have been coughing up blood by now. He takes another sip, like a lion sucking marrow from the leg of a twitching gazelle.
“Intern maggot?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you are not at my desk at oh-seven hundred every single fucking day of the week with this coffee, I will personally see to it that the only job you ever get in the state of New York is the monkey shit shovel boy at the Bronx Zoo. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“John.”
“See you tomorrow, James.”
That afternoon, the admin who brought me up to the Barracks comes to tell me I’m being assigned to a different department—asshole lawyer’s department: Wills and Trusts. When I ask her if this means I can move out of my dank ass dungeon office, she just laughs and tells me not to push my dumb luck.
If you’ve ever wondered why death is so fucking complicated—not for the dead guy but for the family he left behind—it is because even the most expensive law firms love to charge exorbitant fees tohandle their Wills and Trusts but hate to do the actual work. They know that when you are dead, you aren’t going to do shit to them and neither is your blubbering, grief-stricken family. So they don’t care about fucking things up royally. My assignment was to update as many wills and trust documents as possible, based on the reams of legal addendum notes that someone bothered to type up after client meetings but never bothered to actually execute in the Wills and Trusts. You wouldn’t believe how many of the beneficiaries in these older wills were people who were already deceased. That’d be a kicker at the reading, right? Welcome to probate hell. Your golden goose just took it in the ass.
I gather up a truckload of the ancient file boxes that have been left to rot, sneak them out through the service entrance in a laundry cart, and take them back to HR, Inc. Now, with this type of shit, Bob is a fucking rock star. He has a team all ready for me, and these guys work ’round the clock popping dexies as they tackle the mind-numbing task of updating these documents. Bob may not be the best with providing intel—and never forget that is by choice—but he sure as hell is the king of field support. And with the paper-pushing cage match they had going over at the firm, I needed it more than with any other gig.
Needless to say, when I show up thirty-six hours later with no fewer than two
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