Larry Benjamin. Wordsmith. Writer. Author.

“Huh?”  I asked helplessly.  We were in the middle of yet another production meeting, and I thought I’d heard my name mentioned.  “You’re going to…” and here TWO named our southern office located in some North Carolina backwater. “But, why?” “Training,” TWO said.  “Capital B has decided to decentralize certain functions now centralized there.  We’ll need you to get up to speed as you’ll be the chief liaison between the Northeast and Southeast regions. “Why me?” I asked.  My fear of flying is well known and to her credit TWO did an admirable job hiding her glee at my discomfiture. She gave me an answer but what it was I don’t know as her words were drowned out by the sound of smoke being blown up my ass. “Oh,” she said rising.  “One more thing: Brett will be going with you.” *** Nigel sidled up to my cell, glanced up and down the hall and slipped into the narrow space.  “Here,” he said thrusting several small glas...

I was in the elevator when I got a text from Terry, our receptionist, a fierce, snapping, vogueing   take-no-prisoners queen.  "Better hurry!  The Devil and her evil imp are here." I wondered idly what Brett had done to earn Terry's ire already. "Chirl!" The word sailed across the lobby and exploded in my ear as I exited the elevator. . As far as I could tell “chirl” was a word of Terry’s own invention, combining the words “child” and “girl.” "Chirl! You're late.  You better move it." I waved behind my back without turning around. *** It was mid-morning before we mushrooms were called into the conference room. The room was so violently hot that each of us staggered a bit on entering. Capital B was presiding over the meeting from the middle of the conference table. Beneath a soot-colored suit, she wore a high-collared iridescent silk shirt.  In the pale light it flashed red, blue, yellow as she moved; with each movement it...

It was a quiet week.  The officers were in a state of high anxiety; our collective failure to “make our numbers” due to the crappy economy, the unlikelihood of year-end bonuses and the visitation of Capital B, all hanging over their heads like some poisoned Sword of Damocles . I, myself, was unusually quiet following the “No one talks to you because…” debacle, and my self-imposed exile. The “drums”—Twitter, and the text messaging that kept us informed and a half step ahead of leadership—had also been uncharacteristically quiet. The strain caused TWO to call a special production meeting—the second in less than two weeks—to strategize about how we would handle the inevitable visitation of Capital B and Brett. “They’ll be here all day,” TWO was saying when I zoned back in.  Generally nothing worthwhile happened at these impromptu meetings of hers so I typically used the time to think about other things.  “So we should probably plan on going out to lunch as a g...

Since Capital B's web cast, we'd all been pretty quiet, anxiously awaiting the sudden arrival of her and her evil factotum, Brett.  To break the tension, TWO called an off-schedule production meeting. Production Meeting. The name was misleading as nothing was ever produced or resolved during these weekly trials of patience.   As soon as we were all seated around the conference table, TWO said, “I called this meeting, so we could talk about our apprehension and anxiety.” More than likely she was hoping to learn what we Mushrooms knew, if anything, of Capital B's plans. Twenty minutes into the meeting only Nigel had spoken up; as usual his voice was pitched so low and his enunciation so muddy it was impossible to hear what he said never mind make any sense of his mumbled words. "Why isn't anyone saying anything?"  TWO finally demanded. "Perhaps they're afraid?" one of the Cerberus ventured. "Afraid?" TWO repeated. ...