This nicely screwy tale had been one of the most popular and highest voted Christmas stories at both Storiesonline and LitErotica until for eBook legal reasons I had to remove this story back in 2012. Since I never got paid even a dime for the publication it's (long) past time that this story was returned to its rightful home.
This is maybe my best Christmas story about bad holiday parties ... and for some reason I write better humor when I'm in a bad mood. I'm actually not a big fan of Christmas (I mostly don't like the rush, fuss and bother) but I enjoy writing holiday stories for some reason. To make things weirder, some portions of the tale qualify for the 'True' tag.
Let me make this perfectly clear from the very start, I am not a big fan of Christmas. It's not one of my top ten favorite holidays, probably even falling below Arbor Day in my list of events to consider celebrating. Yes, I'm one serious Scrooge – Humbug!
In a word or two of defense for my surly curmudgeonly self, I like children just fine and have no epileptic bias against lots of flashing red and green lights. I do hate fruitcake – but who doesn't? I don't even have any particular animosity towards any of the religious sides of the season. I'm pretty much an agnostic but I've got no grudge against anything that gives someone else a bit of comfort in this weird mixed up world. My primary complaint against the holidays is largely against its number one spokesperson, Santa Claus. Good jolly old Kris Kringle can just go freeze to death up there at the North Pole, in my opinion.
The bearded old bastard after all did try to grope me as a child, stole several of my girlfriends, and oh yeah ... he killed my parents. No, really. Ok, sure ... so it wasn't really Good Saint Nick, but one of a series of alcoholic street bums and kiddie diddlers dressed up in their favorite fetish gear. Same thing though – they're all trouble, and best to be avoided.
In short, you could dress me up in a pinafore or little blue sailor suit, dip me in honey and toss me into a room full of pedophiles at a NAMBLA convention, before I'd willingly spend more than a minute in the company of another ass clown dressed up in a Santa suit for another dose of holiday mayhem.
Fool me once shame on you, fool me for the ninth or tenth time ... very shame on me!
I'd like to blame my screwed up hippy parents for making me into the crabby bastard that I am today, but it's not quite entirely all their fault. They tried to be cutting edge 'modern' and abhorred every superstition. They were violently atheistic even to the extent of banishing all mention of Christmas, and virtually every other holiday from our house. There were no Christmas trees and no gifts per se, unless you count the fact that my mom bought most of our clothes during the holiday bargain sales, creating an indirect holiday trickle down effect. New shoes and sock, meah ... so what. It's wasn't a bike or a neat toy.
They treated all of the other holidays of the year with pretty much equal distain:
• Easter – Crypto-Papist mind control
• Memorial Day/Veteran's Day – Bad! Glorifies warmongering and rewards baby killers
• Fourth of July – More jingoist twaddle re: "My Country Right or Wrong!"
• Halloween – More Crypto-Papist subversion of old pagan customs
• Thanksgiving – Glories the triumph of Puritan fascism and destruction of the Native Americans
You get the idea. Bat shit crazy hippies.
My parents were absolute ultra-leftist fruitcakes right up until the very moment that their 1972 VW Beetle was struck by a pickup truck driven by a drunk in a Santa suit, killing all three of them. It was actually the first and only useful thing my parents ever did – relieving the world of one fewer Santa Claus. I sometimes wonder just how screwed up I'd be if I'd lived with them for another eight years before college ... maybe Good Saint Nick did me a backwards favor after all.
I got to experience my next six Christmas's in a children's group home, until I emancipated myself right before I turned seventeen. It wasn't all that bad I guess, but the county didn't contribute much in the way of toys for the kids (we did get a lot of used clothes donations) and none of the three adults that lived with us twenty odd kids made much in the way of salary either, so we all made arts & crafts things for each other. Better than nothing I suppose, but that still wasn't a bike!
I never got my stupid bike until I bought a used Scwinn ten-speed for myself when I left the group home so I could get myself to work and my dumpy tiny little utility apartment!
Karma can be a real bitch. I wonder what the heck I did in a previous life to be tormented by a plague of Santa's that seemed to be single-mindedly determined to ruin my life!
The very next Christmas after my parent's death, and my first in the County Children's Group Home, I met my first surrogate Santa up close and personally. He was some street bum the County had hired out of a homeless shelter, and he smelled of cheap whisky and was so filled to the brim with holiday cheer he could barely even stand and he'd already pissed his own pants at least once. Apparently, deep in his cups, he also had a fondness for diddling kids and the stinking pervert kept trying to kiss us and feel up our asses while on his lap. Ick!
Santa wanted me to "feel for a present" down inside of his costume and kept grabbing at my crotch, but I was old enough to know what the score was, and got the hell away from him fast. A younger and more naïve kid named Bobby wasn't as lucky and got diddled in the bathroom before the councilors caught on to what was happening. Santa spent the rest of the holidays in the County Jail, and Bobby (who was already a fairly screwed up kid to begin with) got even weirder and ended up in the County Juvenile psychiatric ward before summertime. Well, at least we got no more visits at the home from any more Santa's!
The county group home did have a very encouraging attitude towards promoting self-reliance in their charges. They'd let you start to work part-time jobs on weekends once you were sixteen, and even on school nights once you turned seventeen, and I took full advantage ... and found that my cursed Christmas's followed me wherever I went. Worse, now demonic Santa surrogates were now ruining my love life too!
Denise was my first true love and we worked together at a Baskin-Robbins, my first real job. The pay was bad, but there aren't many places that will hire you even at crap wages at the age of sixteen. She was a bit older than I was, seventeen, and her dream dates tended to involve boys that had cars and pocket money to take her places. She did however find me 'sort of cute' and we had a bit of fun a few times when customers at the ice cream shop were few and far between. No, we never 'did it' together, but we liked each other and over about six months I did make it more or less to second base with her. You never forget fondling your first pair of tits!
Our franchise owner was a pretty cool, but wild sort of guy, who regularly kept a few six-packs of beer in one of the back fridges and didn't mind us doing some under-aged drinking. He drove a Porsche and always flashed a lot more money around than our little shop could have possibly generated in income. Rumor had it that he had a lot of mob connections, and once somebody put a bullet through the front window glass as some sort of warning to him. That bullet hole was still there in the glass years later long after the ice cream parlour had closed and became a washeteria. He was also a bit of a pussy hound, and while he mostly dated strippers, he wasn't above fishing in the company pond and nailing young poon, as I found out at our small company Christmas party that year.
I caught him screwing Denise in his office, mutually consentually probably, but while wearing a cheap Santa suit, albeit with the pants around his ankles while he fucked her. While it found it interesting and educational that Denise had absolutely no tan lines at all, I'd much rather have discovered this for myself, preferably hands-on ... but it was not to be. Denise later shrugged the whole thing off as no big deal, but our relationship was never quite the same, and she left to go work at a department store a few months later.
Now you would have thought that the odds of this sort of thing happening two years in a row would have been extremely unlikely at best, but you'd be dead wrong. The next Christmas, I was working for one of the big Six Flags amusement parks and had a semi-regular girlfriend named Astrid who cured my festering virginity earlier that summer. She was a cute little blonde foreign exchange student at my High School from Finland, but she spoke flawless English and was just about as Americanized as she could get ... but kept her very Scandinavian attitudes towards casual sex. Astrid and I were both shift managers at different restaurants in the park, and the park was still open for business every single day during the holiday season until after New Years, so we both stayed fairly busy.
I realized that not having a car was really cramping my relationship with Astrid, but I didn't realize just how much until our staff holiday party that year when I caught her on her knees servicing an upper level supervisor in a back room. Naturally he was dressed up as Santa too. She'd had a few beers, and I think about five shots (at least of Jack Daniels) but she didn't seem terribly apologetic when I opened the bathroom door and caught her. At the time, she just sort of shrug and didn't even mind much being watched, as her bosses boss grunted and thrusted inside of her, as she sat upon the bathroom sink with her sweater well above her exceptional but small tits and her skirt lying upon the floor as she spread her legs and widely wrapped her ankles around his bare ass. I received sort of a non-apology apology later but really she wasn't too terribly sorry for her mistake, and didn't understand why I was upset or jealous. It was only sex ... and sweetening up her senior boss for a manager promotion (one step below supervisor) when the park reopened in the spring ... She admitted that they'd been fucking for awhile, and she intended to keep doing so ... so that was pretty much the end of our relationship then.
She never got that promised promotion and quit the park when it became obvious that he was just out to get her easy ass and would never deliver on any of his promises. I say her at school still that spring occasionally and she ended up dating and later marrying a fairly nice jock at our school named Jeff who was a star on our Baseball team. He went Pro, and had a cup of coffee in the Majors before taking a scouting job for the Brewers. When I saw them at the last school reunion, she had put on nearly fifty pounds and I was very dubious that all (or even most) of their five children had been fathered by Jeff. Once a cheater always a cheater, I guess.
While off at my local City College, holidays were at least slightly improved in most ways. I was in an elite electrical-mechanical engineering program and could generally steer a wide berth away from any overly jolly fellows in red suits. Still, they seemed to taunt me everywhere I went, and at last during my junior year another of the demonic hell spawn intruded into my life and happiness and bagged my then semi-steady girlfriend Paula.
It was just after final exams and the dorm was pretty much a non-stop party zone for those of us who were staying on campus between semesters. I had been working on a robot for an engineering competition due in mid-January (it came in second out from nearly three hundred entries) and I admit that I had pretty much lost track of time. I realized to my dismay that I was more than a bit late for escorting Paula to an off-campus party being hosted by some friends of hers in the History Department. I ran to her dorm room but she was already gone, but I was able to find some directions for the location of the party.
I was extremely late by the time I arrived, and nearly everyone was much the worse for drink. On a scale of one to ten, History grads are at least an 8.5 on the scale of serious drinkers, outdone only by Philosophy and English Lit students (Geologists get an honorable mention though). There were a lot of folks there, but I didn't see Paula anywhere, and was about to just give up and leave when someone thought they had seen her with one of the Teaching Assistant (TA's) grad students outside in the back yard by the pool. They weren't there, but the glass on the shed where the pool supplies were kept was noticeably steamed up in the very chilly weather outside. Through the foggy glass Paula was clearly visible, and doing what she did best, riding up and down on her TA's cock.
Cuckolded again ... and the bastard just had to be wearing a Santa hat! They were both bare ass naked and I had to appreciate the sight of Paula's pleasantly large tits bouncing up and down rhythmically, while she rode him.
I knocked on the glass and in a mood of semi-deranged but eerily calm feigned cheerfulness I waved and smiled and made a hasty retreat home before they could get dressed. Paula at first just denied everything and claimed the incident never occurred. When that didn't work, she then modified her story a bit to maintain that they had kissed but I "misinterpreted" what I saw. Since Paula was a quite a screamer and very vocal when being fucked, this was admittedly hard to misunderstand ... especially the moment she was crying out 'Don't cum yet, I'm almost there!". Finally she skipped the lies entirely and just blamed me outright for being late to pick her up, so it was all my fault anyway. I told her to go to hell and take her problems to someone else who might give a damn.
I think she ended up marrying the TA but then got divorced not too long afterwards. I don't blame her, from my one brief look at his equipment, I was pretty sure that Paula's new lover was a distinct downgrade to what she had been getting. She must have thought so too, because I got a drunken "wanna make up?" phone call from her once at 3 a.m. right before graduation and I told her to piss off and I never heard from her again.
I graduated with a double-Master's in Engineering (electrical and mechanical), and spent the next eight years paying off my obscene student loans by working contract jobs doing assembly and manufacturing robotic design. Already, I had found my true calling in life and, since my field was notorious for being full of anti-social and eccentric engineers, my own particular seasonal dysfunctions didn't stand out from the crowd.
I spent my holidays either at work, working, or home watching a growing video collection of Christmas related horror movies, especially ones where knife wielding heroes tried to clear the streets of deranged hobo Santa's until the streets ran red and deeply with slaughtered yuletide Kris Kringle blood. Oh, if it were only so simple! I can also proudly say I failed to attend a single Holiday party of any of my employers, even if I was to be an honoree.
My pleasant years of mistletoe free social events came to an end when I accepted a job offer to become the Director of Engineering for a large and very prestigious robotic design firm. They specialized in constructing, assembly, and manufacturing industrial robots for extremely exacting clients wanting a custom built unique machine made to their exacting specifications.
The President of the company was a crazed Japanese-American named Norman "Noru" Takahashi who resented his Nikkei birth and upbringing more than words can describe, and tried to be even more Japanese than most natives. He hated his American first name, which he never ever used. Calling him 'Norman' was pretty much a firing offense. He subscribed to every scrap of Japanese style corporate management he ever heard even vaguely rumored about, and shoved as much samurai work ethic down our throats as he could manage. He demanded employees show up for calisthenics at 7 a.m. every morning, Nippon style until the worker's collectively threatened to unionize and then immediately strike. He even wrote a company song for us to sing, and was perpetually outraged that no one ever bothered to learn the words. We all just hummed rather loudly, or made up entirely new rude verses, such as:
"Now, Norman is the one that manages this crew.
He doesn't like it when we drink, fart, fight, smoke or screw.
But when we build our killer robotos each day,
Then what the fuck can Noru say?
It makes a fellow proud to be a worthless gaijin!"
Everyone from the janitor to the most senior management was expected to work at least a twelve hour day, and a poor accountant who actually did have a heart attack at his desk was lauded as an appropriate example of company 'fighting spirit' for the rest of us slackers. Noru spent most of his time wandering around the company encouraging his workers to perform even greater feats of productivity and generally driving everyone around him absolutely and homicidally crazy.
The number two guy at the company was the VP of Sales, Gerald, who was an older guy in his sixties and a born ass kisser with a reputation for wrecking havoc whenever he personally dealt with one of our clients. He'd promise impossible things to clients on an even more impossible time schedule, and more than one of my head design engineers has quit or threatened (or attempted) violence on his person for continually making insanely unreasonable design and manufacturing deadlines. Most days I wanted to kill him myself. I think one of the Executive Secretary's upstairs runs a betting pool on who will finally break down and attempt to murder him first.
Gerald was really the only person Noru would listen to and take advice from ... unfortunately, his advice was usually bad. Still we made highly advanced and fairly unique products and usually had customers lined up to offer us even more work. Profits seemed to be good, but more than a few of us more senior Directors felt that things could and should be managed at the top much better.
This top down flood of corporate craziness was very hard on the staff. Most of my engineers don't really mind working eighty hour weeks, most of them (like me) don't really have lives outside of work anyway, but they like to lead orderly and structured lives, without a whole lot of emergency last second changes that all needed to be done yesterday. Good engineers (and I don't hire any other kind) won't stand for this sort of 'management by crisis' indefinitely, and will quit and go off to greener pastures in a heartbeat.
I don't blame them – I've quit eight or nine times myself, but I somehow keep getting sweet talked into coming back. Sure, I'm a surly grouch at Christmas time, but I like to think that I'm a pretty good boss to my staff the rest of the time. If I didn't take care of them, then Noru would probably hire some other dysfunctional manager to handle my engineers and then they'd probably all quit.
The only way we managed to keep most of our critical engineering and assembly manufacturing staff is by offering compensation that is a good deal higher than the industry average. Young graduates and interns want to work here, and a few of the more mercenary and thicker skinned ones will even stay for awhile. The rank and file manufacturing employees down on the factory floor are constantly on the verge of threatening mutiny and are probably good and ready to unionize to protect at least a few of their remaining rights from our bizarre management. I don't normally think very highly of unions, but in this one particular instance I wouldn't blame them one bit for unionizing ... or at least really putting on a good threat to do so to force a management shakeup.
Even Noru vaguely realizes that you just can't shove people into a pressure cooker and turn the heat up on high and then just walk away, so he semi-regularly hosts big, no expense spared parties where nearly anything goes. It's an accepted Japanese management tradition that even the lowest salaryman, if out drinking with the boss, can then call him any sort of rude names with impunity and without fear of any revenge later. Most of us take full advantage of these opportunities! He hates this, but it is traditional.
Christmas is usually one of the highlights of Noru's party scheduling. First, there is the black tie formal company Holiday Banquet, held the first Friday of December each year that everyone dreads, but is considered a mandatory meeting for all. The food is usually pretty good, but the mood is usually ruined by hours of speeches. Then the next Friday afternoon, there is the far nicer official Office Party, held on the premises, but with unlimited food, beer and wine ... and a Santa to pass out annual bonuses ... so I never attend it. Finally, there is Noru's annual Holiday House Party, held on the last Friday evening before Christmas. This is the really big blowout bash for the entire families of all employees where no expenses are spared and it's a feast of gourmet foods and top shelf booze for one and all. Taxi's are even provided to pick the guests and give them safe delivery home, so that everyone had drink themselves full of the holiday spirit. Attendance is still pretty much mandatory, at least for anyone middle management and upwards, but at least most people actually enjoy this party.
I probably could even enjoy myself too if the bloody bastard didn't hire a farking Santa to pass out presents to all the employees and their children every goddamned year! I attended the first year, got royally pissed off at reencountering Jolly St. Nick, and left early in a fury before I could beat the bastard into a bloody holiday pudding! Noru promised me the next year that it would be Santa free so I relented and attended. Nope. A Santa was there once again ... and I turned right around and immediately left slamming the front door so hard that it cracked some of the stained glass.
Noru begged, pleaded and threatened, but I was a rock that would not be budged. No more Christmas parties for me for the next four years. I still had to attend the annual banquet - that at least was Santa free.
This gave me the reputation as the office Grinch, but I didn't care a lick ... it was principle. Ok, I'm a bit of an odd and grouchy kind of fellow but I do care about my engineers and try to protect them from as much of the daily insanity around us as possible for the rest of the year. All that I really ask for in return is that in December I can do my job or have a little bit of fun without some whisky soaked white bearded pederast getting into my face.
Do you get the idea by now that Santa and I have one seriously irreconcilable disagreement? I thought so ... enough complaints; my line in the sand has been well drawn.
This year had been a major year of very major suckage. We worked like ants during the entire month of September finishing up a job that had been scheduled for completion in late October, until our resident assclown, the VP of Sales, Gerald opened his stupid pie hole and in a fit of weapons grade stupidity arbitrarily promised something he had no business doing (and without deigning to consult the rest of us either).
And then the mindless twit did the same damn thing right all over again to another client, pushing up another deadline by an arbitrary five weeks!
No one got much sleep from September through November. Even the slackers worked over eighty hour weeks and nearly everyone was working full shifts all weekend just so Gerald could look good to the client. I raised thirty-nine flavors of sheer hell with Noru and bluntly told him he had totally burned out every engineer in my department and promised (not threatened) dire and swift violence and significant bodily harm if Gerald ever pulled that shit again.
Noru promised it would never happen again ... or at least not for another two weeks.
Two days before the Holiday Banquet, I heard it through the grapevine that Gerald had shot his fat mouth off again and promised accelerated delivery of some final engineering designs for a new assembly robot before Christmas, instead of in mid-February, as our contract specified. As tired and worn out as my staff was, even making that original deadline was going to be dicey.
So, quite understandably, I went postal.
Gerald had the very good sense to hide from me, but I completely trashed his office with a fire axe, just on general principle. I wish upon further reflection that I hadn't done it ... he'd never do the work to clean it up himself anyway, he'd make poor Rachael his Executive Assistant ... who is also my girlfriend, clean it up for him.
Noru, the next victim of my implacable rage, offered dozens of platitudes but never 100% actually agreed with me that Gerald's behavior was unreasonable, nor did he quite countermand the acceleration of the project completion. I considered trashing Noru's desk too, but I was much too tempted to see how shatter resistant his glass office windows might be by testing them, using Noru's head as a battering ram.
I conducted a tactical retreat before I could really lose my temper, muttering the entire time to everyone who would listen that I had 'had it' and was quitting for good this time. I had lots of vacation saved up and I thought very seriously about taking it, except I knew my Engineering staff would get raped by Gerald while I was gone.
I strongly considered getting an early start on my Christmas slasher flick viewing marathon while simultaneously cleaning my gun collection. Every year my ultimate Christmas fantasy gift would be for an alien retrovirus plague outbreak that would create a Zombie Santa Apocalypse world-wide. Then, armed to the teeth, I could save the world from the Santa infestation, one city block at a time. I could only wish...
If I was pissed, my girlfriend Rachael was even more pissed. Ok, I'm a bit odd and I do have a bit of a temper from being constantly overstressed at work but I've never once taken it out on her. Still, it drives me nuts that just because she works for Gerald, she has to defend him at every opportunity. The guy just oozes sleaze to me, and he's rumored to be very predatory towards any good looking single woman in the company under the age of forty, and sometimes even the married ones. I don't have any proof, but there is sure a good bit of smoke to those rumors.
This just proved to me once and for all that the guy is a complete and utter idiot. He has a young and drop dead gorgeous trophy wife (his third marriage) at home, so why he thinks he also needs to dip his wick at work utterly escapes me. If she were my wife, I'd probably never even leave home, and certainly never be unfaithful. Why settle for burgers elsewhere when you've got steak waiting for you at home?
Rachael and I weren't quite at the living together stage yet, but we did have keys and some clothes at each other's places. I think we were both slowly coming to the conclusion that things just weren't going to work out in the long term between us, but neither one was willing just yet to start the actual breakup. We did, however, really lay down all of the groundwork for it, and had ourselves a nice screaming match when she came over to my house after work in a really foul mood. The makeup sex later that night was pretty good, but I could tell that things were still a bit frosty between us the next morning as we both got ready for work.
Gerald kept evading me that Thursday and Friday, and Noru was getting tired of finding me in his office badgering him to 'grow a backbone' and put a stop to Gerald's constant meddling with our carefully calculated delivery schedules. He still wouldn't say yes and he wouldn't say no ... but he promised he'd make an announcement about it at the banquet tonight.
I left work early on Friday in an unbelievably foul mood, but not before stopping off at a large office supply company to put in a rush order to have a large display banner printed and ready to go within four hours. I was in no mood to go to the banquet and really, really wanted to skip it because I could just tell it was going to be a train wreck. I'd decided that I was going to grease the rails a little and then jump off before the crash. This would at least make things interesting, and give everyone a holiday party to remember for a very long time.
I have to admit that by the time I arrived unfashionably early to the banquet, my temper had cooled down a bit from near nuclear meltdown – to lingering incandescent rage – then finally to merely livid fury. While everyone was still outside at the open bar enjoying the last few minutes of the cocktail hour before the long program of pain and misery would begin, I snuck inside the ballroom. With the help of several friendly waiters (and a handful of large bills with pictures of dead Presidents), we got my new banner hung up right behind the podium from which Noru would later make his endless speech. We rolled it up and tied it so that a sharp tug from one end of the rope would release and unfurl the banner.
One of my helpful waiters was more than eager to make an acquaintance with more of my offered Ben Franklin's, and he agreed to watch me for a signal to release the banner ... and also place a certain VHS tape into the player.
My preparations done, I still had a lot of time left to avoid people that I didn't really want to speak with. Like I said, I'm really a good boss to my engineers, but I just didn't want to make any chit-chat with them or their spouses tonight until our potential scheduling nightmare had been resolved, one way or the other. I tried to stick to the outside corners of the bar area, but people kept tracking me down to ask if the new rumors were true.
I'd just shrug and say, "We'll see". Noru was going to tell us tonight, and I hoped that he would show some backbone for the first time in his life ... but I rather doubted it.
There was still no sight of Gerald anywhere ... just as well. I didn't think I could have a civil conversation with him anyway, and the evening was far too young to start off with a visit from some EMT's to treat the resulting wounds anyway.
Oddly, there was no sign of Rachael anywhere, either. We still kept separate places and she was going to get dressed and dolled up from her home this evening. Still, I hadn't seen a trace of her yet. She was still fairly annoyed with me but we were still, technically, a 'couple' and we hadn't broken up quite just yet.
I gave the large hotel bar a last quick look-over before I had to do some quick shuffling and hide myself. My Assistant Director of Engineering, Paul Babbitt, had spotted me and was trying to force his way through the crowd to probably ask me some very pointed questions for which I had no satisfactory answers. I ducked around the corner of the bar and into another unused meeting room, where I found myself almost, but not quite, alone.
Most hotels build their meeting and dining rooms on a rather huge scale, and then sub-divide up the space as needed via moveable partitions. In this case, my section of this otherwise unused partitioned room was quiet and dark, but something was happening on the other further side of the partition where there was a small amount of light. I kept hearing a low sounding man's voice and feminine giggling. Since I had nothing else better to do at the moment, I tip toed over towards a slight gap in the partition to see what was going on over on the other side of the room partition.
True, I had sort of expected to find an amorous young couple having a bit of fun before the boredom of the banquet, and I was about half right. The booze had been flowing like water for at least two hours already. The feminine giggle belonged to my girlfriend Rachael who was on her knees giving the old asshole Gerry a blowjob.
Why, oh why, did the useless old fart have to be wearing a Santa hat? I swear the Holiday Gods all hate me!
Surprisingly, I remained very calm and frighteningly serene, even after Gerry finished up his business rather messily upon the front of Rachael's face, to her giggling amusement. I just quietly tip-toed away from the screen and found a chair in a dark corner to sit and brood in for a few minutes until I heard the announcement down the hall call for the start of the Banquet.
I don't remember anything that I ate, it was probably pretty good stuff, duck I think, but it could have just as easily been typical hotel rubber chicken for all I knew. Rachael was sitting by my side at the executive table and was semi-drunkenly chattering away non-stop, but I doubt I heard a single word she said. My eyes just kept looking at the top of her open shouldered dress where some definite semen stains could still be detected.
I ought to have felt volcanic rage, but instead I had a zen-like calm.
Before Rachael's indiscretion, I had just about talked myself out of performing my petty little bit of public revenge and humiliation, but now the die had truly been cast, and I just couldn't wait for the real show to now begin.