255 - Sqwalor


A fist raps softly on your office door.

"Come," you say flatly.

The door swings open to reveal Lana, the CFO of your company. "Mr. Sqwincher? I've got the latest sales figures, sir."

You run a hand down your face, your fingers catching on skin at your eyelids, nose, and lips, contorting your face as they pass. When your hand reaches your chin, your head falls back over the top of your Italian leather office chair. You let out an exhausted sigh, the ask "What's the damage?"

Lana gulps. "We're down eighty-five percent," she blurts out.

You sigh again and slowly rise out of your chair. You step slowly to the window of your corner office and gaze straight out to the blue horizon beyond the skyscrapers of the city.

"Lana, when I started Sqwincher Foods, I was nothing but a broke man with a prototype push-pop and a dream of a world where all nourishment is obtained through human-powered mechanical manipulation. Now, my hubris has been my undoing. David Sqwincher, brought low by a misprint from a Chinese packaging plant." You pause to follow a flock of birds across the sky. "Who puts 'DO NOT REFRIGERATE' on a fucking yogurt package, Lana?"

Lana has no words of comfort for you.

"That will be all, Lana, thank you."

She quietly exits the room.

The click of the door closing behind her is followed by another: the click of the window latch as you open the glass behind your desk. 

You find it oddly fitting that the last sound you make will be "splat."