I hated almost every minute of working in that place, especially having to deal with that power crazed shit: him with the blackboard and his ‘strikes’. Every day he’d creep around the centre putting the fear of God into the snot nosed kids who staffed the place. I can see him now: one hand scratching his balls, the other tossing his chalk into the air. So many times I felt like reaching out for that damned chalk and ramming it down his throat. However, I was on two strikes; that would have probably made it three.
I remember one morning he sloped past my desk – he rarely looked me in the eye. He was just itching to give me another strike but didn’t have the guts. He knew how much money I was pulling in. More importantly the real bosses knew. A few feet further up the office he paused and out it came – his catchphrase:
‘Let me say it in language you might understand. This ain’t damn bowling friend: a turkey round here and you disappear – one strike left. Am I making myself clear?’
The spotty sixteen year old he’d just chewed out was shaking. The poor bastard looked almost on the verge of tears. I gave the kid a quick thumbs up and a wink – it brought a smile back to his face. However, I’m not going to shit you: as bad as it was I was actually making some good money.
There were other benefits to working there: we thought we’d kept it quiet – the prick was meant to be out of town at a conference. Him coming back and catching his daughter and me going at it like Easter bunnies kinda signaled the end of my career in the centre.
He almost died when I turned up for work the next day.
‘Don’t worry I won’t be staying’
Heading straight for his blackboard I marked up my third strike – had to admit I’d probably earned it.
These 333 words, based on the Tenpin bowling ‘turkey’, form my entry into the Trifecta 92 writing challenge.