Death By Guillotine, And Other High-End Services: Official Sneak-Peek
Shenanigans
Gonzo checked his phone. He had another text from Dante.
This was starting to get old.
Gonzo was a 26 year old somewhat blobby Pole. His real name was Czeslaw, but no one could say that, and he did a spot on impression of a muppet character when he was in kindergarten, and the nickname stuck.
His hair was beginning to thin, and he dressed in the same drab clothes his father always wore—button down shirts that appeared professional, but were in fact quite gross, and blue jeans that could be used indefinitely without ever having to buy new ones. No matter how much deodorant he put on, his armpits were always sweaty
His Dartmouth roommate, Dante, on the other hand, was a slick, smooth-talking Italian. He gelled his hair every day, wore his collar open by one button more than was necessary, kissed the gold crucifix around his neck for good luck, and always smelled like cinnamon. No one knew why—he didn’t even own cologne. He had been raised by his mother, and had a knack for being able to talk his way out of any situation.
Neither of them did much work. Gonzo was there because his dad had made a few phone calls. Dante was there because he was a legacy applicant. Did either of them care all that much for academia? No, they did not.
Dante had shown a strong business acumen from the start, but had paid very little attention during his business courses, preferring instead the spontaneity of entrepreneurship.
For his part, Gonzo’s only prerogative was not to flunk out, and let me tell you—it was a near thing. He coasted through college on Ds, and always had a flask hidden somewhere on his person—it was rare for him to wake up without a hangover. The fact that he graduated at all was really quite impressive, and may or may not have been due to some of Dante’s sleight of hand and some final exam grades.
Despite their differences, he and Dante always got along swimmingly. Gonzo was a relatively fun drunk, always telling stories, and making jokes. He was up for almost anything, to include Dante’s harebrained schemes. Dante would always require some sort of capital to make them happen, and Gonzo’s willingness to provide funding became the foundation of their relationship.
Gonzo’s dad knew he was no good at school, and simply asked Gonzo to graduate, no matter the cost. “No matter the cost,” ended up meaning free use of his personal credit card. Needless to say, Gonzo and Dante got up to frequent shenanigans.
After graduation, they’d gone their separate ways to shoulder their family businesses. Dante’s father ran a bank; Gonzo’s brother, a mechanic’s shop. Dante became an entry level manager; Gonzo took over the shop when his brother died two years later. Dante found he always got the numbers to work in his favor, and Gonzo learned he actually had some talent for fixing cars, as well as for being a general handyman.
Dante still usually had some sort of borderline ponzy scheme he was working on, and Gonzo still hadn’t quite learned his lesson about providing funds upon request.
In fact, six months ago, Dante had talked him into investing again. Gonzo had given in, and had lost four thousand dollars.
He was pretty bitter about it. He felt he’d given Dante more than enough over the course of the past six years. In a flash of rage, he’d told Dante to stop contacting him.
You can understand, then, why Gonzo was less than excited to receive Dante’s text.
As per usual, Dante was promising the moon and stars.
“This is it, man!” he texted him. “This isn’t just an investment opportunity—this is a job opportunity! I need a partner! Text me back!”
Rolling his eyes, Gonzo looked back down at his quarterly financial numbers.
God, he hated working with finances. It was dreary work, to be sure. But it was also dependable, and honest. He would rather be doing this than chasing some harebrained scheme with Dante.
It didn’t matter that his job made him feel dead inside, that he never got to party or go out anymore, or that he felt particularly ill-suited to working in a mechanic’s shop after going to such a high-brow university. Surely, after his tune spent there, he was worth more than a place like this.
He sniffed, looked around, and picked up his phone.
Hm, he thought to himself. Dante did sound different. Was it possible? Could he have finally stumbled upon that golden opportunity that really would make both of them rich?
But as soon as he re-read the text, their previous misadventures popped into his mind.
No, Dante was Dante.
He was Gonzo, and neither of them was ever going to change.
He took the flask out of his desk drawer, and took a swig. He was going to need it in order to get through these finance reports.
Turning his phone off, he put his head in his hands, shoved his phone deep into his pocket, and kept working.
The Entrepreneur
It was 3pm on a Friday, but instead of binging the Sopranos from the comfort of his sofa, Dante was searching for office space in a little North Carolina suburb called Rocky Mount.
It wasn’t much of a place. It had a couple of shopping centers, an authentic Mexican bakery, and two decent thrift stores. That was about it. If you wanted something fun to do on a Friday afternoon, this was definitely not the place to be.
But he had grown up near here, and something about the place had always spoken to him. For the business in question, perhaps it was the seclusion.
Ever since he was in middle school, he had had a penchant for seeing undeveloped business potential in practically every situation. If you had a broken shoe, he could find a way to monetize it. He was once sent to the principal’s office for marking up holiday candy 50% and selling it during lunchtime. By the time he was in high school, he was studying real estate and the stock market, learning how they worked, and improving inefficiencies. He drove his friends and teachers nuts, but he could always be counted on was to have unreal amounts of money.
He usually had 3-6 side gigs at any given time. No matter how long often the school tried to shut him down, Dante was incredibly clever. He was always 3 steps ahead, and constantly monetizing their punishments. At one point they found him running a betting pool over how long it would be before he was expelled. Since it never came to that, Dante ended up keeping all the money—which had been his plan all along.
He majored in business, but found his classes stupid, trite, outdated, and clunky. He threw out what he learned, and started developing his own rules of business instead—namely, don’t listen to anyone, take advantage of everyone, and lean hard on your charming personality.
Looking at the storefront before him, Dante smiled to himself. This time, he had a brilliant and unprecedented idea up his sleeve. He would be able to corner the market, along with whatever business partners came with him.
The problem was that the concept was distasteful. It would require just the right set of people—brilliant, compliant, and open-minded, willing to take a hit to their ego and reputation up front, in order to potentially win big later on.
He smiled. This was going to be great.
Also, he could afford the rent. So there was that.
He had had his eye on an abandoned storefront in a strip mall for months. It wasn’t the type of place anyone would usually decide to stop or stay a while.
But that’s precisely what made it attractive to him. The type of business he wanted to start, he didn’t want to attract unwanted attention. This nondescript storefront was just what he needed.
He took out his phone, and called the number on the beat up sign in the front window.
“Hello,” he said, charm shining out his ears. “Yes, I’m at 13412 Van Buren Road. Yes, I’m interested in renting out this storefront.”
He smiled to himself as the crickets chirped, bees buzzed, and the receptionist on the other end took down his contact info. It was going to be a great day.
Rage Quit
Melissa was late.
Again.
Gonzo checked the clock, displeased. It was 9:17am. This wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
Melissa had been getting on his last nerve for a while.
“Marky, would you call Fred in here?” He asked, closing his browser tabs and taking a sip of his coffee. Expense reports be damned—they could wait until later that afternoon. Melissa’s terrible attitude, however, could go ignored no longer.
Fred wandered in. He was smoking a cigarette, and smelled faintly of cat piss.
“Melissa’s late again,” Gonzo told him.
Fred took his phone out of his back pocket, and held the screen up for Gonzo to see.
Hey—tell Gonzo I can’t come in today—family emergency. Thanks!
Gonzo frowned. “You know we can’t allow that.”
Fred shrugged. He took a drag on his cigarette, and looked off into the middle distance.
Shaking his head, Gonzo said, “Tell her if she does it again, she’s fired. We’re trying to run a business! If she’s not here, she can’t manage our customers. If she can’t manage our customers, they can’t sign in. If they can’t sign in, we can’t do our job.” He crossed his arms, looking to see if Fred understood.
Fred didn’t seem to much care, however. Never was much of a people person. A crackshot mechanic, and that was about it. Shrugging again, he turned to go.
Taking a moment to consider Fred, Gonzo surveyed the warehouse they called an office.
He had grown up on the streets of Poland, and he knew this was not the life his parents had wanted for him when they came to America. There was a reason his father had fought so hard for him to go to Dartmouth—he had wanted more for him.
Gonzo’s phone buzzed. He looked down.
Another text from Dante.
Typically this would’ve annoyed him, but now it only reminded him of everything he had promised himself he was going to do.
“You know what?” said Gonzo, more to himself than anyone else. “No. No, no, no. You guys are all fine. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Its my fault for staying here, when I know I’m better than this.”
Fred’s glassy eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Marky peered around from his seat, an ever-so-slightly worried look on his face.
Gonzo unclipped his badge, and set it on the desk in front of him.
“I quit,” he said, feeling a fresh rush of adrenaline. “It’s been a long time coming, but it’s finally here.”
Fred and Marky looked like a piano had hit them in the head.
“You can’t quit!” Piped up Susan, the bookkeeper. “You’re the boss!”
Fred and Marky nodded meekly in agreement.
But Gonzo was just getting started. “Yes, I am the boss!” he said. “That’s why I have to quit!” His epiphany expanded exponentially before him. “This was never what I wanted to do. I never wanted to be a mechanic! I hate cars! I don’t even really know that much about them! That was my brother’s passion—not mine!” He began to pace. “I went to school to be professional. I want to run my own business!”
Gonzo couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Was this really him?
“What kind of business would that be?” asked Susan, trying to be helpful.
“That’s not the point!” said Gonzo, dismissively. “The point is that whatever it is, I need to be doing it!”
Minerva, who was wearing a lacy green period dress that day so she could play flute at the RenFaire after work, peered around the side of her cubicle.
“Does this mean no more free lunch on Friday?”
Her voice quivered. She was particularly fond of free lunch.
“Minerva, for the last time,” said Gonzo, interrupted mid-monologue, “there is no free lunch on Friday. You’re supposed to chip in for the pizza.”
Minerva wrinkled her nose, and sank back into her cubicle.
“Yup, I think this is it for me,” said Gonzo. “Time for me to start fresh and rebuild.”
“So…” Marky ventured. “So who’s gonna be our boss?”
Gonzo looked around the room, considering each of his employees carefully. Who among them would make for the best boss? There was Marky, with his trembling fingers…then Fred, with his glassy eyes…Susan, with her encouragement, and Minerva, with her stolen pizza.
Foof!
A stack of papers flew into the air, blanketing everyone in quarterly numbers. Gonzo took a step back in surprise.
“I’m literally your assistant,” said Marty, his 20 year old impish arms waving wildly to make his point.
“Oh hey there, Marty,” said Gonzo, “Always get you mixed up with Marky. Sorry about that.”
“Just because we’re twins doesn’t mean we’re the same person!” yelled Marty. He fled to sob in the back room. Gonzo shook his head. He liked Marty, but in his heart, didn’t feel his frequent emotional outbursts quite made for managerial material. Also, he was only 20, and had only worked there for 6 months.
“Well, I guess that leaves—” his eyes swept the room over again.
“Me,” a quiet voice said.
Gonzo turned. His beautiful, considerate, meek, Japanese girlfriend Michiko stood smiling behind him.
She often turned up places unexpectedly without anyone knowing how long she’d been there. It was a gift.
“I can run this place for you,” she said softly, eyes sparkling.
“Michiko?” Gonzo said, surprised. He had thought Michiko was across the country visiting relatives. Why didn’t she tell him she was coming back early? Was she ok? “Are you sure? How did you even get here? I thought you were—”
“I do a lot of things you don’t know about,” said Michiko, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Anyway, I got it here. Really. I wanna support you. I love you, honey. You go find your next big thing.”
“Are you sure?” It was always hard to tell if Michiko was being genuine or not. She wore designer sunglasses everywhere she went, and it made it really hard to see her eyes.
“Yes I’m sure! I’ve been looking for new business opportunities. I’ll even buy this place from you if you want! We can work out the details later. You go do what you need to do.”
“Thanks, babe,” Gonzo kissed her. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too!” said Michiko, her smile beginning to fade the moment Gonzo walked around her into the back.
An uneasy silence fell as Michiko, quiet as a shadow, took her place at Gonzo’s desk, and began to read through the expense reports.
“Hey Marky?” Michiko said, quietly.
“Y-yes, Michiko?” Marky responded.
“Please call Melissa, and tell her she’s fired,” she said. “You can look for a new secretary tomorrow.”
Everyone looked around uneasily, wondering what would happen with Gonzo’s girlfriend now in charge.
Minerva had no time for such questions, however, as she peered over the cubicle again.
“Does anyone want to order pizza?” She asked, braving the icy atmosphere. “I’m hungry.”
“Marky, order pizza,” Michiko said, not looking up from her computer screen.
Marky nodded once, picked up the phone, and dialed. Taking a drink from Gonzo’s flask, Michiko skimmed the business numbers with a deadening stare, and didn’t move again until the pizza came.
