Big Timmy looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive.
"What do you mean I'm not authorized?"
"Exactly that." I shrugged.
“You gettin’ smart with me, Bob?” Timmy thumbed his chest. "I am the authority here. I say I'm authorized. Is that too hard for you to understand?"
"Not hard at all, Timmy." I said.
“Do you forget the thumping from last time?” Timmy clenched his massive fists.
“No, Timmy.” I said, shoulders deflating.
"That's good, Bob. Very smart of you." He folded his fat arms, chest puffed out.
My first instinct was to correct him. "No" I wanted to say. "No, you're not authorized. You're just a simple mid shift productivity enforcement supervisor. A glorified thug. And you're a ganger. You're permissioned to information access levels four and below. Four, Timmy. You're wanting to access level two type information, you stupid moron."
That's what I wanted to say. What I settled on was,
"Thank you, Timmy."
"Then, we have an understanding. Don't we, lads?" He gave a putrid smile to the two tattooed lug-heads standing behind him, then attempted the password once more, and again it was incorrect. He grunted.
"No, that's not it..." He fat fingered the keys again, then hit enter. Password incorrect.
His eyes went wide, he went to smack the monitor but for the grace of the almighty, and my job, he stopped himself.
"Wait... what if? Aah, No. That's not it." Timmy stopped, then began mumbling something I couldn't quite hear. It almost sounded like a song. A nursery rhyme, or something similar. His password was from the song, I guessed. Watching him was like watching a child. Albeit a child with a learning disability, but I wasn't about to say that. It might have been endearing if he were anyone else.
After a moment Timmy tried the same password again, somehow expecting a different result. And again, it chimed, password incorrect.
Timmy looked bewildered. His puffy raw-chicken face almost expressionless. He looked skyward and began muttering something unintelligible, his massive hands fidgeting, moving in an attempt to grasp at a thought or some hard to conjure memory. It's not his fault he couldn't remember. Thoughts weren't Timmy's thing, so to speak. He seldom did any thinking, and when he did he strained at the effort; sweat beading on his toe-thumb of a head, labor gang tattoos glistening in the dim glow of the computer.
A moment of awkward silence passed.
"Timmy." I said.
"Yes, Bob?" Big Timmy had his face pressed against the screen, his eyes squinting in an attempt to see the words. He mashed a trio of keys with his index finger then hit enter.
"You're locked out, Timmy." I said.
"What'chu mean?" He grunted.
I sighed and pushed my glasses back.
"Your account is locked." I said. "Too many bad attempts. You'll have to send a communique up to tech to get it unlocked. But, aside from that..." I hesitated. His beady black eyes were looking at me now, it was a less than pleasant experience.
"Aside... from what? You mention my 'lack' of authority one more time, Bob..." I jumped at the sound of knuckles cracking behind me.
Somehow his goons had maneuvered between me and the door, between me and safety. Fucking labor gangers. I shuddered, imagining the wrench that would break my ribs.
"But, uh-a-aside from that..." I could spell their rancid breath. "I suppose I could do it." I stammered.
"You suppose you could do what?" Timmy stood over me, his smile a rictus of cruel satisfaction. I was surrounded, completely at their mercy. Images of the last beating flashed across my mind. The laughs. The boots. Five weeks in the Med. Not again.
I exhaled.
"I-I could get it for you, Timmy. Y-you know h-how good I am with computers. You've seen it. I can do it, Timmy."
Timmy snorted in what could vaguely be considered a laugh, or a cough, or both. His three tooth grin widened. He leaned down, leaned over me. I was an ant about to be crushed by his gargantuan boot. His two ham-hock hands gripped me by the shoulders, his grip so tight I thought my clavicles would snap. I yelped in pain, his gaze on me unmoving. Unblinking. Sadistic.
"But..." Timmy said. "You're not authorized, Bobby."
His breath was like a noxious gas, his presence like a titan of unhygienic fat and muscle. He squeezed harder and I yelled in pain.
"W-w-what d-d-does that m-matter? I-I could still get it. Y'know me, Timmy. I'll h-have it by tom-tomorrow." The pain was blinding. At that point it was obvious I hadn't fully mended, and the old wounds were announcing themselves. I felt myself beginning to pass out when suddenly the massive hands released me.
I fell back into my chair.
"Atta' boy, Bob." Timmy clapped his hands. "Knew I could count on ya."
Timmy stood up, and just like that he was flanked by the two goons once again. Each silent. Each smiling. Satisfied, Timmy and the gangers left my office amidst a chorus of bellowing laughter. Like I was a joker who just told them the funniest think they ever heard.
I stared out of the dirty office windows where the gigantic industrial megaplex of Logistica Annex Twelve loomed beyond. It was quiet once they left. As quiet as it ever got in this part of the city.
I sat. I sat and I stared and I wondered.
What the fuck did I just get myself into?
___________
Thank you for reading my piece. This was inspired by the daily word prompt hosted by 
This is a new style of storytelling for me. I thought maybe some AI generated images would add a bit of flavor.. please tell me if this is not allowed or in bad taste. I know people have a lot of opinions regarding AI, but I thought I'd give it a go. My apologies if I caused any offense.
Thank you so much.
Much love ~ Simon.
