Guys, can we have a little discipline here?
El-Jefe mooed at us mournfully from the front of the meeting room next to an ominously empty whiteboard.
His face was shinier than usual as if he had just made love to a bacon sandwich with his face.
The noise in the room calmed down as he wrestled with the lid of a whiteboard marker before it popped off and flew into a darkened corner of the room. His face fell as if he saw his own life flicking away into the abyss just like the lid.
Right, you lot, I need you to pay attention as what I have to discuss is quite serious for us as a team.
He wheezed a little and tugged at the waistband of his trousers as if there were Koi Carp inside them, swimming around in slow circles.
You know our American partners, hmm?
He nodded vigorously and his head wobbled alarmingly like an overly large but perfectly set panna cotta.
Management has decided to terminate our contract with them. They will cease to be working as our partners after the end of the month.
He looked down and raised a hand as if to fend off an onslaught of questions.
None came.
In fact, of the five of us in the room, nobody looked the slightest bit surprised.
El-Jefe looked up, tentatively lowering his hand.
What? Does no one have anything to say?
He scratched at one of his mighty moobs, huge mounds of flesh that could have housed many Bulgarians.
No one spoke, the silence stretching out until it became awkward and twisted.
Truth be told, none of us could have given a flaming fuck. There were few of us permanent staff left and we were all too busy Tik-Tok'ing in the toilet to be concerned with what partner our employer was deciding to diddle this month.
God you are a lacklustre bunch at times. Oh well, if there are no questions I suppose you can all go back to work.
He waved dispiritedly at the door and then paused.
Hang on. Hang on! Just one thing, you can't tell any of the Americans that we are dropping them, ok? Not till they are gone.
He chuckled at this and rubbed his tummy like a Scotsman smelling a Turkish barber's scissors.
Eh, Boss man. Isn't that a bit shit?
I said frownily.
Why? Why do you think it would be, ahem... shit?
El-Jefe looked genuinely confused at why we might not want to lie to people we had been working with for almost a year. Some of whom we even liked.
I get on quite well with the Test Team, it doesn't seem right to have to lie to them and pretend nothing is untoward...
It wasn't often that I got on a high horse but this was one that needed mounting.
El-Jefe snorted smugly at me as if all his life had been building up to this point. He scanned the room to make sure he had everyone's attention before speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a simpleton.
I think that is a species argument.
He rocked back on his heels with the recoil from his sneering put down.
It's a what?
I gave him a raised eyebrow, the kind that I normally reserve for people who fart on sofas in furniture shops.
I said. That's a species argument.
He chuffled with delight at finally besting me with the word things.
Someone in the room that wasn't me muttered species? and grunted with laughter.
El-Jefe coloured slightly like inflamed stomach meat.
I grinned and sauntered past El-Jefe to the door, only stopping to whisper loudly.
I think you mean specious? Even then you are using it wrong. Go on, Google it.
I barked out a laugh that a mad Serbian would be proud of and headed out to tell the Americans that the game was a bogey.
