Spare Me the Details.

by Smiley McGrouchpants

               " . . . let's cut to the chase."
               He rolled both his sleeves up — big flourish, he was a big guy — and then, with no pretense, plopped them down on the desk.
               "Let's talk turkey."
               He stared, his eyes boring into me, the way a person could — usually male, usually white — when they're holding all the cards, and you're just squirming and they think they're making a "point."
               "WHO'S going to want to provide free energy?" (He abruptly started in, like a booming voice over an amplifier, or through a P.A. system; this guy was "ALL-CAPS" all the way, italics only grudgingly, or as a last resort.)
               "Tech geeks.  They got other things to think abou—"
               (But he had already started laughing — LOUD! — at "tech geeks."  I finished the rest, for myself, by myself, and to record for you, Dear Reader!)
               He kicked me out of the office.

                                                                     THE END

               Years later, I thought, at least we've still got—
               "HEY!  Pipe DOWN, over there!"

                                                                     — finis —