Free Bite The Wax Tadpole by Phil Sanders Page A

toaster.
    “Cut, cut, cut!”
    “It’s garlic! She’s chewing bloody garlic tablets.”
    He grabbed a water bottle from an Assistant as Rosanna smiled towards Cris who was sitting with the palms of his hands on the top of his bald pate wondering why he’d failed to take up that offer of teaching at the Film School and why oh why oh why he’d agreed to direct the live episode that loomed on his horizon in much the same way that the Allied Fleet loomed upon the Normandy beaches on D-Day.
    “Sorry, Cris but I had to keep his tongue out of my mouth somehow.”
    Karl swigged from the water bottle and spat on the ground. “My tongue in your... I’d rather stick my dick in an electric blender.”
    Cris turned towards the Vision Mixer. “We got enough, didn’t we? You know, lips touching and... I mean, add a bit of girly music and it’ll be fine, great, terrific, won’t it? Say yes or you’re fired.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Terry, summoned by e-mail, made his way up to the Human Resources Suite, a place that when he’d last visited it, sometime in the 1980s to the best of his recollection, had been the Personnel Department. There had been no reason to visit since then. He did his job, went home at the end of the day, turned up the next morning. He had been, in his own estimation at least, an exemplary employee. Not that he cared to blow his own instrument, of course. And now he sat across the desk from Ms Penny Spender, the HR Manager, who was something of a contrast to the Personnel Manager as Terry recalled him. He’d been a grey-haired ex-naval officer with a moustache that bristled like an echidna who’d just heard bad news from home whereas Ms Spender looked like she’d stepped out of an organic shampoo ad.
    She poured coffees and offered him chilli-flavoured Tim Tams before congratulating him on being the second longest serving member of the Channel 12 family, beaten only by the part-time hunchback, sorry, person with a disability, who helped round the gardens in the Melbourne studio. Terry assumed that the employment was part-time rather than the hunch.
    “And have I got some good news for you”, she beamed.
    ‘Oh, yes?”
    He sat there with his Tim Tam melting into his fingers and dripping onto his overalls as she outlined the Network’s plans to outsource all the maintenance. This was, apparently, a win-win situation for all concerned. Especially, it appeared, for Terry. She pushed a buff envelope across the desk towards him and he’d hurriedly shoved the Tim Tam in his mouth and licked his fingers before opening it.
    “A pretty generous package, I think you’d agree, eh, Terry? Gosh, I’m quite envious.”
    “Package?” Could she saying what he thought she was saying without actually saying it? “You mean you’re getting rid of me?”
    “Not so much getting rid of as enhancing your retirement options. Although, to be strictly accurate, none of the other options involve you actually staying in your job. ”
    The figures danced in and out of focus on the paper in front of him. “It’s all done and dusted then? I don’t have no choice?”
    “The new people move in at the end of the month.”
    “That’s only two weeks away!”
    “Ah, but the really good news is that with leave accrued you can actually finish work this afternoon.”
    “This afternoon!!? Bloody hell, Jesus... oh, sorry, luv.”
    His eyes turned upwards towards the ceiling as his face took on a look of holy contrition for his little outburst. Puzzled, Penny followed his gaze.
    “It’s my wife”, he explained. “She doesn’t like me cursing. She’s dead, not up on the roof.”
    “Oh, good”, smiled Penny. “Well, good that she’s not up on the roof anyway.”
    She slid a small pile of leaflets across the desk towards him. “Yes, I’ve assembled some literature about adjusting to retirement and so on. Oh, look, over 55’s Crazy Golf. How exciting.”
    Leaflets in hand, Terry wandered dazedly back through the corridors