Free Grey by Jon Armstrong Page B

giant, and genius point is," he said, as if trying to regain his momentum, "I'm sorry. I screwed up. But I can't let the company turn into fuck water. I want you to have something when I die, and merging with Ribo-Kool is the only way."
    He had admitted that he was an idiot before, but it never prevented him from being an idiot again. "Let's go back to mkg."
    "Nooo!" he screeched like a baby. "Don't say those three letters! I hate them. And you know what the new rumor is? They're gonna make a big announcement soon, like they think they have a big booger on their finger and want to show the world!" He turned to his girl, "Right, my little pünta?"
    She giggled obliviously and then pouted. "It's stinky out here."
    "Yeah . . . stinky!" he said inhaling deeply and appreciatively, as if odor were his own invention. A second later, he dropped to his knees. "Look here, son, I'm begging you. The company really needs your help." He smiled a big phony smile. "You'll do it?
    "No."
    "Do you see my knees on the ground? That means I'm begging you. I'm really begging you!" After a beat, his shoulders sank and he sat back on his haunches. "Fine. I grant you, it's not real begging. There is a difference. In real begging, I'm just on my knees . . . you know . . . begging." He scrunched up his mouth as if he thought he was being clever. "Here, if you don't do what I want, I'll throw you over the wall and let those slubbers slice you into hors d'oeuvres."
    My head hurt so much and felt so heavy I could barely keep upright, but I did my best to stare back at him.
    "But technically, with the knees on ground, it is begging. And you can tell people I begged you if you want. Right, guys?"
    "Tell them your father begged you, Master Rivers! Big deal, that!"
    "Extra-extraordinary," said Xavid.
    "Anyway," he said, "we've got an agreement, right? You go on your publicity date with Elle—pretend to like the bitch if you have to—but be nice, and at the product show you say good things, and smile for the cameras. Do that and I'm not going to dump you back into slub hell. That's our full agreement."
    I glanced toward the hole in the Loop wall. I wouldn't last for more than minutes there, but I didn't want to go back. I couldn't betray Nora and our dreams.
    "You hear me?" he screamed.
    I wished a Loop car would run him over—or both of us.
    "You hear what I'm fucking saying?" The veins on his forehead and neck bulged. "Say something! Open your fucking mouth and push some air over your vocal chords."
    "No!"
    Father snapped his fingers. In an instant, Gold Visor picked me up by my ankles and held me over the Loop wall. At first, the rush of blood to my head felt good, but soon the pressure made my eyeballs feel like they were going to burst. Then my stomach felt like it was going to slide down my throat.
    "Which is it?" asked Father. "Are you going on the date, or should I have him drop your ass?"
    Beneath me, I could see the sandy embankment, the rank water, the dirty square where the slubbers had been, and the body of the prostitute, where swarms of black flies now crawled over her face and bloody abdomen.

Five
    Strolling down the long spiral hallway leading to Mr. Cedar's showroom had always been a cleansing and meditative retreat. Usually, I spent an hour or two meandering down the polished glass path, stopping along the way to push the buttons on the wooden booths and observe motorized fabric strength or abrasion tests, or to study mannequins dressed with his latest designs, treasures from his design past, or selections from his burgeoning historical collection.
    That day, however, I did not walk as the doctors had advised me to let my leg heal. So, I rode atop an annoyingly bright green frog scooter—a single steady-wheel chair and handlebars—that the medical staff had given me. Motoring straight to the sugar maple and hammered palladium doors, I arrived in one minute flat.
    His assistant, Pheff, in a charcoal suit, textured white shirt,