Free Rockets Versus Gravity by Richard Scarsbrook

it’s owned by such an asshole.
    I reach down and twist off the black rubber cap from the valve on the Maserati’s front passenger-side tire. There is a satisfying HISSSSSSSSSSSSSS as I jam the tip of the screwdriver into the valve. It doesn’t take long for the low-profile , rubber band tire to deflate.
    I wheel backward and give the rear tire the same treatment, then I roll around to the back of the car; I’m contemplating carving the word asshole into the gleaming paint above the licence plate frame that reads “Gasberg Exotic Sports Cars,” when Mr. Maserati barrels out from the Gas ’n’ Snak, his belly wobbling as he runs. A plastic Gas ’n’ Snak bag dangles from his right fist.
    â€œHey! Hey! Hey!” Khalid screams, sprinting after him. “You can’t leave without paying! Get back here!”
    â€œTake it out of your pay, Gandhi!” Mr. Maserati cackles. “And don’t start fights with winners, loser!”
    My tires squawk on the pavement as I race away from the Maserati as fast as my burning arms will move me. I almost dump my chair over as I turn the sharp corner to hide behind the Dumpster. I hear the car door slamming, the roar of the Maserati’s engine revving, the shriek of tires, Khalid’s voice hollering, “I’ve got you on video! I’ve got you on video!”
    I peek around the corner of the Dumpster, just in time to see the speeding Maserati cut a corner too sharply; its door screeches against the side of a telephone pole.
    â€œAttaboy,” I grumble.
    Perhaps the driver oversteered because his tires were under-inflated . Too bad. Such a beautiful car.
    Sorry about the inconvenience, buddy.

Property of Riskey and Gamble
    From inside his cramped, putty-grey office cubicle, James Yeo is cold-calling a potential new client.
    â€œNo, Sheila — may I call you Sheila? — this isn’t a joke,” he says, repeating the target’s name over and over again to create a false sense of intimacy, as he has been trained to do. “Yes, Sheila, the name of our brokerage really is Riskey and Gamble Insurance.”
    The company, of course, is named after James’s father-in-law, Harrison Riskey, and Baldric Gamble, Riskey’s best friend since their business school fraternity days. Among the expense-account raconteurs at their old boys’ club, they are known as Harry and Baldy, and much fun is made of the fact that Baldy sports a thick mane of silver-grey hair, while Harry’s dome is as smooth and polished as an infant’s baby-oiled bottom. As a pair, their “street names” remind James of the kinda gangsta boyz who’d mess ya up real bad fer missin’ a payment, but their five-thousand-dollar suits, hundred-thousand-dollar cars, and multi-million dollar homes put them in the exclusive category of privileged men who can afford to have others throw the punches for them.
    â€œI assure you, Sheila,” James continues, reading from the script on the computer screen, “signing on with Riskey and Gamble is neither risky nor a gamble. However, insuring with our competition could be either, or both. Our company slogan is, and always has been, ‘Riskey and Gamble: Safe and Sound.’ ”
    The slogan reminds James of Big Brother’s Doublespeak in George Orwell’s 1984 : “War Is Peace,” “Freedom Is Slavery,” “Ignorance Is Strength,” “Risky Is Safe,” “A Gamble Is Sound.” He has never shared this observation with Harry or Baldy, though.
    Once, when James joked that the cold calls would be a lot easier if they had just named the company Safe and Sound Insurance in the first place, Harry Riskey raged that “Real men put their real names on their accomplishments! That’s what real men do, Jimmy! Real men don’t hide behind fake names!”
    Harry and Baldy roared with laughter, knowing that James used to play