I'M ALL OVER IT
Gloria Carmichael popped her head into the cubicle.
“Morton, I need a quick progress report on the Turner Proposal. The presentation is set for tomorrow.”
“No worries,” Morton smiled. “I’m all over it. It’s as good as done.”
“Great,” she replied, instantly relieved. “Let’s see it.”
“Well, it's not ‘done’ done. But it's all taken care of.”
“You just have to have it typed up? Xeroxed? What?”
“It's not pressed in gold yet,” Morton explained confidently, “but believe me, I have definitely started on it. I understand the challenges in what it takes to really tackle the whole ‘proposal’ thing, and I know what needs to be done.”
“Morton, you don't even know what the Turner Proposal is, do you?”
“Pfff. It’s not a problem,” Morton stated with confidence.
“No, it IS a problem. It's a disaster! If we walk into that presentation tomorrow without a finished proposal... heads will roll.”
“I hear you loud and clear. I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree!”
“This is unbelievable behavior,” she fumed, “and it’s unacceptable. This is grounds for dismissal. I have to choice but to--
She was interrupted as Mr. Roswell, the company president, strode up with a serious look on his face.
“Just wanted to know how that Turner Proposal is coming along?” Roswell asked. Carmichael shot a nervous glance at Morton, then turned back to the president with a huge smile.
“No worries. I’m all over it!”
* * * *
Gloria Carmichael couldn’t believe what she’d done. She’d panicked. She was the biggest hypocrite in the history of the company. She felt so ashamed.
Now it was clear to her that the only option available to her was to as pull the toaster toward the warm water of the bath.
“Wait!” came a voice from the bathroom window. She looked up and saw the beady eyes of Morton looking in at her.
“Why are you staring in my window?” she screamed. “Get out of here.”
“Before you do anything rash, I have an idea,” he stammered. “If we both work together, all night long, I bet we can finish that proposal, save our reputations, and maybe save our self esteem in the process.”
Ms. Carmichael looked back at him, her eyes locked on his.
“Nah,” she said. “I’m going with the toaster.”
“Or,” he shot back quickly before she could make good on her threat, “Or, and I’m just spitballing here, we could get a van and travel the country playing songs and solving mysteries.”
He waited expectantly for her answer.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” she said, mustering a weak apologetic smile. “Nothing personal. I’m just not the ‘sing in a van’ type. So if you could just let me have a little privacy here…”
“Okay, last offer,” Morton said, physically pushing the window screen out of the way and poking his head into the bathroom. “I climb into that tub with you, we drop that toaster in the water and we take the ultimate journey together to see what awaits us on the other side, in the dark realm of the afterlife.”
“Look,” she said with a hint of exasperation. “You just don’t take a hint. The only reason I’m here now on the verge of suicide is because your abysmal work ethic and subsequent cover up led to my current situation, so I’m not really interested in doing anything with you.”
“But,” he began, trying to squirm his way through the tight window frame and into the bathroom.
“Hey!” she yelled back. “Get out of here. I’m warning you. I’ll bring this toaster down on your head and call the cops.”
“If that keeps you from making the biggest mistake of your life,” Morton said, “then a herd of wild horses couldn’t stop me.”
She stood up, raised the toaster over her head, and prepared to swing.
Suddenly, the door to the bathroom opened and Mr. Roswell, the company president, strode in with a serious look on his face.
“Just wanted to see the progress on that Turner Proposal,” Roswell said.
Startled, Ms. Carmichael screamed and dropped the toaster. It hit the water and a jolt of electricity coursed through her wet, naked body causing cardiac arrest within seconds. Her rigid body fell forward out of the tub, her head striking the counter with enough force to split her skull. Blood pulsed from the wound, spreading quickly across the cold, white tile.
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Roswell said, turning to Morton. “We’re gonna need to get this cleaned up ASAP.”
“No worries,” Morton said with a smile. “I’m all over it!”
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It's not dead though. At least not yet.