Earlier tonight, I received a call from Lucien informing me that he wants to see me in his office first thing Monday morning. I don't know the reason, but he didn't sound happy, so maybe he's heard some of the rumblings about me from my coworkers. Perhaps they've told him of my eagerness to be done with this hellhole and he's going to fire me. It wouldn't be the worst thing to be honest, as after five years of this bullshit, I'd rather be destitute. I mean, I only took this shitty job in the first place to support my family, but I no longer have one, so why am I even still here? Just to keep paying the utilities and rent for a place where I'm all alone, swallowed up by silence and despair? I really should be dead, but I'm too unlucky to even be granted that. However, I gotta admit that I must've been some kind of pest in a past existence, because misfortune has showered me in so many ways. Like, perhaps I was a mosquito, wasp or a cockroach that came in contact with the Pope or someone else ordained by God. Maybe I was a tick? Eh, whatever I was, I'm certainly paying for it in this lifetime.
***
It's Monday morning now and I'm up, earlier than usual, doing my daily routine. I have neglected to shave today though because the stubble on my face fits my current mood. I also don't feel like picking out my hair, so I'll just waltz into the office with this nappy-ass afro. This depressed state I've been in has made it difficult to operate as usual, but I ultimately shake myself free and do what I have or need to do. However, today isn't one of those days. I had originally scheduled an appointment with my barber, Kirkland, for tomorrow, but learned at the last minute that he had been chosen to participate in this month's VisceraFest. Sometimes, it seems like the Vermouths are systematically wiping out people I know, value and depend on.
If I didn't mention it before, the VisceraFest is a monthly thing. Well, a six-month long event to be precise. People come from near and far to participate, hoping to make it to the grand finale: the VisceraFest World Tournament. For the past five years, there have been over a thousand entrants, but only a select few have secured top spots. Pretty much, whoever wins overall in a specific month, gets placement. Like last month, José Papua- a contestant who goes by the name of Pizzakrust- won. For someone driving in a clunky, old, white Mazda pick-up truck with a rusted pizza place emblem on the top, he certainly cleaned house.
The mumblings around town and the office are that José entered to get revenge on the Vermouths for shutting down his family's restaurant, Papua's Pizzeria. Like with everything else in Rivercrest, the Vermouths did away with whatever they deemed unnecessary, or anything that may reek of competition in the slightest. While the popularity of and interest in Papua's had waned over the past decade or two, it was still a staple in Rivercrest. I had been there a few times as a youth, but don't remember much about it aside from it being reasonable in price. With the emergence of much larger restaurant chains and businesses, like Junior Boom's Pizza Emporium, Papua's began to see less patronage. I had assumed their doors were shut long before the Vermouths arrived, but it seems they'd been chugging along still, albeit in a hampered state.
***
I'm finally at work, sitting outside Lucien's office, waiting on him to call me in. His secretary, Annalise Sheffield, has been staring holes into me with her big, ocean blue eyes while smirking and twirling her curly, blonde hair. She had twirled it so tight that I thought she'd cut off the circulation in her finger. Like, I could've sworn it was turning purple, but it may just be my nerves. While I am hoping that Lucien will let me go today, I have a fear it may be a step in a worse direction.
"Ms. Sheffield," Lucien says, his voice blasting through the intercom. "You can send Fleetwood in now."
"Right away, Lucien," she replies with a slight giggle. "Mr. Reever, you heard the man. You're up."
YOU ARE READING
Rivercrest 2073: VISCERAFEST
RandomIt's 2073 and Fleetwood Reever is on the edge, completely fed up with his job and the senseless violence in his city. After being called in to his boss's office concerning his morale at work, he gets entered into the very thing he hates: the Vermout...
