The End of Rodrick Huffington III

The Story

Rodrick Huffington III prided himself on being a tycoon. He was the president of a multimillion dollar software company, Huffington Industries, and he put 115% effort into running his business each and every day. All deals that he made came from showing off to other companies who would possibly use his technology, and this meant being nice to people he usually wouldn't rather be nice to. He had a very high regard for potential clients, but anyone lesser than himself, he cared nothing for at all. For example, the thin little mousy secretary, who's only job, in his mind at least, was to fetch his grande triple shot skim milk espresso every day. He would look at her, snap his fingers, and say,

"Coffee. Now."

But one day, the mousy little secretary quit, and was replaced by a chunky girl with auburn hair and dark eyes, of which you could not discern pupil from iris. He had no idea who hired her, but whoever it was, he made a mental note to fire them. He only wanted attractive women working in his office. But regardless, he had to get someone for now to get his coffee.

"New tub of lard. Coffee. Now."

She looked up, into his glass office from her front desk station, stared him directly in the eyes, and her expression darkened. BANG! BANG! BANG! Suddenly, there came a pulsing in his brain, thick and sharp, enough to muddle one's thinking into putty. The sound was deafening, like a million violent prisoners banging on a cold, metal wall with sledgehammers. It was unbearable. He cried out in pain, and and screamed for his desk assistant,

"Aspirin! Aspirin!" But with his exclamation of help for the girl, somehow, the pain and the knocking inside his skull worsened. BANG! BANG! BANG! He saw stars, the world seemed to go white. He felt himself losing consciousness. Someone pressed a glass of water and a handful of pills into his palm, and he senselessly gulped at the water and swallowed the pills simultaneously.

"Close my blinds and get out! I'm having the worst headache of my life!" He shouted at his assistant, who was still standing there, and seemed to be saying something, but he couldn't make out the words, because as soon as his lips had uttered the word "close", the pounding at his temples and in every part of his cranium had intensified. BANG! BANG! BANG! He leaned over and vomited bile. The pulsations in his brain were now affecting the rest of his body, and he began to feel nauseous and faint. He managed to call out one last time,

"Someone call a damn ambulance, I swear to god I'm dying!"

And with that last sentence, Rodrick Huffington the III's head exploded. His shoulders slumped backwards, blood and brain spattered in every direction, and the now open veins in his neck spewed crimson onto his $22,000 Ermenegildo Zegna Bespoke designer suit. The water glass that had been in his hand had dropped to the floor and smashed into a million pieces. The previously clear glass windows of his office now had rivulets of blood running down them, and the last bits of his egotistical brain clung hopefully to the bookshelves that were full of books he had never really read, or even heard of, for that matter. They were all for show.

His desk assistant, who had hurried away to call 911 at his exclamation of death, was rounding the corner faithfully to tell her boss that help was on the way, but she froze upon seeing the bloodied office windows, and quickly pivoted on one knock-off Jimmy Choo heel and sprinted in the other direction. The chubby secretary's impenetrable dark eyes glanced up, and for just a moment, a flicker of a smile played on her lips. Then, she went back to her game of solitaire.