Fraud

Looking around this scraggly office; high fluorescent lights that pierce through my scalp like a fresh dose of hallucinogens, dividers that block the faces of my coworkers but fail to muffle their irritated chatter, large windows that lead down seven stories to the busy streets of San Francisco; unfortunately shatter proof. With papers angrily crunched in my fist I stare around this place. I stare, and realize that no matter how much this shitty job ends up paying me, it will never truly fill my appetite.

Working in a government assigned office that deals with suing and fraud pays fine, I mean I own my own house and boat. Also, I've always viewed such scandalous crimes as a department I wanted to enter, interesting me to no end. I could never fully pinpoint exactly where the interest came from, all I know is that after actually making a living off of the subject for these past three years, I've realized something incredible.

I'm jealous.

A man who sued his well-renounced shoe company, blaming the brand for the reasoning behind his tragic fall down the stairs. A mother who sued town square for destroying the young childhoods of her kids at a community Christmas party, as Santa had misplaced his beard. Even more ridiculously, the 1.5 million dollar lawsuit against a designer clothing store; the meaty customer declaring discrimination against her body type when her large size was non-existent on the racks. Whether the money stays or goes leans on the lawyers, and us. According to our uber-generous system, many of these complainers walk away with the American dream.

So easily the green bills were choked up, each time, over and over. The man got more money than he'd ever spend on a new pair of shoes, the mother won well over the amount it would take to send her kids to college, and the jellyroll received enough to build her own plus sized store.

Jealously wraps its sweaty palms around my throat and squeezes. Why? Well, because I'm still here of course. This drowned office, working day in, day out so I can keep picking up that fancy tuna that both me and my cat adore. Sitting in this wretched hole just to continue living in a relatively nice house. Here it's not easy. Not as easy as that, not even close.

My shift ends at 6pm sharp, and I step to beep my signal in order to pass the crosswalk. All very ordinary, usual tasks. The pressing of my toes teetering along the curb was like the caress from an exotic lover, leaving me salivating as block of fudge behind a bakery window. The cars blurred by, and I lurched my body forward.

___

Blank, White. Shrill pain. The world shook though it was still silent and lovely. Panic shot around the scene, though empty panic; as all I could do was smirk. A pressure was tied around my ankle and the only sound in the entire world was its rubbery snap against my bare bone.

He was a middle aged man with a wife and two little girls. He was also a steady worker, spend most days in a factory. Though, after the day he hit me, all of his years packing and sealing boxes would land straight in my merry little pockets.

How ironic; I've become my own enemy. Or, maybe I should say my company's own enemy. I mean how can I in any way shape or form piss on this? It's fun!

Lawyers came to pile in by the dozen; court orders were marking off my free time like a needy child. Even more so, my foot had been completely ripped from its ligaments. It wasn't too surprising cashing up on this ghost limb, as feet go for balls price in the fraud-market these days. Furthermore, even though a plastic one could be so easily replaced, that damn man still coughed up well over the thousands it took to fix me up as an amputee.

"You stole my life from me! My one goal in life was to play Soccer, it was my one way ticket out of this office! But now I'm a cripple for life!" Anything heavy enough to pull on their heart strings, the latch will give, and the money will come raining down. When the mention of fraud came up, I was aghast.