THE SALSA DIARIES #7
There’s Something About Tom
I can’t condemn or condone his actions. He did what he did. There was always something amiss about Tom. The way he lurked, poised to squeeze every last lemon from the basket. The manner in which he giggled when confronted by lace. He would make the entire office uncomfortable simply by being Tom.
I struck a friendship with Tom on a Tuesday. By late Thursday we were chugging beers in the titty-club opposite HQ. The ladies all showed a reluctance to entertain Tom. Very few pulled in close enough for him to deliver his bundle of notes. Like I said, lace made Tom giggle.
Come Monday morning and the police were knocking on the door.
Tom had gone missing.
Nobody had actually hired Tom. His real name was Penfold Noble III. He swam naked with dolphins and mistreated puppies. He wasn’t good at his job. Nobody at the Chateau could tell me what his job actually was. He simply existed to make everyone feel dirty and needing a wash.
Tom fellatioed life the way a spinster sucked at marriage. His death-rattle of a wheeze was an early warning siren for anyone caught lingering in his path. Tom’s final whereabouts were traced back to our office. A riddle wrapped in a soiled mystery, inside a pervert. The police recanted Tom’s final journey from whorehouse buggery to the heavily stained apartment. The decor wasn’t all blood-red period pain but more an obnoxious reference to pop art bludgeoned by up and coming regulars of the noveau art scene.
Tom was our regular Thought Leader. A man fully committed to thought-showers and touching everybody's base. A man whose dedication to thinking the unthinkable had to be admired in an unthinkable manner. His potent mix of weaponized thoughts and zero actions fitted calmly at the Chateau.
Before his blast radius seduced us all in an impressive sequence of thoughts, Tom invited the office to his latest thought-shower meeting. He had been watching too many Dogma95 movies and insisted we all stripped down as if we were all starring in a Scandanavian romp. Only the intellectuals saw nothing saucy in a sweaty naked town-hall meeting.
I quipped that I had forgotten my thought-umbrella and that maybe I could have an ideas-shower later to catch up.
Naturally, the meeting was badly-attended. You rarely get a newcomer making that big an impression in his first week no matter how big his dong was. I must do something about our transparency. I never thought having an all-glass meeting room in the centre of the office was a problem before I saw Tom’s schlong and menacing smile.
Tom was discovered two weeks after the missing-persons report had been filed. He was waylaid on a Norwegian shipping boat having transitioned from office life to First Captain’s Playmate. Change management was good for Tom. I swear he never looked happier.
Back at the Chateau de la Swine, we all struggled to recall Tom’s face but had no problem remembering how big a dick he had. A metaphor for life. Big dicks ALWAYS make an impact.