Jason Sizemore

Obscene. Offensive. Hideous. His coworkers hated it. His boss hated it. And if he had friends, they would hate it, too. Well, to hell with all of them. Gerald Johnston cared not; he believed the ‘hated’ poster was a work of art, so on his cubicle wall it would stay. These lifeless mouth breathers were the same people who rotted in their dark little dens, pretending that what they thought and accomplished was worth a damn.

 “Whatever gets them through the day,” Gerald mused.

 He peeked in the mirror attached to his computer screen. Hovering over his left shoulder, two large roosters engaged in a bloody war. A cockfight. Encircling the birds, a mob of Mexicans clutched their money in frenzied betting.

 “You disgust me.”

 A fragile elderly woman appeared in the reflection, blocking Gerald’s view of the poster. She always wore her hair in a tight, grey bun and reeked of body lotions.

 “I’m disgusted that you’ve somehow lived for 80 years,” he scowled.

 Ms. Derhill was Gerald’s archenemy. Everything was by the book. Her bible was the employees’ code of ordinances. She protected her moral superiority with a “What Would Jesus Do?” poster that faced directly into Gerald’s cubicle. Gerald guessed that even Jesus would laugh at how uptight the old lady was.

 A milquetoast of a man emerged next to Ms. Derhill. His black suit and tie echoed the awful art deco design of the office floor.

 “I thought I told you to take down this horrid thing?” Jenkins said.

 “It’s art,” Gerald said, finally turning to face his oppressors. “Do you not believe in art?”

 Jenkins flattened his tie nervously. “I see a ratty advertisement for a Mexican restaurant. Good burritos, bad posters. Besides, the calendar is two years old. It’s worthless.”

 “I don’t use the calendar. I like the imagery,” Gerald answered.

 “Remove the poster, Mr. Johnston,” Jenkins ordered, pulling rank.

 “No.”

 Ms. Derhill watched, eyes dancing with pleasure.

 “Then it will be confiscated.” Jenkins ripped the poster from the cubicle wall and rolled it tightly into a tube. When finished, he motioned for Gerald to leave his cubicle.

 “Follow me, please,” Jenkins ordered.

 “What? You don’t have the balls to fire me out in the open?” challenged Gerald.

By now, all activity ended and dozens of heads poked above cubicle walls. When Jenkins failed to respond, Gerald wanted the floor to erupt in applause. He was standing for their personal and occupational rights. Did anyone appreciate his efforts? Hell no!

When he and Jenkins reached the elevator foyer, Jenkins stopped and faced his employee.

 “I appreciate your veracity, Mr. Johnston. The ill notice you receive from your coworkers is not an indication of how management feels. You are desired by top corporate brass.”

“What?” Gerald answered, disbelieving.

An elevator door opened and Gerald was escorted inside. Two large men, both wearing black suit and ties, towered over him.

“This is Willy and Duncan,” offered Jenkins.

Suddenly the elevator felt immeasurably small.

The elevator halted in the second basement level of the 73-story office tower. The men led Gerald to a chain-linked cage housing a small rectangular box with a collared chain attached to a post. Scattered across the floor were dried husks of corn.

“In you go!”

Gerald’s escorts shoved him inside and locked the cage door.

“Hey Jenkins, this is crazy. When I get out, I’ll call OSHA or the civil liberties union!”

Jenkins unfurled the poster and taped it to the wall in front of the cage.

“I’ll be back in a few days. Make yourself at home,” Jenkins said. He nodded to his escorts, leaving Gerald alone.

“You’re crazy Jenkins!” he screamed. Only his echoes answered.

Time passed. Gerald grew hungry and screamed for food. Duncan and Willy appeared with cans of drained corn.

“What’s this?” Gerald croaked. “I need water, I need food.”

“You’re in training,” was all the men would say.

“This is kidnapping. Somebody will be looking for me.”

“No they won’t,” the man said, leaving.

Gerald ate his corn, licking the can dry.

He rested against the wall opposite his poster. More than ever, he admired the daring artistic strokes used to draw the proud red-tailed cock ruffled victoriously over its fallen victim. He could imagine the large Mexican boss cradling the winning rooster out for the crowd to admire. The women won lots of money with his fighting cock. They would be pleased to show their gratitude.

Days passed. Gerald fed on corn. His mind survived on the poster.

When Jenkins finally returned, he felt savage, like the champion red-tailed cock. Jenkins no longer wore a black suit and tie. He wore a trendy sombrero, like the boss in the poster.

“Today is your big day, Gerald. Are you ready?”

Gerald answered by springing forward at the cage door.

Jenkins smiled. “Excellent.”

Duncan and Willy entered the cage and wrestled a flailing Gerald to the ground. They held his hands outward. Jenkins opened a briefcase and removed a set of hand spurs. These he placed over Gerald’s hands. Next, he pulled from the briefcase a red leather mask with a sharpened nosepiece and pulled it tight over Gerald’s face.

“You are the champion fighter!” Jenkins shouted.

“I am the champion fighter!” Gerald crowed in response.

The four men walked down a hallway that ended with an unmarked brown door. A quick knock, and the door opened.

The large room was camouflaged in a cloud of smoke and dust. Businessmen crowded against the walls.  Most gripped hundreds of dollars in their fists, shouting obscenities at either Gerald or another man dressed in a purple leather mask directly across the room.

Jenkins shoved him forward into the middle of the circle. Crusty old Ms. Derhill danced on top of a table, kicking her feet high in ecstasy. She met Gerald’s eyes with hers.

 “Get to fighting, chicken shit!”