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My
boss
just
looks
at
me
.
The
guy
,
I
say
,
is
probably
at
home
every
night
with
a
little
rattail
file
,
filing
a
cross
into
the
tip
of
every
one
of
his
rounds
.
This
way
,
when
he
shows
up
to
work
one
morning
and
pumps
a
round
into
his
nagging
,
ineffectual
,
petty
,
whining
,
butt-sucking
,
candy-ass
boss
,
that
one
round
will
split
along
the
filed
grooves
and
spread
open
the
way
a
dumdum
bullet
flowers
inside
you
to
blow
a
bushel
load
of
your
stinking
guts
out
through
your
spine
.
Picture
your
gut
chakra
opening
in
a
slow-motion
explosion
of
sausage-casing
small
intestine
.
My
boss
takes
the
paper
out
from
under
my
nose
.
Go
ahead
,
I
say
,
read
some
more
.
No
really
,
I
say
,
it
sounds
fascinating
.
The
work
of
a
totally
diseased
mind
.
And
I
smile
.
The
little
butthole-looking
edges
of
the
hole
in
my
cheek
are
the
same
blue-black
as
a
dog
's
gums
.
The
skin
stretched
tight
across
the
swelling
around
my
eyes
feels
varnished
.
My
boss
just
looks
at
me
.
Let
me
help
you
,
I
say
.
I
say
,
the
fourth
rule
of
fight
club
is
one
fight
at
a
time
.
My
boss
looks
at
the
rules
and
then
looks
at
me
.
