The Tally-man, The Medium, The Manager

Gray is not the word but its close enough.

"Is it a new one or that same retarded fucker?" The miniature tectonics of the tally-man's pencil shifted periodically threatening to break the tiny wooden world in half. Every minute that went by forced the tally-man's grip tighter around the yellow neck. Oh did he wish to bring the faux-lead, the glorious and non-lethal thing known properly as graphite, down upon the semi-thick paper on his aged clip-board. A quick but deadly slash of gray through the heart of the hollow box that sat patiently for its demise besides the number 21 and then a second exiting wound that would threaten injury upon nearby print. That's all he wished. To be able to kill that box. If only this newest dead man was really the newest one and not that same retarded fucker then his simple wish would be answered. Oh sure that meant that he would have to fill in the spaces beside the box as well. This was the routine though and he liked the routine. It was simple.

BOX 20----Check
Name: Fredrick Lowes
Rank: Private
Family or associates: Lonely bastard
Sex: Male
Age: 23
Birth date: 12/03/1987
Place of Origin: Low Ridge, Colorado
Cause of death: Bullet through the stomach. Slow death due to bleeding. Death occurred after 21 minutes.
Last words: Something about those Arab bastards and him wanting them to suck upon his decaying cock.

Fredrick Lowes, though dead, was a wasted of paper space for the company which allowed the tally-man to ignore most of what the son-of-a-bitch had said and instead stare at the medium sized, but nicely rounded within that red-button-down-shirt, tits of the Asian broad across the tent. At least this previous bastard, this Fredrick Lowes, was not that same retarded fucker that kept on appearing and  yelling his head off so that everyone was automatically complied to stare at the center of the room. This happened to be about the general area of where the tally-man was situated and thus he was unable to stare at the Asian bitch's chest whenever that retarded fucker happened to appear and open his yap.

"Um..." Um meant yes. Um meant yes that dumb fuck is back. Um meant that tiny droplets of sweat would roll over the balding medium's canyon forehead wrinkles, over that cliche-brown unicorn mole, into his already freakishly blinking eyes, and finally somehow up into his nostrils. This also meant that his skeleton fingers would clench, that his chair would shake, and that he would continue saying "ummmmmm."

"Yes or no? Yes or no? Spit it out you old fuck. Do we get gold or shit?"

"Shit..." The manager scared the medium. The manager was young, perhaps the inverse of the medium in the numbers of his age. The manager was a short haired, blond, blue eyed, sudo-muscular, militaristic, motherless asshole who was born to late and missed his true calling as the spokes person for the Third Reich. A boy to make Hitler proud. A boy to scare the shit out of the old medium with his uncertain, confused, and urgent speaking patterns. "I believe its shit sir."

"Sir? Manager. Maybe. Not sir. Better yet. Don't call me anything." A pause. A moan. The true pause. "Shit then." The manager said as he dragged his face downward out of impatience and turned his back to the medium. As his deep blue eyes reopened they landed upon the beautiful breasts of that Asian bitch. The tarot reader. What use did he have in a tarot reader? His occupation was the dead not the future. But those tits...he had had those tits. He enjoyed those tits. The future was the price to pay for those tits.

And so a pause.

And then he turned back to the medium, struggling to cease the pleasure his eyes were receiving. "Shit then. Well. Let's look at this gray piece of shit."

Gray is not the write word. Its more of a clear like thing. But its close enough.