where the spirit is wheeling.... the freschetta is abysmal.

She had, more than once, the Whore, called Kimberly Brighton-Wonderworth on me, complaining about my thought-inappropriate technique.

But one day she was saying she could hold any position for a length of time.

"Ya juss lay there?"

"Aw naw, cuz.  You don't think I'm gonna give you a chair to sit in. Hit the clock, cuz, or go to the back and unload the truck."

I was thinking to myself, and not saying out loud, that I'd probably have to jab her with my pocketknife to get a reaction out of her, the Prodigious Whore.

She had a man to pass the time, but away, she was in lamentation about him, that placeholder of a penis, holding between the pages, a fleshy little bookmark of Peter.

Years ago, we had threatened unmercifully every Peter Hunt driver in Columbia around I76 and I20, and they were laying low, probably hanging down in their own little air-ride chairs.

The whore just lay there like a jellyfish, waiting to call Kimberly Brighton-Wonderworth, thinking the whore was a sex symbol, but to me more an emblem of lackluster presentation and high mileage.

Never did hear for sure if the Whore had sex with Kevin, but there were rumblings, and at no point did I ask, mind you, or if Kevin even had a penis in the first place, or if he were in fact married to a servant from the front-end; of these things I cared not a fig--it was just something for them to say when I came into earshot.

Of Wonderworth, I had planned to put an Allen wrench in her differential on her SUV to see if there were fluid in it, but of that, we were barred from using synthetics in those things, though some third of our vehicles used that.

Doug's stratagrem against Wonderworth was a policy of first hard talk, and second, hard disruptions in productivity which he disguised as a sort of feckless outer nature, and fear of his natural predator, the beautiful little Assistant Manager, only then working online off-the-clock to get an Masters in Business.

They say

where the spirit is willing

the flesh has the strength of ten.

That sort of underlines Doug's abrupt smashings into a wall of outright failure and completely negative thoughts, predatory against his fellow workers; Johnny rose above Doug's ineptitude and sang beautifully, gave discourses at the Stoa against ineptitude, but he too, had that sort of predatory aspect.

Of the predatory, there was one at one time, for a few months, who would mention that his dick was hard.  I didn't know how to deal with such a situation, figuring ignorance is no excuse, of course, but a plausible course of action, that he sat between rows of Toyotas and Dodge trucks, among 4 or 5 uniformed technicians, nursing a blaring little klaxon of his own shame and predatory nature.

It was the ultimate in predatory nature to target one's own fellows, and at my behest, we air-mailed his throbbing cock to Laurinburg, where he would, incidentally, meet his fate.

*Wonderworth looked like an exotic dancer.  She shines off her backend in selfies these days.

*Doug is probably dead of some horrible negativity-based disease, willed onto him by his own evil thoughts.

*Kevin was fun to work with, primarily because he was insane, which made him at least entertaining most of the time.

*They forbid us to talk about Barack Obama.

The shit I didn't give about any of that, I saved to drop from a plane, years later, to fertilize Kevin's cash crop field.  But I wondered, if that girl was such a blatant whore, a "prodigious whore", why was it unknown that she had sex with Kevin, hated her boyfriend, and kept calling the main office about my antics.

Should such be a secret, unless it was all reputation, a smoke screen to draw one into the radar?  I had been disoriented by Doug's own impetus towards destruction and conquest, and the girl did say she would just lay there, contorted.  It was the old celestial game of slapping a dog on the ass to make him jump.

I was asked if there was a plot against one of the managers, and I thought of their own rules, and I played it cool, for the ultimate plot was the plotter destroying himself, which he did, and with censorship going around in odd doses, too, I brook not to dip my toes in the pool, but stop that whining noise from Kimberly's Tahoe.  It was a matter of a technicality preventing service intervention for the cause, but knowing too, as a human being, that damage was being done everyday she dragged her rear end on the asphalt.

It was, in fact, what was right, versus, in opposition to, what was right.

So anyway, she went in the WNBA playing for the female concourse in Washington, probably had a wife prettier than mine.  Better weed than I've ever had.  Straight from Acapulco, ya know, and all, and the real true Whore of the piece pinioned down like a dead butterfly, still-proud and holding true pride in the aspect of just lying there, and that guy on the moped took all the chairs because of some OSHA regulation.

Probably none of this ever happened, not even in my imagination.