No Lunch is Safe at WorkA Story by NewWriterOldWorld Tired of lunches being stolen from the office fridge, you decide to lace your lunch with LSD. It's been two hours since your lunch disappeared. The day of reckoning is here, and boy, is it going to be a show for the ages. After months of my wife's mouth watering leftovers being stolen out of the rec room fridge, it is time for someone to pay. A man... A prideful man at that, can only take such insolence for so long. How do you think I feel when I go home and my wife asks in her sweet ole voice, "How was my lunch baby?", and I, her soulmate, have to look into her baby blues and tell her, "My darling... it happened again. My lunch got stolen". Can't you see the pain that puts both of us in? Overtime, she has looked at me differently... like I am some tally-whacker who cannot even prevent a horde of cubicle dwellers from stealing his sack lunch. I married this pathetic trash?, is what I am certain she thinks. But, today, she will realize the man that I am. A strong man, a man with bountiful testosterone, and a man who is not afraid to drug his co-workers. Yup, that is right, I have put LSD in my wife's clam chowder and seeing that it has been two hours, someone in this office is tripping balls. Once I find out, they might be getting a swift kick TO the balls, or the other anatomy... but I have a feeling it is going to be a ball kick. I begin to look around, my eyes bouncing from side to side as I scan the room for any abnormal activity. Nothing... nothing but the sound of shuffling papers, the usual chatter of office gossip, and incessant typing that can make a sane person lose his wits. Becoming impatient, I decide to take a few extra bathroom breaks to nail down some invasive investigation. Still... nothing. I begin to become disheartened by my evil plan. I bought this LSD from Larry, the janitor... Damn Larry probably sold me some fake goods and is laughing all the way to the 2nd floor bathroom. After the third hour, I give up. I sit back down in my cubicle and begin the usual TPS reports. But then, my phone rings. It's extension 522, the floor manager. I pick up the phone, curious as to what I may have done wrong. "S-Sam? Sam? You, you there man? I need you bro, I...". There was a long pause, maybe 10 seconds or more until he resumed talking." I need you Sam, come to my office, ASAP. Thanks son" I start to sweat profusely, quickly realizing what is going on. Out of all the people on the floor, the one who enforces the rules is the culprit! Why! Why on this day, the day of glory, did my arch-nemesis have to be my boss! With my nerves shattered, and my pit stains starting to soak my sides, I briskly walk to the office near the front of the room. I rush in and slam the door before anyone can interrupt us, nearly breaking the hinges while doing so. "Sam... Sam, I gotta ask you something. Do clams--Do clams f**k you up or what? What is in a clam that makes me a man?", he said, his eyes dilated, or as we say, he was sporting some Mickey Mouse eyes. "Boss, I-uh." I didn't know what to say, so I did what I have been itching to do for some time now. I got rid of the fear, I put on my courage pants and I walked over to my acid stricken boss. "Boss, You've been stealing my lunch for too long! My wife wants her man back, and I want my dignity back!", I screamed, and right then, right there, I unleashed a ferocious kick to his testicles. He fell to floor, tears filled his eyes as the delayed pain of a crotch shot sank in. Don't eat my s**t, boss man! © 2017 NewWriterOldWorldFeatured Review
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5 Reviews  Last Updated on May 31, 2017 Author
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