Some say people either have maturity or common sense.
My boss?
He has neither.
Both concepts filed restraining orders against him years ago.
Imagine this:
After fainting for precisely 47 seconds (yes, I counted) six hours ago, the great almighty Mr. Jeon now demands he require a wheelchair to reach the hospital entrance.
Guess who's pushing his designer-suited backside around like Cinderella pushing a pumpkin?
Me.
"What if my brain fuses off again and I collapse?" he asked me, dead serious.
Sir.
SIR.
You do not have a brain to begin with.
Nothing to fuse.
Here I am, standing at the hospital billing counter, paying his medical expenses—with his money, obviously.
Meanwhile, he's sitting in the wheelchair, glaring at me like I've committed treason against his royal lineage.
I smiled politely at the cashier, ready to bolt for freedom—
Then glanced at the bill.
Ten.
Thousand.
Dollars.
Excuse me—WHAT?!
I blinked.
Checked again.
Yep. $10,000.
