Carmichael Industries
Carmichael Industries had seen its share of strange meetings.
City contracts.
Classified briefings.
Panicked CIA couriers who spoke entirely in acronyms.
But this?
This was new.
I sat at the head of the sleek glass conference table, posture straight, expression professional—
—or at least trying to be.
Across from me sat Jeff Barnes and Lester Patel.
Second-hand suits.
Wrinkled.
Mildly tragic.
Lester had popped his collar like he thought he was starring in a low-budget cop drama.
Jeff looked half-asleep behind crooked sunglasses.
And between them—
smiling like he'd just solved world hunger—
was Morgan.
Opening
"Gentlemen," I said carefully. "Thank you for… coming in."
Lester leaned forward immediately, eyes intense.
"No, thank you, Charles. At last—a man of vision willing to unleash Jeffster upon the world."
Jeff nodded slowly.
"We are the future."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
Why do I listen to Morgan?
The Question
"Alright," I said, forcing calm. "Let's start simple."
"Why do you want to work at Carmichael Industries?"
Lester clasped his hands like he was about to deliver a sermon.
"Because destiny demands it. You need boldness. Creativity. Unfiltered brilliance."
A dramatic pause.
"Jeffster."
Jeff raised a finger.
"And free coffee."
"…Right."
Skills
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
"And what exactly do you bring to the table?"
Jeff lifted his hand lazily.
"Endurance. I once stayed awake for four days on NyQuil and expired Red Bull."
That was… concerning.
Lester didn't miss a beat.
"Leadership. Vision. The ability to inspire both fear and admiration."
A beat.
"And karaoke."
Of course.
Morgan's Pitch
Morgan leaned forward, desperate.
"They're actually amazing under pressure, Chuck. Remember the frozen-food truck fire?"
I blinked.
"…Vaguely."
"Jeff put it out with beer," Morgan said proudly. "And Lester organized a bucket line."
Jeff shrugged.
"Also ruined taco night."
Fast Forward
"Okay," I said. "Let's move on."
"What positions are you applying for?"
Lester smirked.
"Executive management. Creative director, perhaps."
Jeff slouched lower.
"Vice President."
A pause.
"…of naps."
I stared at them.
"Uh-huh."
Reality Check
"Here's how this works," I said, leaning forward.
"You don't choose the job."
"If you want in, you take what's available."
Jeff perked up slightly.
"Food taster?"
Lester tilted his chin.
"Head of strategy?"
"No."
I let it land.
"Parking attendants."
Silence
The room went completely still.
"…Parking attendants?" Lester repeated, like I'd insulted his bloodline.
"Charles," he said, wounded, "we are visionaries."
"This is beneath us."
I didn't blink.
"Then walk."
Terms
Jeff scratched his chin.
"…Do we get food?"
"Yes."
That got his attention.
"There's a cafeteria. One meal per day. Employee card. That's it."
Jeff leaned back, satisfied.
"What kind of food?"
"Whatever's on the board."
Lester raised a finger.
"And if I desire… more than one entrée?"
"Then you pay for it," I said flatly.
Restrictions
"And listen carefully," I added.
"You are not allowed inside the building."
"The only time you step past the lobby is lunch."
"That's it."
Lester scoffed.
"This is oppression."
I ignored him.
"You mess up—you get a strike."
"Three strikes, you're out."
"No appeals."
"No second chances."
Jeff frowned.
"…What about naps?"
I locked eyes with him.
"No naps, Jeff."
"This isn't the Buy More."
"You nap—you're gone."
Jeff shook his head.
"Brutal."
Lester nodded.
"…Fair."
Hiring
Morgan looked between us like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.
"So… are they hired?"
I exhaled slowly.
Long.
Heavy.
Regret already setting in.
"Yes."
A beat.
"God help us all, yes."
Acceptance
Jeff pumped a weak fist.
"Free lunch."
Lester adjusted his tie like it meant something.
"Very well. We accept your terms."
He leaned forward, dramatic as ever.
"But mark my words, Charles—history will remember this as the beginning of the Jeffster era."
I muttered under my breath—
"More like the beginning of my ulcer…"