Crafting a little short story this morning for the 99% set. The character of “The Ratfucker” has this problem.
Paradox is an effective tool. Not easy to write a character with this pathology because very evil. But since I can, am going to. What else is there to do at this hour?
The 99% set has been really effed over by people like this. All over the country. The ratfucker is a bad guy. Back later!
(with excerpt)
xxoo!
Adrienne
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I was very amazed by the reactions the writers on the list had to this story I did. It was amazing! They all knew he was the bad guy, which was really great because it’s guys like this who have destroyed so many lives in America in corporations. Anyway, what I wrote was about him as a bad guy and I used some techniques from a subgenre called femdom that I usually don’t write. The thing is — the character is inhuman and sadistic towards his fellow co-workers. We all know this guy — the bean counter type.
Anyway. Wow.
Amazing how the comments on the list really affirmed what I had written so, without giving the whole story away, gives you part!
I am interested in writing cure, and at a depth level — so my ability to paint malignant narcissism worked. Often times these people will be heads of corporations? Much sociopathy in them and cruelty. In this story he gets punished by a fantasy femdom.
Ray Bradbury’s passing has made me really think about morality tales. They are one of my strong suits. I plan to do more of them. Anyway, here is a part of the character — called The Ratfucker. I actually googled that term after I thought up the title. Omg. It’s a term all right. In use since a very long time ago.
The Ratfucker’s cubicle at PresSinkCorps wasn’t much different than the others on the top floor. He’d carved himself a space by climbing year upon year to a higher and higher position inside the corporation. This required him to kiss the asses of men who were higher. Each year that kiss had made him meaner and more soulless until he resembled a pallid version of himself. He’d become a ghost of a man. One of the invisible ones.
The underlings laughed as he passed, remarking that he was a brown nose and noticing the stiff way he walked. Nobody liked him because his eyes were dead. Nobody knew about the secret in his locked desk drawer. Nobody would have ever suspected.
Guys like that hide their dirty little deeds.
The Ratfucker had been responsible for murder. Because he wasn’t human, he didn’t regard other humans with any feeling at all. Twice he’d penned the directions for the firings, and twice two men had died from the shock of having their lives upended and destroyed. Bottom line, you know? That’s what he was always working on hunched over like the worst Scrooge that ever was. Figures, figures, figures.
He was a three stroke and come sort of fuck. He’d managed to produce a couple of children, grown them up and gotten them into college. His wife thought sex was dirty in the first place. She laid back while he rolled on and off once a week for five minutes, in the first years. She didn’t know what was really going on inside his head. He never said. He didn’t tell her about the size three women’s panties he slipped on everyday either, under his tighty-whities. He regarded those as a sort of chastity belt that kept his balls in place.
“Look at the way he walks.”
“Something’s wrong with that guy.”
“I never liked him.”
The underlings whispered and shook their heads as he passed in the halls. The dead roses his assistant had hanging in her office were a tip off. She’d hang them bunch by bunch until they dried in fragile brown memories of life lived en rose.
“Look at the way he walks, like he has a ramrod up his ass.”
“Asshole.”
“He killed Gabe.”
Gabe had been his polar opposite. All warmth and kindness and raises and Italian smiles and the Ratfucker had fired him because of those very things. Gabe of the lionhearted Lion’s club. Gabe of the Lineotype era of decent men that once existed at PresSinkCorps before the mergers. Gabe of the journeymen and hand tools before cold type.
“He fired Dorothy.”
The Ratfucker had fired her because she married one of his competitors. One of those asses he was going to have to lick. On his way up the ladder. The lucre ladder.
He was filthy. Filthy with his deeds and his dollars and his trembling little bean counter fingers. He fantasized about money while his cock hardened in his chastity panties. They were green silk most of the time under his plain cotton. He liked that he had to walk around stiff like that, almost pained, doing dirty deeds. Pain was what he craved the most under that bland golf cap wearing exterior. Pain was what he craved sitting alone with the books behind the locked office door after everyone had gone home.
Punishment. Because he had sinned.
Literary Erotica as morality tale. Something I know how to do. Anyway, here is the end — holds off on the big sex scene — but the end will make the 99% chuckle no end.
He spent himself finally, chucked the green panties into the wastebasket and replaced the dead roses on his assistant’s wall, smiling. He wanted to impress the night janitor, as if he’d really gotten laid inside PresSinkCorps’ top cubicles. Not that any woman would have looked at him twice.
“Asshole,” the underlings whispered amongst themselves at the company picnic the next day.
“Look at this cheap fucking party.”
“This is the best PresSinkCorps can do?”
“It’s his fault.”
Troughs of slops awaited them on the bedecked tables all set for the Fourth of July. The Ratfucker moved through the crowd in his usual tight-assed way, his oblivious wife on one arm and his assistant on the other. Nobody could see the tiny drop of dried blood from the thorns that had pricked his cheek the night before.
PresSinkCorps executives milled the crowd with plastered smiles. It was all a question of who was licking who at these parties anyway.
A lone reporter smiled taking notes. She was the last of a breed. Gabe’s breed and Dorothy’s breed. The lionhearted kind.
The comments from both males and females were amazing. They all knew this guy!
Score one for truth in fiction!
xxoo!
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 