Philanthropy Pt. 05

Yes, Canada mixes up metric and imperial measurements. I like to blame the Americans for this, but the truth is, Canadians prefer some measurements over others. Driving? Distance and speed are in kilometres. Judging the distance between two objects? Imperial. Weight? Always pounds. Liquid measurements? If buying milk, we buy it in litres. When making a cake? Cups and ounces. It's mental, but in Canada it all makes perfect sense.

Brad was twisted in his seat and watching closely.

"Second vehicle coming up behind the truck..."

I looked and saw what looked like a Tesla bearing down on the truck.

"Keep your speed and change lanes frequently. Keep the truck watching you."

I didn't understand but did what Brad wanted. My hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly. I was torn between looking behind me and looking ahead of me. As it was, I barely missed a couple of cars on the highway. Brad cursed my sudden movements but kept looking backwards.

The truck was now less than thirty yards behind me, and I could see it looked like a woman driving. I could see the Tesla popping in and out from behind other cars. Somehow, I knew the Tesla was not my problem. Brad seemed relieved and not very surprised when he spotted it.

The truck was twenty yards behind me, and I was doing 150. Driving at this speed down a highway makes the other vehicles seem like they're stopped, and I weaved from lane to lane to keep my speed up. In a moment, the highway opened up, and no one was around us. I could hear the truck behind me roar as it sped up.

Brad was looking backwards still, and I glanced at the rear view just in time to see the Tesla accelerate like crazy, cross the distance and then calmly press into the rear passenger side corner of the truck. It pushed the truck and suddenly the truck twisted sideways, the asphalt grabbed the tires sideways, and the truck went rolling down the highway, pieces of it disintegrating with the speed and flying all over the highway. The Tesla had veered away at once and roared towards us, but in the parallel lane.

I watched the truck roll to a stop. Cars behind us were stopping to render aide. Meanwhile the Tesla cruised up beside us. It was a Model S. I looked over and was startled to see Shanti grinning back at me. She gave me a little wave and then she must have hit ludicrous speed. She tore away with ease and took the next exit.

"That was Shanti..." I stated. The feeling of relief was just hitting me. Watching that truck self-destruct on the highway had been a terrible thing to watch. It could have been me rolling down the highway for half a kilometre. I shuddered.

"Yes, mate. She's always there, watching. Team Bulldog, remember?"

"I thought she was gone."

"Leave you? Not gonna happen, mate. Its better for her if she's away from you, though. Said you were too distracting to let her do her job."

"Distracting?"

"Mate, you were shagging or snogging every chance you got. Which was a lot. Watch, this is your exit."

I changed lanes and took the same exit Shanti had taken. She was nowhere to be seen. I thought of the woman driving the truck and asked Brad about her. "Do you know who it was?"

"Likely Carmen Rodriguez. Assassin for the LTG. Ex-assassin. No way she survived that crash."

"She was real?"

"Oh, yes mate. Intel had her in the city about a month ago. We've been watching for her. She had to make a move sooner or later."

I thought of the sniper shot Shanti had taken and mentioned it.

"Yeah, we locked up that roof up. Put in motion sensors. Alan has been camping there most nights. Watching your place."

"Watching me?"

"Yes. He said it's been very entertaining. No need for porn, he said. Its all right there." Brad chuckled.

I took my turn onto the road leading to the company building. My life has become entertainment for an elite international SAS team. How wonderful for me.

"Park around back. Can you access the building from the rear?"

"Yes."

"Good, do that."

I parked in back and we exited the SUV and headed inside.

* * *

When we entered the building from the back, we had to navigate a bunch of hallways to get to the front and the office spaces. Problem was, I didn't know the building. At all. All my previous times in the building had been through the front door, past the common area, and into the lab.

Brad grew frustrated after my second dead end and took the lead and somehow took us exactly to the front area. The place was deserted except for a lone receptionist who I immediately recognised. It was Pepper Pots. I hadn't seen her since the Christmas Party, and my memory of that night involved looking up past her pussy at her massive tits being squeezed hard by her perfectly manicured nails and fingers.

"Peter!" she squeaked, when she got over the shock of seeing me emerge from the back hallways. She rose from her desk, which was a large circular thing situated in the middle of the entrance lobby. The wall behind bore the name of the company and our logo, which looked like a shitty rendition of "If". If what? I always wanted to know.

"Markie!" I said, faking pleasure at seeing her. "How are you? You're looking fine."

And she did. She wore a dress that looked about a size too small. It lifted her double Ds and squeezed her waist down to nothing. Her generous ass was accented by a tight skirt that ended about two inches above her knees. She came around the desk and hugged me hard, pressing her girls against me. I resisted the urge to squeeze her ass and hugged her back.

Markie Walker had been with the company since day one. She was in her mid-forties, never married, no kids, and partied a lot. Her and I had hooked up many times. She will throw herself at any eligible man. Problem is, she has no imagination in bed. She's not as bad as a starfish, but close.

A starfish is a woman who lies on her back in bed with her arms and legs spread and does nothing else.

Very vanilla. Sad really, she's a wonderfully put together woman. I tried to educate her on the better aspects of carnal activities, but she wasn't interested. She found it appalling. Hence, I hadn't slept with her in over nine months. I have standards.

She pushed off me and I could see she had noticed Brad. "Oh, who's this dashing young man?"

I smiled. Brad was probably only about five years younger than her. "Markie Walker meet Brad McIntosh. Brad, this is Markie, the Chief Administrative Officer."

"Pleased to meet you ma'am," said Brad and I watched Markie suddenly become interested in Brad.

"Is that a British accent?" she purred and reached out and took Brad's offered hand. She might have pulled him a little closer. She was his height in her heels, and she stared intently at him like prey.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and I couldn't believe it, but he had eyes for her, too. I watched as he struggled to lift his eyes from her massive girls, which were in display. "Nice to meet you."

"My pleasure, I assure you. Peter? Where have you been hiding him? Has he come to work in the company?"

"I'm afraid not, Markie. He's my bodyguard."

Markie looked back sharply at me before looking back at Brad. I noticed she had not let go of his hand. Her other hand reached up and squeezed his bicep. "Bodyguard? What kind of bodyguard? Why would you need a bodyguard?"

She wasn't paying any attention to me at all and I was amused as fuck.

"People are trying to kill me; didn't you see the news?"

"Oh yes, right. That's terrible! Brad, have you killed anyone?"

"Markie!" I said, somewhere between a laugh and outrage.

"It's okay, Peter. Yes, ma'am, I have."

I swear if Markie weren't wearing panties—and I was sure she absolutely was—she would have dripped on the floor. As it was, she actually closed the small space between her and Brad and pulled his hand up to her cleavage. She placed it right there and held it and Brad stared at his hand.

"That's fascinating," she breathed.

Brad looked like he was in a little bit of heaven.

I looked at my watch. "Brad, I should be okay from here. Markie, can you show Brad around for me? I have to meet with Roger."

"I would love to show you around," she gushed. "Oh, Peter, your team are all gathered in the lab. They want to speak to you about something."

"Okay, thanks."

Markie took Brad's hand and pulled him toward the back offices. Back empty offices. Nothing to see there except maybe Markie naked and lying on a desk.

"Brad, is that short for Bradley? I knew a Bradley once. Nice man. Very large hands, like yours. Do you garden? I heard British love to garden. How many men did you kill, exactly? Can you tell me?"

I watched them disappear into the back. I had no doubt Brad would soon find himself balls deep in Markie. She may be vanilla, but she was always eager for a fresh shag.

Ha, I used the word shag. Shanti would be proud of me. That thought sobered me up, and I went looking for Roger.

I found him in his office.

He was reading something on his monitor. When I knocked and entered, he closed down his screen and rose to shake my hand. Roger Daniels is the CEO of Insight Financial LLC. He started the company looking to expand into an increasing market in financial software. Originally, he provided pretty shitty bankruptcy software. I saw an ad for a lead programmer and looked into the company. It looked ripe for someone like me to come along and so I had contacted Roger.

Once I showed him my credentials, he made me the CTO and handed the entire software division over to me. We had four teams working the code on our products. I kept one team as my own and we worked the main financial software. The team that made almost all the money in the company. All hand selected by me.

Roger was looking older since I had last seen him. He was pushing sixty, was overweight, ate the worst kinds of food, and had male pattern baldness leaning more toward full baldness. He was waxy and sallow. But he had a great attitude and could see progress better than anyone. That I had made him filthy rich made me his best friend in the whole wide world. Or so he had said at the Christmas party, drunk on scotch.

"Roger, you're looking good," I lied and shook his hand when he rose and walked around his desk to greet me.

"Peter, it looks like you survived. What's with all the attacks? What trouble are you in?"

"Can't say, actually. I've become a target of some nasty people. Nothing to do with the company though, I assure you."

I could see the relief on Roger's face. Remember, I don't have friends. Just colleagues. They feign interest in me, but mostly because I am the brains behind the success of the company. He was worried all right, but not for me personally, only the impact on the company bottom line. Can't say I blame him.

Did I mention I own fifty-one percent of the company?

"Peter? Is this something I should worry about? Is there anything I can do?"

"No, Roger, but thanks. The police are heavily involved and helping. All is well. I have a bodyguard now; he's getting a tour of the building by Markie."

"Oh dear, she'll give him a right proper tour."

I should mention that Roger is from Saint John, New Brunswick for no other reason than to highlight that Brunswickers talk with a very distinctive accent and choice of words. The telltale is the word 'right'. A Brunswicker will talk like this, and I am not exaggerating:

"So, I went down to the corner store, right? And I sees there an ole friend from high school, right? So we gets to talking, and he tells me he scored some cheap booze, right? And can you believe it? He's got more than he needs, right?"

Get it? Drives me up the wall. Plus, they can't tell a story worth shit. It's all tangents. You'll be half an hour into their story about walking to the corner store and you'll realise he's now talking about some dog he met three years ago after explaining why the local Sobeys grocery store need better produce selection. Then, miracle of miracles, they come BACK to their original story and finish it. It's remarkable. It's a nonstop torrent of words. Now that I think about it, a friend of mine had a mom from Moncton, New Brunswick, who also talked nonstop. She was also hot as fuck. Another friend of mine went to my friend's house when he knew she was home alone, just for a chance with her. He didn't succeed. And she was clueless.

Where was I? Jesus, I feel like a New Brunswicker sometimes. Right, with Roger.

"I'm sure Markie will be gentle," I said.

Roger grinned at me. He knew I had been banging Markie. He had banged Markie. I'm fairly sure all the men in my team had banged Markie. If you weren't sure, you could ask Markie, and she would tell you. "Right, eh."

"Yup. So? What is it you need to speak about?"

Roger went all business. He sat on the corner of his desk. "Well, the new build went live about two weeks ago. Installations were a snap as always. Only a few issues that the other team took care of. The issue was that no one knew about the new build, Peter. You can't just write code and send it out like that. We need to do regression testing, make sure everything functions. There are billions of dollars at stake here worldwide! We have ITIL and ISO standards to follow! You know that! Our international reputation demands it!"

I had been somewhat expecting this. Sometimes I work solo and do things my own way. I remember once the build master came to my condo to complain personally to me. He checked the original code with the new code and found over three hundred single lines of code had disappeared. I explained to him that I replaced it with three lines of more elegant code. It was better, I explained. He didn't see that. He only saw that nothing in the paperwork supported the changed code. He argued with me. And argued with me. And I fired him. On the spot. The only time I have ever done that. He was right, but there comes a point when the big boss says move on that you move on. When you refuse, due to some fucked up higher standard, then you forfeit your right to be paid by same big boss. Mainly me. I'm the big boss.

"You're right, Roger. I fixed some code while recuperating in the hospital. Bored mostly. You know me, I hate sloppy code. If I can fix it, I will."

"I understand that completely, Peter. But there are processes for a reason, right? We have to follow them or at the very least be seen trying to follow them, right?"

I nodded. I was actually more concerned with what my team wanted to talk to me about. They were way more astute than Roger. For Roger I merely had to assure him all was well, and that money would continue to pour into the company coffers, and he was pleased as punch.

We spoke for about ten minutes, I smoothed his ruffled feathers, imagined though they may be, and left him smiling and going back to whatever game he had been playing when I walked in.

I walked past the front reception desk and Markie and Brad were no where to be seen. I was happy for Brad. That man needed a good fuck.

I walked into my lab and saw my team lounging on the awesome chairs we had and drinking their usual energy drinks. The stereotype is one hundred percent factual. Energy drinks and nacho chips. In Canada, it usually means Zesty flavour chips, which are surprisingly delicious.

Let me introduce my team, as I said, all hand selected and head hunted by me:

First there is Brigitte Lamontagne. She's from Ste Foy Quebec and barely spoke English at first but writes code better than anyone. Her syntax is exceptional, probably due to her focus on the language. She can even programme in Assembly Language. Who does that still? Next, is Graham Pearson. Tall fellow with shaggy dirty blond hair, bad acne, and a bit autistic. He is an expert at reducing processing times. Software for him has to be snappy and responsive. That man can squeeze milliseconds from a stone. Next is Brent Sawson. He's a genuine nerd and geek. Hardcore. That man can dream up a full Dungeons and Dragons campaigns, complete with fully immersive towns, cities, economies, back story, and you name it, overnight. He does the same with code. He's a big picture guy and can see where this code effects that code and how to make that better. Dawn Waters is last. Honestly, she looks like Velma from Scooby-Do. She gave me a fucking crazy hard on the first time we met.

One year we had a Halloween party, and I suggested she wear a Velma costume. She did, with the glasses and everything. Orange top, red skirt, and knee-high orange socks. One of the few times I have masturbated. I met her at the party, complimented her, excused myself and wanked off dreaming of doing her in that costume. She is cute as fuck.

Her strengths? She's a lot like me. Scary smart and brilliant with software. She's kind of the de facto team lead when I'm not around. Which is a lot. Remember me saying I was pissed at the team for not figuring something out and gave them 24 hours to find it? She did in about 22 minutes. Okay, not about, she did it in exactly 22 minutes and then bragged to me about it. Which is why I know it was 22 minutes. Jesus. She makes me angry, impressed, and horny. I just know deep down she's a naughty girl. It's my superpower.

As I expected the team was lounging about, and Dawn was working. She was scanning the software and just looking for stuff. Pretty much what I do. Areas that need my attention just kind of leap out at me and scream 'Look at me!'. Dawn did that, too. Hence, I was nervous.

Another thing about my team. Respect is earned, and if you can't take trash talk, get the fuck out. We all respect each other. A lot. These guys are truly awesome. They are paid three times the industry standard. They LOVE working with me.

Brigitte started off. "Peter! I looked at your shitty code in the new build. You have misused the language! Again! Are you just fucking stupid or is it intentional now? Seriously, you are fucking pissing me off."

Now go back and read that again with a thick French-Canadian accent. It might get you hard or wet. Does for me. Hard that is.

Graham spoke next. He won't look at you when he speaks. It's strange at first, then you don't care. He always gets his point across. "You slowed down significant portions of the code. We've lost over two hundred milliseconds in the core routines. I have no idea how to fix that! You need to let me know before you just change code. You've set me back four months!"

Brent finished his energy drink and tossed it at the garbage can and missed. Based on the number of cans lying around the garbage, they had all missed at least six times already. "I have a lot of questions about your new code. It seems to be data mining."

I was careful not to look too closely at Brent. He's a big picture guy, and he just nailed what my new code did.

I looked at Dawn and she just looked at me for a moment and then went back to work.

"Sorry guys. I was bored in the hospital and just made changes."

Brigitte snorted. "Not too bored. You failed to comment on a single line of code."

In software it's important to document your code. Why you wrote it, what it does, etc. Not documenting your code is like... Actually, I don't know like what. It's just bad, okay?

Graham chimed it. "And you changed too many classes. Then wrote code to mask it. What the fuck? If we did that you would ream us a new one."

I was proud of Graham; he was really coming out of his shell.

Brent piled on sensing blood. "And tons of spaghetti code, bro. It's everywhere."

That's true, and it was just expediency on my part. Spaghetti code is when you modify older code over and over and it becomes tangled and far too complex and makes it hard for some people to understand what you are doing. I was also hiding special shit in the spaghetti code.

Dawn looked up and then went back to work.