Sales Weasel Run Amok

The office was strangely quiet and the silence slowly penetrated Stacy Lancaster's mind. She lifted her head to look around, wondering where everyone was. Checking her watch, she realized that she had worked through lunch.

Again.

Sighing, she returned to the task at hand. There were a couple granola bars in her desk; she'd scarf them down in a little bit.

Still, it was really, really quite. There were usually plenty of stragglers still around during the lunch hour. Some nagging thought of something she must have forgotten buzzed at the back of her consciousness for a few seconds but was then silenced by the demands of the moment.

God damn that bitch Vanessa! Stacy thought to herself.

Stacy wasn't working in her little private office at the moment; she was at that flirty bubble-head Vanessa's cubical, trying to track down a missing invoice. Vanessa's former cubical that is. The worthless bimbo had finally quit the week before.

Stacy tried hard not to be a judgmental person and she generally succeeded. But Vanessa... Vanessa had really rubbed Stacy the wrong way. As far as Mrs. Lancaster was concerned, if a woman wanted to get through life trading on her looks and flirting with anything that shaved in the morning; that was fine. To each their own. Hell, Stacy found vapid existences strangely fascinating in a morbid sort of way.

The problem, as Stacy saw it, was when vapid bimbos with more cleavage than brains tried to do actual work. Or rather, when they got jobs where they were supposed to do actual work.

Stacy had more or less hated the woman since she got hired six months ago but had had the human decency to feel ashamed of her hate. She had done everything she could to give the blond dunce the benefit of the doubt. She gave her a thousand and one chances to learn from her mistakes... but she never did. Of course, the term mistake implies that she did something first; the walking condom advertisement had spent more time preening in front of her admirers than doing anything that resembled work.

No, Stacy was not jealous. Those same horn-dogs had spent months sniffing around her when she started. Since she had no intention of shitting where she ate OR cheating on her husband whom she married soon after starting work at Laugher & Giles Plastics and Rubber, Stacy had pretended not to notice. She wore simple and conservative clothing and little or no makeup. Many of her co-workers no doubt thought she was a prude but so be it... that was better than the alternative.

So Stacy had spent months giving Vanessa every opportunity to make something of herself and also suppressing her jealousy that didn't actually exist. And then the little bitch announces that she's getting married to a fifty-year-old sugar-daddy and leaves without notice.

Fine. Great. Don't let the door hit you on your way out, Cunt!

Stacy had very nearly jumped for joy when she was told Vanessa had quit. But now she was paying the price for that wonderful event. She had to figure out what the ditz had done with all the paperwork she was supposed to be collating.

Stacy shook her head again, still unable to fathom the blonde's thinking. Why the hell had she dumped nearly a year's worth of invoices into a box and then hid it in the store room? Stacy just couldn't wrap her head around that kind of lack of basic responsibility.

So she was now pawing through said box looking for the Shister & Shister invoice from May.

"Jeeze, Stacy, don't you ever relax?" asked a male voice.

Stacy had no trouble recognizing the voice but she glanced up at the tall figure nonetheless. "Sure I relax, Bruce. But it's a bit hard to take it easy when I've got this mess Vanessa left behind to clean up." She turned back to the box. She was beginning to notice that the more recent invoices seemed to be at the bottom of the pile... how the hell did the Cunt manage to reverse collate these? Not that they were actually in chronological order per-se, just that the random batches seemed to be newer the deeper she got.

"Vanessa was a sweat kid. I really hated seeing her go." Bruce said, apparently interested in chatting.

Mrs. Lancaster lifter her head again, peering at him past her brows. She didn't have to question Bruce's sincerity; the bimbo had rather obviously had him wrapped around her finger.

Stacy decided to follow Thumper's lesson and said nothing. She looked around for a moment to see if anyone else had returned. The office was still deserted save for Bruce. She noticed that he wasn't wearing his suit-coat and that his tie was loosened. Not unusual of course but it set that forgotten idea to buzzing at the back of her mind again.

"Yeah, I know a lot of the guys around here are going to miss her." Stacy said neutrally as she found a big batch of January invoices. Okay, so now there is officially absolutely no rhyme or reason to the order these things are in.

"You ever think about doing something different with your hair, Stacy?" Apparently, Bruce still wanted to talk.

"Like what," she asked, "Shave it off?" She wasn't in the mood to humor sales weasels. Bruce was the weaseliest of the weasels... and the slowest to take a hint.

"No, you know; let it grow. Maybe color it a bit."

Stacy shook her head, flicking past a bunch of invoices from a company she didn't recognize; she thought she knew them all. Wait, what the hell, 2004? How did she get hold of six year old invoices? Vanessa was so inept it was like a talent all its own. The military should weaponize her.

Stacy was so distracted that her mouth gave Bruce a real answer. "My hair is too dry and brittle to grow out. I look like a diseased haystack when it gets too long."

"What kind of conditioners have you tried?" Bruce asked.

Stacy shook herself, replaying the last bit of the conversation in her head. Why the hell was she talking to this bozo? "Look, Bruce, could you give me beauty tips later maybe?"

He laughed as if she had made a good joke. "Fine, how about your clothes? You're a cute girl, Stacy, why do you always dress like someone's mom?"

She stared at him slightly amazed. Stacy got along quite well with most of her co-workers. As office manager, she had little real authority but a lot of influence. And of course, responsibility. Most of the staff trusted her fairness and competence. She tended to butt heads quite a bit with the sales staff, mostly over their expense claims, but she was neither a slave-driver nor a harridan.

But Bruce was basically the male equivalent of Vanessa. Except in his case, being an over-grown fraternity brother was actually a useful skill. He was the sales guy all the clients wanted to party with. He was tall, tanned and good looking... and shallow as a dry puddle.

"Bruce, I dress for the office. Look around you; see all the cubicles and computer screens? You're in an office. We all work in an office. I don't dress like a street walker because this is not the street."

Bruce was finally a little taken aback. It dawned on him that Stacy didn't want to talk to him. She turned back to the box of paperwork.

In Bruce's mind, all women were merely waiting for him to grant them some attention before flinging themselves in his arms. Stacy was obviously very unhappy and deserved some of his manly concern.

Bruce the sales weasel stepped into the cubical to stand closely behind Stacy. She tried not to crawl under the desk. She dug down deep into the box, ignoring him.

Bruce put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on babe, you really need to loosen up." Stacy shrugged off the offending appendage.

The universe intervened at that moment.

"Finally!" Stacy said in a tone of long suffering. She yanked the missing file from the stack and shook it in victory. "Found the damn thing."

Stacy stood, pushing the office chair back into Bruce. Giving him an obviously phony friendly smile as she turned, she pushed past him and headed into the hall. He followed her, his long strides keeping pace with her quick steps. The sales weasel tagged along behind her into the copy room.

Stacy placed the form on the scanner. While she was punching in the commands that would send an image-copy of the form to her computer inbox, Bruce sidled up close. He seemed to loom over her. "How are things between you and your husband, Stace?" he asked.

She could not believe the man's gall. "None of your damn business." She tried to give him a shove with her shoulder. "Back off, Bruce."

Bruce didn't let her shove move him. Instead, he took her upper arm in his hand and held her close. "You smell nice babe. I bet you've got a pretty little set of tits under here, don't you." He said. His other hand brushed across her stomach in a vague move to dislodge her tucked-in blouse.

"What the hell, Bruce. Get off me!" she said, not loudly but with all the authority she could put into her voice. She shoved again, thrusting herself away from the man. She ended up in the back corner of the small room.

His mention of her scent made her more aware of something else. Realization dawned on her. "You've been drinking." She said.

He shrugged, moving closer to her again. "Yeah, we all toasted Phil at the party." He said.

Damn, that's what she had forgotten, Phil's birthday party. Phil she liked. She'd gotten him a cap and t-shirt from the web-site he likes. She had fully intended to go and try to have some fun.

She sniffed Bruce's breath. "That's whiskey."

"Hm-hmm" he acknowledged, coming close enough for their thighs to touch. He placed a hand at the back of her neck. "You know, now that I'm getting a good look at you, babe, I think you're even better looking than Rose."

Stacy was sidetracked by this a bit. "She shot you down again, didn't she lover-boy? That's why you're here instead of at the bar."

He made a dismissive motion, "She's just shy. We both know she wants me."

Her voice controlled and angry, Stacy told him, "Get off me Bruce. God damn it, get off me and leave Rose alone!" she pushed at him again. Her back was hard to the wall now.

"You didn't tell me how things are with your husband. But I can see you're frustrated and unhappy. Come on babe; you know someone like me can fix that. Don't you want a real man, Stacy?"

Stacy saw red for a moment. To have this over-grown frat boy insult her marriage and her husband like that was just too much. Fortunately, she realized that she had a ready form of just retribution staring her in the face... or rather, filling her nostrils with the smell of booze.

She was pissed. "You're drunk!" she declared, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Don't worry babe, I'm still fully functional." He bent down to try to kiss her.

Stacy placed a hand against his lips and deflected him. "You idiot, you have a meeting with the Skraton group in an hour! You can't go to a meeting like this!"

He looked at her is puzzlement as if he couldn't follow her line of reasoning. "It's no big deal. I'm good for anything you need... a little loving now and a little wheeling and dealing later."

"You can't go to a meeting like this Bruce. For Christ sake, look at what you're doing. If you're drunk enough to put the moves on me then you are way too drunk to be going over their contracts."

"Don't worry about it. I can make all your worries go away, I promise you babe." It was like he wasn't hearing her. He tried to kiss her again.

Using the wall behind her for leverage, she shoved Bruce away with all her might. He stumbled back and she darted around him. At the door of the copy room she spun on him. She thrust a finger at him and let her anger fill her harsh voice. "You're off the Skraton account. Get the hell out of here now! Go home."

She turned to leave. Bruce rushed forward and grabbed her arm. "You can't do that." He said.

While she tried to break his hold she said, "You came to the office drunk, you moron. You're lucky you're not getting fired." She couldn't break away. Slowly, a hint of fear began to creep into her chest.

Grabbing her other arm as well and holding her in front of him, Bruce shook the office manager. "You're just another bitch that needs to get laid." He said, the logic of his own making. "And I'm going to make sure you get what you need."

Stacy couldn't believe it when he laced his fingers between the buttons of her blouse and began yanking at the garment. It quickly began to give way. Stacy struggled in earnest. "Bruce, stop. Please, let go of me." She pleaded.

"Come on, bitch, let's see what you've been hiding." Letting go of her arm for a moment, he used both hands to rip her shirt open. Stacy lept out of his grasp, her tattered blouse falling from her shoulders and tangling with her arms. As she struggled to free herself, Bruce's big hand grabbed hold of her bra.

"Jeeze, girl, you even wear old-lady underwear." He said. Her bra was plain and white and made of thick cotton. He seized her clad breasts.

Stacy got her arms free and knocked Bruce away. She began backing away. "You're fired, asshole." She shouted, her face pink with anger and exertion.

Bruce looked shocked for a moment and then tried to laugh. "You can't fire me, honey." He lunged at her.

Stacy kicked at his groin. He twisted to the side, taking the kick on his thigh. She swung an elbow at his head and connected. "Fuck, bitch." He snarled and seized her in his arms. Stacy twisted and jerked. She bent at the knees, making Bruce take more of her weight and bend down some. Then she straightened violently and rammed the top of her head into his chin.

Bruce staggered and Stacy was able to drop to the floor, sliding out of his grasp. "Help." She shouted at the top of her lungs. There had to be someone in the office somewhere. "Help me!" She began to scramble away from the drunk man, her shirt trailing behind her, held against her waist by its tucked tails. A fleeting moment of gratitude flashed across her mind; at least she was wearing slacks. Bruce would have loved a chance to get under her skirt.

"Heelllp."

Bruce was still coming after her. She was scrambling on hands and knees, unable to spare a moment to get her feet under her. He caught an ankle and heaved her back toward him. His other hand went to her waistband. She flailed at his arm as he tried to pull her pants down. "Help!"

She heard a door open down the hall. Two figures came out of one of the small offices. They began to rush toward the struggling pair. "Get off me!" she screamed, kicking at him with her free leg.

"Bruce, what the hell are you doing?" Shouted another male voice followed shortly by a woman's.

"What's going on?"

Bruce looked at the two with a stunned expression. He looked from them down to Stacy panting on the floor. He still had her ankle caught in his hand.

He dropped her leg. "I was..." he began lamely but had no way to finish the sentence.

Stacy got to her feet. She straightened her slacks but left her shirt dangling from her waist. She stood in her bra with breath heaving in the middle of the hall. "He's drunk and he tried to rape me."

"No, wait!" Bruce said, hands raised. "I wasn't... no, if you had just listened to me..."

The other man put himself between Bruce and Stacy and the woman went to put her hands on Stacy's arm. "What happened?" she asked.

Before Stacy could answer, Bruce found words. "She tried to fire me. She can't do that. This isn't my fault." The words he had found fell dead from lack of oxygen.

The ding of an elevator sounded down the hall and the doors slid open to release a babble of voices. The babble was followed by a half-dozen of their co-workers.

The talk abruptly trailed off as the group saw the tableau in the hallway. There was a good five seconds of stunned silence before a tall, somewhat portly man with thin graying hair pushed forward. "What the hell is going on here?"

His survival instincts kicking in, Bruce was the first to speak. "She tried to take me off the Skraton account and then she said I was fired!"

The older man kept his face neutral but the other people murmured in puzzled confusion. They couldn't follow Bruce's attempt at an explanation.

The big man turned to Stacy, lifting his brows. Stacy breathed evenly, forcing herself to speak calmly. "Mr. Dell, Bruce is drunk. He was hitting on me and touching me. When I realized why he was acting strangely, I took him off the Skraton account. He was scheduled to meet with their people in..." she glanced at her watch, "Less than an hour."

Bruce was sputtering. "See? She can't do that!"

Mr. Dell stepped close to Bruce. He was an inch taller and probably fifty pounds heavier and it wasn't quite all fat. Many people thought that Mr. Dell wasn't aware of how intimidating he could be. It's true that he sometimes forgot but it was also true that he sometimes made purposeful use of it. "How much did you drink?" He asked shortly while examining the sales weasel's eyes.

"Hardly anything." Bruce protested.

"I smell whisky." Dell observed.

"Well, yeah, I had a few shots. It was a party!"

Dell sighed with contempt but a serious look crossed his face. He glanced at Stacy as she wrestled her arms back into her abused blouse. "Obviously something else happened." He said.

Pulling the shirt closed across her stomach, Stacy said simply, "He attacked me." She licked her lips; they were a shocking bolt of color against her pallid face. "He tried to kiss me - had me pushed up against a wall in the copy room. When I got away the first time he grabbed me and ripped my shirt off." She looked hard into Bruce's eyes. "That's when I fired him and started screaming for help."

Bruce's face was red and he began shouting. "Don't believe the bitch. If she had just listened to me..."

"Shut up, Bruce." Dell said tightly. The salesman's mouth clopped shut. "You're fired. Pack up your shit and get the hell out of my building."

Bruce's eyes were wide and his face an interesting pattern of pale and crimson behind the tan. "You can't just fire me like that over nothing! I'll sue!"

Before Mr. Dell could answer, Stacy exploded. "You fucking moron! How fucking stupid are you? You have no idea what you've done, do you?" Bruce was silent in shock. Another load of passengers from the elevator arrived and murmurs where exchanged among the observers to catch the new arrivals up on proceedings.

"You should be on your knees thanking me for not calling the police. Jesus fucking Christ, I don't know if I could make attempted rape stick but I've got you dead to rights on assault! You don't have a leg to stand on, shit for brains."

Almost no one in the office had ever heard Stacy use profanity before.

"You got nothing on me." Bruce said in a hot but also whining manner.

Stacy just stared at him. In a tightly controlled voice she said, "Bruce, we have exactly two security cameras on this floor." She jabbed a finger toward the ceiling at a corner of the hallway. "But being the genius that you are, you managed to attack me smack in front of one of them."

Dell cleared his throat while Bruce stared in horror at the little white box and round black lens. "Um, Mrs. Lancaster, do you in fact intend to press charges?" One glance told Stacy that her boss was torn between wanting to support her and wanting to avoid complications. She was confident that he would back her if she asked, though. "No. As long as he gets the hell out and doesn't give us any grief, there's no reason to bring the law into it."

Feeling that everything that needed to be said had been said and feeling pale and chill after the rush of adrenaline and panic, Stacy wrapped herself in her arms and turned away from her growing audience. "Excuse me please" she said and tried not to run on her way to the security of her office.

As she fled, she heard Mr. Dell giving orders. "Steve and Kyle, take Bruce to his office and see that he's quick about it. Peter, you and Shauna start going over the Skraton files. You'll need to take over the meeting." These directives were followed by a flurry of chatter which was cut off as Stacy closed her office door firmly.