Had a Good Time

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Gunther's life is spiraling out of control, but he can guide the thoughts of others like no other.

“Nothing makes you want to sing less than being forced to, so be quiet if you please. You wouldn’t coerce a flower into blooming. Just make sure your heart is open and alive,” said the kindly preacher on the radio radio.

“You’re so right Bill...” cried Gunther Price as his car launched into a tailspin across the median. He drifted in a vicious spiral. The light and color was mesmerizing, the G’s reminded him of home. Skidding just short of an SUV full of college kids, he smiled and waved as his drooping fingers fumbled for the ignition. It was dead. He hauled ass out of the open roof, peeled off the back license plate and sauntered into the woods. With luck, all the evidence would point to someone else. Gunther ignored the rising sounds of bedlam at his back and took another dose for the road.

The doors parted for him. His soaked leather shoes trailed leaves coiled in algae and Spanish moss on the marble lobby floor. The public there was numb to the public, their complaints to the boss long ignored. A scolding voice tried to crowd him out of the elevator, but the rage couldn’t pierce Price’s own blunted senses. When looking over the panoply of nature as he emerged at the seventh floor, Gunther saw nothing but a sea of incomprehensible garbage. The walk to the observation room passed as a memory. Nothing could harsh his unfathomable vibe. He slumped down next to Harold, the biggest shot ever fired in Tangerine county, and noticed a patient sitting behind a one-way mirror.

“I need a new car,” Gunther crooned to his boss. The venerated old man turned to him.

“What’s wrong with the car you have?”

“I totalled it,” Price sniffed.

“I’m not buying you a car, Gunther,” he said as the rest of the expected staff returned from the vending machines empty handed.

“We lost all our money,” said one. He buried his head in his hands and said nothing.

“Sorry Harold,” said another. She pulled up a chair for her weeping comrade and sat down herself. Price was somewhere else, alternately messing around with a pencil and admiring the popcorn ceiling.

“So what are we testing today?”

“Lancelot's Sherbet,” said Harold. There was a loud snap. He spun to catch Price fumbling with the doorknob.

“I gotta… I gotta go…” he mumbled. He went around the observation room into the waiting room for taste testers. He forced his way in and found a meek little man in a tiny suit waiting for the bell to ring. “You eating the Sherbet?” asked Gunther. The tester nodded. Price’s shoulders rose and he adopted a cheery disposition. “I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate you offering your opinion Mr…?”

“Meister,” said the man.

“Okay… Feeling nervous?” The man bunched up his hands in his lap under questioning and gingerly nodded. Gunter took three loping steps and was on him, pushing a little capsule into the man’s hand. “Like this, just swallow. I’ll take half, see?” Gunther bit off a little bit and pushed the rest into Mr. Meister’s hand.

“What is it?”

“It’s Ichor. It’ll help me get the result I need in this trial. Help me out. Take a gamble with me, man,” Price croaked. Meister nodded and took the risk with Gunther. Within moments they were both almost totally checked out. Price remembered that he was still expected to work that day and hurried back to the observation room. He left poor floored Mr. Meister in his life-changing delirium with nothing but a pat on the back.

Gunther slumped down in his chair, to everyone else’s disappointment. Harold nodded at the first of the two to lose their money to the machines, who rang the bell for the taste tester. Meister stepped confidently and boisterously into the room. He approached the bowl of sherbet, long reduced to a lagoon of syrup. He drank the whole thing in a single gulp. His hand trembled at his mouth as the bowl went clattering across the floor. All gasped at his stare of glee except Price, who shared the same face.

---

“That went well,” said Harold in the limousine home.

“Lancelot Sherbet’s made a stellar product,” mumbled Price, coming off the Ichor hard. He checked his phone to see a large deposit from Orion Sweets.

“Have you tried the sherbet?” asked Harold.

“No,” said Price.

“I have. It’s like someone scooped a handful of snow out of the parking lot and dropped it in your cola. I think it’s a crime to sell it,” muttered Harold.

“It sure is.” Price was negotiating Ichor prices with his dealer. “You’ll take the money, though,” he said. Harold laughed along.

“We’re a subsidiary, what choice have we got? At least the fool likes it.”

Submitted: December 31, 2020

Humor satire sci-fi addiction corporate