Friday's Flash Fiction: "For the Other Shoe to Drop" 5.27.22

Happy Friday! This one's a bit of a longer one, but definitely one of my favorites so far. Enjoy!

 “For the Other Shoe to Drop” 

George had met a new achievement after finally hitting his twentieth year of working in the ol’ paper mill he called home since he was only nineteen-years old. Now he was staring down his forties, where he’ll be in the next twenty, and how retirement will look in the twenty years after set of twenty. 

“If I make it,” he thought. 

He would clock in on time, leave on time. Sometimes he’d stay late, mainly during the holidays, to make a little extra on top of what he was already making. He got along well enough with his coworkers. Kept to himself most of the time. Until you get to Mr. Miles, his boss. 

George would think of Mr. Ned Miles as, well, a real cocksucker. He’d do the typical annoyances a person higher up than you would do. Crack the whip a little, do this, do that, hurry up. Y’know, boss man stuff. But that wasn’t what pushed George to the edge there. What did it was a sly comment that turned into a chip, digging deep into his head, and would lie dormant before exploding. 

He had a dear friend named Jeremy, “Germ,” he nicknamed him affectionately. In turn Germ would name him “Gorge.” Like a funny mishearing of their names. School times are odd, indeed, nut nonetheless cherished. The two were inseparable since the age of fourteen. They had their highs and rare lows and made a lot of good memories with one another. Then Germ was involved in a car accident after the other car’s brakes had fate-sealed and ceased working at that crucial moment, killing Germ directly on impact. 

They said he didn’t suffer, but the scene of the accident was a mess. Red puddles haunt Gorge’s mind time to time still. 

So George wanted the time off to be there for his friend, as you do. Mr. Miles was not too compassionate on this request. They compromised after George actually raised his voice for the first time in sixteen years at that place. So he would take a half day before returning. It was all fine and dandy, nearly reaching a proverbial handshake until Mr. Miles decided to stick his foot in his mouth. “Better buckle up on your way there. And look where you’re going.” Implying that it was his fault some other guy’s car gave out and hit him. Real classy. What a real fucking piece of work. George was just stunned at the audacity. 

He didn’t return for that second half. Fuck him. 

He was a piece of shit for what he did, what he said, so George had only one goal in his mind that he wanted to execute. He wanted the other shoe to drop; for Mr. Miles to get his. And so he waited another four years before something appropriate formed in his noggin.

George had read that story of a rebel barber shaving the neck of an army captain of a tyrannical reign. Y’know, shave a little dangerously close to their neck and SLIIIIIT! Their throat would spray like a fountain. An oddly specific cliche found a little too often in stories. This metaphor was pretty close. George the barber, Mr. Miles as the captain. He would think about it time to time - whether or not he would actually wipe that blade ear to ear and watch that mean ol’ Mr. Miles die (slowly; molasses speed). The answer was: Nah, not really. Death seems a little too… permanent in theory. So good ol’ George had his own sense of vengeance: 

He shook his hand. 

Looked Mr. Miles right in the pupils, smiled, and gave a good couple firm shakes. Then he gave a cheeky bow and went about his work once again. 

Now what Mr. Miles, nor anyone in the factory knew was that right before he punched in for work, George was thinking about sticking his hand down his pants. He would get his hand in there and get familiar with every nook and cranny down under. That’d be funny right? Three degrees off of his boss jerking him off? Seemed satisfactory. Not to George, no. 

What dear old George did was he found a tarantula, placed it softly in the extra pair of Mr. Miles shoes he’d keep in his office and waited. 

This particular spider seemed to have the abdomen that fit snugly around the width of the shoe. They tend to like dark, dank areas but he didn’t know whether or not this spider would sit in the dark and wait for some toes to reach inside as the boss man was getting ready to go home. 

Oh boy, did it fucking ever. 

It was getting close to shutting down shop and George conveniently had to piss. Only piss on company time, right? The bathrooms were near the offices of higher ups. George kept the trinkle to a minimum volume as he could while he anticipated the goods. Then it came.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” Shouted Mr. Miles. George’s hairy spider did what it was promised. Some toes came close to squishing the weighty tarantula and in an act of self-defense, bit down right on the boss man’s big toe. Right in the meat of that sucker. 

In a weird turn of reflex, he had pushed his foot deeper into the shoes rather than dig ‘em out. Three more quick bites followed. So Mr. Miles kicked the shoe at the locker. SLAM! Thunk. The shoe was on the ground, tipped over, with eight hairy legs crawling out of the shoe of dear Mr. Miles. Boss man then grabbed a thick hardcover book off his desk and thwomped that fucker out of existence. A small price to pay for vengeance Georgie would think. But the absolute beautiful part was not from the bleeding that came from his foot, nor the fright from the biggest pain in his ass for the past twenty years. No, no. 

Mr. Miles did not take account for the second tarantula waiting in the other shoe that he neglected to check. Always check where you’re going, or better yet, what’s lurking in your belongings. Some parasite may be waiting to ruin your life as you’re trying to just get by.

George would crack open a cold beer when he got home an hour after that and laugh and laugh and laugh. To the next twenty, George.