Working Nine To Ph'tagn

The followers stood in the chamber. Benches faced a dais, and shadows from torches might have flitted over faces – but two years ago, the chamber was redone with a drop ceiling and fluorescents. The Elder ordered it so he could see unholy texts without squinting.

Bill squirmed at the back, trying to see. “I hate these robes – can’t see over the hoods.”
Frank waved irritatedly. “Shut up – can’t hear.”
Bill rolled his eyes. “‘Met our goals, more to do, 10% more doom this quarter’. He’s quoting last year.”
Frank shrugged his watch out of his sleeve. “He’s running long.”
Bill snorted. “You’re shocked?”
“He’ll wind up soon – there’s a Power Point at two.”
“You going?”
“Nah – can’t work a binding. My soul is still in Philly. 50% vested.”

The elder signaled, and the crowd sat. A follower stood at the altar, arm laid bare. The Elder held high an ornate barbed saw.

Bill sighed. “Uh-oh – more cutbacks.”
Frank shrugged again, trying to shift the shoulder of his robe. “I’ve been rightsized once already.”

View this story's 5 comments.