#padfolio leather

[leathershoulderbag-blog]

Guide to - How to Choose the Right Padfolio for Your Needs

Selecting the right padfolio can significantly impact your organization, productivity, and professional image. With various styles, features, and materials available, it’s essential to choose a padfolios that aligns with your specific needs. Here’s a comprehensive guide to help you make the right choice.

Assess Your Professional Requirements Start by evaluating what you need from a padfolio. Consider the nature of your work and the items you typically carry:

Documents and Papers: If you frequently handle documents, look for a padfolio with ample space and compartments to keep your papers organized and protected.

Digital Devices: For those who use tablets or smartphones, choose a padfolio with dedicated sleeves or pockets for these devices.

Business Cards: Ensure there are slots for business cards to keep them easily accessible during meetings and networking events.

Note-Taking: If you often take notes, opt for a padfolio with a built-in notepad holder.

Choose the Right Material The material of the padfolio affects its durability, appearance, and feel. Common materials include:

Leather: Offers a classic, professional look and is highly durable. Genuine leather padfolios develop a unique patina over time, adding to their charm.

Synthetic Leather: A budget-friendly alternative to genuine leather, offering a similar appearance and feel.

Fabric: Lightweight and often more affordable, but may not have the same professional appeal as leather.

Consider the Size Padfolios come in various sizes, so choose one that suits your daily carry:

Standard Size: Typically designed to hold letter-sized documents (8.5 x 11 inches). Ideal for most professionals.

Compact Size: Smaller and more portable, suitable for carrying fewer items or smaller documents.

Oversized: For those who need to carry larger documents or additional items, an oversized padfolio offers extra space.

Evaluate the Design and Layout The internal layout of a padfolio is crucial for organization and ease of use. Look for features such as:

Multiple Compartments: Helps keep documents, business cards, and other items neatly organized.

Zippered Pockets: Provides extra security for loose items like keys or small electronic devices.

Pen Holders: Ensures you always have a pen handy for note-taking or signing documents.

Check the Closure Type The closure type can impact both security and convenience:

Zipper Closure: Offers maximum security, keeping all contents securely inside.

Snap or Magnetic Closure: Provides quick and easy access while still offering a good level of security.

Open Style: Allows for fast access to contents but may not secure items as well as closed designs.

Look for Additional Features Additional features can enhance the functionality of your padfolio:

Handle or Strap: For easy carrying, especially if you frequently move between meetings or locations.

Eco-Friendly Materials: If sustainability is important to you, look for padfolios made from eco-friendly or recycled materials.

Customization Options: Some padfolios offer customization, such as monogramming, to add a personal touch.

Set a Budget Padfolios come in a wide range of prices, from budget-friendly options to high-end luxury models. Determine how much you’re willing to spend and look for a leather padfolio that offers the best value within your budget. Keep in mind that investing in a high-quality padfolios can be worthwhile, as it will last longer and better serve your needs.

Conclusion Choosing the right padfolio involves considering your professional needs, preferred materials, size, design, and additional features. By taking the time to assess these factors, you can find a padfolio that enhances your organization, boosts your productivity, and complements your professional image. Whether you’re heading to an important meeting, a networking event, or simply organizing your daily tasks, the right padfolios can make all the difference.

[noda09]

  Leather Handbags

Leather handbags have always been a symbol of elegance, sophistication, and timeless style. They are not just accessories; they are a statement. When it comes to finding the perfect leather handbags for women, Noda offers an exquisite collection that caters to every woman's needs and preferences.

Why Leather Handbags are Timeless

 There's something inherently timeless about leather. Its durability, versatility, and natural beauty make it a favorite material for handbags. A leather handbag from Noda is not just a fashion statement; it's an investment that will last for years to come.

Benefits of Choosing Leather Handbags from Noda

 Choosing a leather handbag from Noda comes with its own set of benefits. From superior quality and craftsmanship to a wide range of styles and designs, Noda has something for everyone. Plus, their commitment to customer satisfaction ensures that you'll have a shopping experience like no other.

Noda’s Commitment to Quality

At Noda, quality is never compromised. Each leather handbag is crafted with precision and attention to detail, ensuring that you get a product that is not just beautiful but also durable and long-lasting.

Craftsmanship that Stands Out

 The craftsmanship that goes into each Noda handbag is truly exceptional. From the stitching to the finishing touches, every detail is carefully considered to create a product that is both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

Leather Handbags for Every Occasion

 Whether you're heading to a formal event or just running errands, a leather handbag from Noda is the perfect accessory. With a variety of sizes, styles, and colors to choose from, you're sure to find the perfect bag for any occasion.

Trending Styles at Noda

Noda is always up-to-date with the latest trends in fashion. Their collection of leather handbags features a mix of classic designs and modern twists, ensuring that you'll always be in style.

Ethical Leather Sourcing

Noda is committed to ethical leather sourcing. They work closely with suppliers who adhere to strict environmental and animal welfare standards, ensuring that the leather used in their leather handbags for women sustainable and cruelty-free.

Longevity and Sustainability

 A leather handbag from Noda is not just a fashion accessory; it's an investment in sustainability. Leather is a natural material that is biodegradable and has a long lifespan, making it an eco-friendly choice for conscious consumers.

Cleaning and Maintenance

 Proper care and maintenance are essential to keep your leather handbag looking its best. Use a leather cleaner and conditioner regularly to nourish the leather and protect it from stains and water damage.

Storage Tips

When not in use, store your leather handbag in a cool, dry place away from direct sunlight. Use a dust bag or pillowcase to protect it from dust and scratches.

Customer Service Excellence

 At Noda, customer satisfaction is their top priority. Their friendly and knowledgeable staff are always on hand to assist you with any questions or concerns you may have, ensuring a hassle-free shopping experience.

Shopping Convenience

 With an easy-to-navigate website and fast shipping options, shopping for a leather leather handbags for women at Noda is convenient and stress-free. Plus, their generous return policy gives you peace of mind knowing that you can always exchange or return your purchase if it's not perfect.

Get In More Information :

Phone.: +370 (601) 11756

 Business Name: Noda

Business website – www.nodalt.com

[arctic-hands]

I hate when I buy something and then my mobile ads are just showing me even better and more expensive versions of those things

[blackleatherportfolio]

Black Leather Portfolio: The Epitome of Style and Functionality

In the ever-evolving landscape of fashion and functionality, the black leather portfolio stands as a timeless emblem of sophistication, professionalism, and versatility. A symbol of refined taste and unwavering commitment to excellence, this accessory transcends trends and remains a staple in the world of business, art, and academia. In this comprehensive article, we delve deep into the allure and utility of the black leather portfolio, exploring its rich history, contemporary relevance, and the factors that make it an indispensable asset in today's fast-paced world.

A Brief History of the Black Leather Portfolio The origin of the black leather portfolio can be traced back centuries, to a time when leatherworking was considered both an art and a necessity. Craftsmen meticulously hand-stitched pieces of high-quality leather to create functional accessories that not only protected valuable documents but also made a statement about the individual wielding them.

During the Renaissance period, these portfolios were often adorned with intricate designs and embossed with family crests, showcasing one's heritage and status. As time passed, the design evolved, and the black leather portfolio emerged as the quintessential choice for professionals due to its understated elegance and timeless appeal.

The Contemporary Black Leather Portfolio In the 21st century, the black leather portfolio has retained its allure and utility, adapting seamlessly to the demands of modern life. It has found its place not only in the corporate boardrooms but also in the hands of artists, designers, writers, and students. Let's explore why this accessory continues to be a symbol of excellence:

Elegance and Professionalism The black leather portfolio exudes an aura of professionalism and class. Its sleek, minimalist design effortlessly complements a wide range of outfits, making it the perfect accessory for business meetings, presentations, or interviews. The rich, deep black color symbolizes authority and attention to detail, leaving a lasting impression on colleagues, clients, and peers.

Functionality and Organization Beyond aesthetics, the black leather portfolio excels in functionality. Its multiple compartments and pockets offer ample storage for documents, business cards, pens, and even digital devices. The thoughtful design ensures that everything has its place, making it easy to access essential items when needed. This level of organization is invaluable in a world where efficiency is paramount.

Durability and Longevity Quality is a hallmark of the black leather portfolio. Crafted from premium leather, it not only looks and feels luxurious but also promises durability and longevity. With proper care, these portfolios can last for decades, becoming a reliable companion throughout one's professional journey.

Versatility The black leather portfolio is not limited to the corporate world. Artists use it to carry their sketches and drawings, writers store their manuscripts, and students keep their important notes. Its adaptability to various needs makes it a versatile accessory that transcends boundaries.

Choosing the Perfect Black Leather Portfolio Selecting the right black leather portfolio can be a personal and rewarding experience. Here are some factors to consider:

Size and Capacity Determine the size that suits your needs. Whether you need a compact portfolio for daily meetings or a larger one for presentations, ensure it has sufficient capacity to accommodate your documents and essentials.

Material and Craftsmanship Invest in a portfolio made from high-quality leather and expert craftsmanship. Look for genuine leather options that offer both aesthetics and durability.

Design and Features Consider the design elements that matter most to you, such as the number of compartments, closure mechanisms, and additional features like pen holders and card slots.

Budget Black leather portfolios are available in a wide price range. Set a budget that aligns with your preferences and requirements, keeping in mind that quality often comes at a higher cost.

In Conclusion The black leather portfolio is a timeless accessory that continues to hold its rightful place in the realms of style and functionality. Its rich history, contemporary relevance, elegance, and versatility make it a must-have for professionals, artists, writers, and students alike. When chosen thoughtfully, it becomes more than just an accessory; it becomes a symbol of your commitment to excellence and your appreciation for the finer things in life.

[thedrapeleather]

Leather Padfolio By The Drape Leather

* 100% Genuine Leather * Handmade * Stylish Design * Compact Size * Zippered Closure * Dimension - 8.5x11 Inches

Shop Now - http://surl.li/edlgu

[syoddeye]

the reward

ceo!price x reader / ~2.5k words

This can be considered the first half of part 4 of Business or Pleasure? my lil ceo!price x reader side project. Please enjoy! 🖤

Parts 1, 2, and 3

CW: hinted possessiveness, power imbalance, alcohol

The reward was never a choice. Cute, in hindsight, how you thought it was and politely declined to exit the car. 

Mr. Price squashed your resolve with one look. Both of his eyebrows raised in an expression of almost tired disbelief, mouth a firm line, and a disapproving sound pushing through it. "Hmm. You sure? Store's open just for us, y'really going to make them stay on longer?"

Sufficiently guilt-tripped, you concede.

You expect the pair of sales associates to be miffed, all tight smiles and wringing hands, for working past posted hours. They are not. Quite the opposite. It makes you wonder the true reach of the man beside you. 

John ushers you past the display of tote bags in the front of the store. 

You try to protest. "But they're the most useful type here. The others are impractical."

You try to reason. "I can use it for work. For travel. See, my laptop will fit."

You want something closer to the reliable carry-all you currently own. He clicks his tongue as if you are an unruly pet, affectionately scolding. "You're not walking out of here 'til you pick something impractical. Think of it as an indulgence."

You are left to reluctantly marvel at the rows of clutches and handbags. They sit under warm, glowing lights designed to underscore the soft luster of their leather. The kind of brand to hide the price tags, you silently make estimates as you peruse. Just one could pay two month's rent.

A sales associate sidles up when you linger too long near a pinkish-gray, compact handbag. Her voice is low and bubbly, explaining the history of the silhouette and model, the leather and detailing. She shows the optional shoulder strap, threads it over your side, and insists you look in the mirror. Feels funny using a full-body mirror for an accessory, but it does make you like it more. A nicer outfit and you could pass for a real customer.

You meet John's gaze in the reflection. Comfortably settled in one of the shop's armchairs, he smiles languorously and nods.

Before you know it, John offers a shiny metal card to the associate, and you walk out of the store with a four-digit handbag. 

In the car, it's as if nothing happened. John returns to his phone and padfolio, all business, and you sit slightly dumbfounded cradling a shopping bag. Whiplash does not even begin to cover the feeling.

He likes you, has to. Men, no matter how wealthy, do not spend this amount of money on people they do not care for. It is not your experience, at least. The gift is troubling, though. What precisely does it mean? What did drinks mean? What does his requisitioning you from Kyle mean? You've seen this show before, and it never ends well.

When the car pulls onto your street, it is fuel on the fire. Of course, John has access to employee information; you try not to dwell on the fact he shouldn't use it; there are policies against that. Clearly, he is not one for rules.

When Alex opens your door, John is on the phone, looking out his window. You make a split-second decision. You gather your things, murmur a goodbye, and then climb out of the car. Locking eyes with the bodyguard, you take advantage of his friendliness and mirror his warm energy. It works. Distracted, he does not notice the shopping bag left at the foot of your seat.

But John does. He calls your name as you attempt to distance yourself from the car, stopping you in your tracks.

"Forgetting something?"

Flustered and foiled, you retrieve the shopping bag. He smiles amusedly from his seat.

"Email me the notes. See you Monday, love."

~~

"You're hiding something." 

"Jordan, please. I've barely touched my coffee."

"There's got to be more to it," Jordan whispers excitedly over the edge of your desk, ignoring your withering look. 

You do not lift your gaze from the packed, colorful calendar on the screen. "Like I told you over text and FaceTime, that's it. Mr. Price only needed me for notes for a partner meeting. He was impressed by the summary I wrote up for Kyle about Project Intercontinental."

As if summoned, a message pops up on screen. 

kgarrick - online

> Need to speak with you about meeting the technology directors.

What meeting? He's already met with them this quarter. Nevertheless, you stand and smooth your skirt. "Boss man needs me, talk later?"

The other woman huffs. "Yeah, yeah. Talk later."

You slip into Kyle's office and shut the door. "What's this about the tech directors?"

Kyle smiles, but it does not quite reach his eyes. He gestures to the padded lounge chair across his desk. "Please."

Pins and needles. This was not about the directors. 

"O…kay." You sink into the chair, back straight as a board. 

He takes a moment to lean forward on his desk, elbows resting on the surface, one hand rubbing the knuckles of the other. "I understand John took you to meet with Graves."

"Yes, I was under the impression you knew." The fear that Price possibly lied about that instantly surfaces.

"I knew, told him it was fine. I'm curious about your first impression.

So that's it. Kyle wants to know more about the new contractor. You relax a bit and recall the sportive, if not roguish American. "Oh. Well, he is certainly different. I am curious if his company's style will align with ours, given how–"

Kyle raises a hand to stop you, and his smile is almost pained. "No, sorry, I meant John."

Your eyes widen a little in surprise. Crossing your legs, you force your fingers to lace around a knee. "I see. Um, he's...Assertive."

It prompts a snort of laughter, seemingly breaking Kyle's odd nervousness. "Sorry, go on."

Pursing your lips a moment, you tread carefully. "Perhaps 'confident' is the better term," It isn't. It is kinder. "Strategic and intelligent." Strategic in how he basically used you and intelligent but clueless with office equipment. You think to tag on 'generous', but rather not be forced to explain.

Kyle chuckles, and his grin slowly returns to an uncertain curve. "Did he talk to you much?"

Yes and no. Yet, what was the correct response? 'Yes, Kyle, and he admitted to using me as the adult equivalent of a ring of keys to a toddler or monkey to gauge Mr. Graves's attentiveness. Oh, and this was after he described my clothing in detail over the phone to an unknown party. Did I mention the five thousand pound gift back at my flat?' Complete honesty was out of the question.

"He did not ignore me. We had a polite conversation."

"Did he say anything about me? Ask?"

You smirk. "Only that you gave him your blessing."

The spot of levity is lost on him. Your smirk fades.

Kyle almost looks worried. "And he…He didn't…"

Your face heats. What does he know? Does he know about drinks? The message? The handbag? The conversation teeters into minefield territory. You play dumb. Best to let him get out with it. "What?" 

"He didn't ask you to move over to his desk full-time?"

Relief floods your worried nerves, quelling the fretful thing in your chest. You understand now. Kyle doesn't want to lose his assistant. Your smile nearly splits your face. "No, he did not."

The man slumps some and chuckles. "Excellent. Had me worried. I don't think either of us could refuse if he asked, y'know."

That is a discomforting piece of knowledge.

"I still would," You reassure, lean forward, and tap the surface of his desk. "Now. Was that all? I don't know about you, but I've got work to do." 

He shakes his head. "No, but you tell me if he tries to snipe you, yeah?" 

The earnestness throws you, despite how accustomed you've grown to it during your tenure. It makes keeping this thing with Price a secret all the more difficult.

"Of course. Now. Message me when you decide on lunch, dates for the Mexico trip, and what you'd like to give me for my fifth anniversary since I know you've already forgotten."

"Shit. That's–?"

"Next Monday."

"Pick out something nice."

And you will. Just not Moynat nice.

~~

The rest of Monday keeps you hellishly occupied. Your head's above water for the first time in the day, and it's nearly quitting time. Kyle's off at his last appointment, some check-in meeting on tax season preparations, when you power off your desktop. You slip on your coat, pack your bag, and discreetly slip off to the elevators. There's time to beat the evening rush.

The elevator arrives from a higher floor and for a moment, you briefly consider diving out of view. You come face-to-face with Alex and behind him, Mr. Price. Both of their faces shift for different reasons.

"Miss," Alex drawls. 

You give the bodyguard a rigid smile, then glance at your employer. 

"Going down?"

"I can–"

Alex holds the elevator doors open when they try to close, his smile warm and clueless. "C'mon in."

Price speaks when the car starts to descend. "You're not using your new bag."

Your eyes flick to Alex's back then focus on the LED panel indicating the floor. It feels inappropriate to talk about it in front of the other man, despite his presence on the 'errand'. 

"I can't."

"Something wrong with it?"

"Yes, it's too nice."

Price chuckles and Alex's shoulders shudder in a clear attempt to suppress a laugh. 

"I fail to see how that's a problem."

"Mr. Price, while my compensation is fair," You continue carefully, still avoiding looking at him. "It is not within my budget to afford luxury brands. If I turn up to the office with that nice of a bag, all of a sudden, people would talk. And besides, it's my bag, and I decided it is not for work."

You don't miss how he ignores the first part of your answer. "What's it for, then?"

"Socializing."

Do not look at him. Oh, what you would do for the elevator to stop.

"Socializing," He repeats, elongating the word as if it's in a foreign language. "Dates?"

He has to be deliberately trying to get under your skin.

"Yes," A single word. A confirmation and a warning. 

"Go on many of those?" 

Even Alex tenses, back muscles tightening beneath his suit jacket. Your head finally snaps toward Price, who, irritatingly, wears a controlled smile.

"Yes," You answer again and push through the absurd embarrassment. "My fair share."

He hums. "Your anniversary with us is next Monday, yeah?"

The sudden change in topic does not bode well. "Yes, sir." 

"You free Friday?"

The lie is out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. "I have a date this Friday." Whatever this baffling situation is between you, it needs to stop. Should've all the way back at the malfunctioning copier. He does not need to know your 'date' is celebratory drinks with Jordan. You just need him to drop it. 

It's as if the elevator car turns into an icebox. The mirth bleeds from Price's gaze, but his smile remains. "And Saturday?"

There is a tacit warning in his tone. In the slight turn of Alex's head in your periphery. Your mouth dries, and you swallow hard.

"I'm free on Saturday."

The lights come back on in his eyes, and miraculously, the car reaches the lobby. "Wonderful to hear. Pick you up at eight."

Alex steps aside to let you out. 

"Have a good evening, miss," the bodyguard says softly as you pass before hitting the number for your office's floor to head back upstairs.

You meet eyes with Price as the doors close, and a shiver runs down your spine. It's unsettling. You can't tell if it was good or bad.

~~

Thankfully, you do not run into Mr. Price the rest of the week. You take care not to. If Kyle suspects something from your excuses to sit out on meetings, avoiding any whiffs of the CEO, he says nothing. When you leave on Friday to meet Jordan, you take the stairs all the way down to the lobby and claim exercise. She wrinkles her nose at the idea of trekking a half hour away to a pub closer to yours, but after the first two rounds, she forgets her griping. 

And after four rounds, you forget yourself. You slip up.

Giggling, you sip your gin and tonic, poking at the lime wedge. "The bartender reminds me of the place I went to with John–" 

The way Jordan's face lights up makes you try to backpedal, but it's too late. 

Her voice slurs some, part alcohol and part explosive excitement. "Waitwaitwait. John? Like capital 'J' John? Not my John? What place? When? Whatdoyoumean?!"

Through no small amount of lovable torment, she coaxes the story out. It is heavily redacted despite your inebriation, but now she knows. And she is not known for her tight-lippedness.

"Swear on your mother, you won't breathe a word."

"I swear."

"'Cause I'll tell MacTavish you steal–"

"I swear. Now. What are you going to wear for your date?"

Only then does it hit you: you know nothing about this…'date'. If it's anything like the other places you've accompanied him, it's somewhere beyond your wallet and comprehension.

Jordan might as well sit on your shoulder, the devil. "Message him. Ask. Bet it won't matter by the end of the evening."

"Shut it, I'm not gonna message him."

Yet, on the ride home in the taxi, you do. It takes a few tries, with the drunkenness making everything fuzzy and sluggish.

johnprice - invisible

Hi, what should i wear tomorrow?

It's late. You don't expect a reply. The phone nearly launches out of your hand when he swiftly messages back.

> Something nice. I liked the green dress.

The dress from the Christmas party. He remembered. Clearly, it made an impression, given his current fascination. Before you can respond, he messages again.

> Date go poorly?

> Might want to take this to text, love. Don't want to get chewed out for misuse of company resources.

He sends his personal number like it's nothing. Asks about your 'date' like it's nothing. Infuriatingly confusing man. Still, you save his contact information and switch platforms. You swear it's the gin moving your fingers, the liquid puppeteer.

Only texting because I wouldn't want to get you in trouble sir

And my date was wonderful

Were you possessed by a flirtatious spirit between the bar and cab?

> I wouldn't be the one getting into trouble.

Price is fishing for it. You oblige him.

What if I'm the trouble

It takes two, no, three minutes for him to reply. Worrying your lip, you think you've gone and royally fucked yourself now. Pushed the envelope too far, flew too close to the sun, all the turns of phrase. Then those three dots appear. You've really done it now.

> I know just what to do with you. 

[cookie-crumblr]

F!Reader x Therapist Yan OC Sheila~

Tigers in the Garden🐅✨

Her Info: 📋❤️‍🔥

Was a Drabble i swear… Part 1~

Next Part—>

!MINORS DNI!

CW: F!Reader, Reader has a vagina, reader referred to as she/her, use of strap on reader, fxf, strap in readers v, reader SH(Before it starts, not described, just mentioned and implied in convo), sub and slightly bratty reader, reader is a stoner, reader wears makeup, imbalanced power, DUB-CON(coercion and blackmail), reader has hair(not described), nipple play(a little), choking, not proofread, rough sex, rough with reader in general, spanking, lemme no if i missed any! :3 names for reader(brat, slut, whore),smut with barely any plot in this part, power imbalance

“Okay,” You shrug. “Whatever, i guess” The ‘good’ people in white coats guide you down a sea-green, sterile-smelling corridor.

Youre finally being let out of your mandatory three day stay at a mental health facility(more like prison). They’re letting you out on the condition you see the therapist they’ve set you up with.

Sheila Reichsgraf.

You’ve got nothing but the clothes you came in with in a plastic baggie with your phone, wallet, and keys. They gave you clothes that don’t quite fit or look good on you, and a piece of paper saying where you are to go tomorrow. For tonight? some well earned weed and munchies to go with. Maybe some masturbating too, you’ll see where the night takes you.

Now sitting in front of this woman(more like tigress), you slouch down into your seat. Her gaze is unreadable but scrutinizing.

“I’ve, of course, been informed of your admittance to Fir’s Rest. Would you like to talk about it?” She asks, while typing on her computer.

“Nope.” You sag further into the black velvet chaise lounge.

“I’d like you to talk about it.” She slides her keyboard out of her way, and folds her hands in front of herself.

“I’d like you to kindly shut it about that actually.” You snap.

“Take off your clothes.” Her voice is stern, but no louder than before.

“Ex-fucking-Scuse you!?” you exclaim, what the fuck is she on!? like sure you think she’s way too hot for this plane of existence but like ???

“Take off your clothes.” she interrupts your thoughts, repeating the same thing over again in the same tone. “Unless…” She continues before you can pipe back, “You’d rather go back to the facility.” she takes something out of a black leather padfolio before closing it, and sighing heavily.

You roll your eyes. “What, so you’re like, coercing me now? what’s next ?? threaten to tell my mother?” that would be terrible cause after all you’ve been through for that woman you at the very least want your share of the inheritance.

“Exactly that, darling~” As she walks toward you, you watch her in shock, or disbelief. She extends perfectly manicured, dark skin hands toward you, with a fan of polaroid photos of you in a mental hospital, butt hanging out of your polka dot gown, grippy socks and a trailing IV and all.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You’re sick! You’re a lunatic! If you even think that i’ll—” your voice is completely halted when she roughly grabs you by the cheeks and squeezes your lips into a fish mouth. You scowl up at her deeply. You think about spitting on her, but think better of it. thankfully.

“Listen to you, a brat like you needs to be put in her place.” A smile spreads across her cheeks, dimples pop out near the angled tips of it going into her cheeks.

She really is hot.

You swallow.

She roughly lets go of your face as you pull away. your hair muses and gets in your eyes but you don’t blink and lose eye contact for a second.

Sheila grips your arms to pull you up out of your chair, and throws you hands first into her desk.

Stunned by how fast this all happened, you remain there long enough for her to wrap herself around you.

You let out a cute little whimper as she pinches your nipple through the fabric. You weren’t expecting it, and the shock that got sent directly to your clit.

“Such a good whore under there, already whimpering for me~?” You hear the smile in her voice, as her head buries into the crook of your neck. It tickles and you jump, your ass slamming back into her body. she clings onto you tighter, to hold you still. Somehow you feel like she completely envelops you.

Your core is already hot as she quickly and roughly removes your clothes, feeling up your skin and grabbing everywhere she can as soon as it’s bare. From your hips, to your belly, down and even back up to your ribs, down your arms. Everywhere on you that enters the light, she roams. Her mouth isn’t far behind, kissing and biting you, devouring you fully.

Sheila spreads your legs, one at a time, and puts your hands back on her desk so that your leaning forward. You’re too out of breath and dumb right now to even think of moving. Your back is arched and your ass wiggles slightly on its own, beckoning her and her throbbing clit. She’s equally out of breath, dripping just like you are, her heels click on the wood as she removes her clothes, staring at your swaying backside all the while.

“You’re going to take all of this, aren’t you slut?” Her big beautiful strap on flings out to attention. Your head falls to one shoulder so that you can glimpse it… You swallow harder than before, your brows peaking as you start to imagine the stretch around that thing. You nod.

You don’t have to imagine for long before she’s grabbing your neck to pull your body up against hers. Hard nipples poke your back and you shiver. Delicious, you want those in your mouth, don’t you? “I won’t go easy.” She coos menacingly, and squeezes your throat gently until you see stars.

She rubs her cock against your entrance, prodding, and poking, slowly diving into your needy, wet hole. You’re already stretching around just her head and feeling so good at the same time, whining and whimpering until, she plunges it inside you. All at once and you bite your lip, unable to breathe anymore.

“FUCK!” You puff out the last of your air with one word.

“Soon you’ll be screaming Doctor…” She whispers into your ear before pulling away as far back as her arm will allow, so that she has a better vantage point. Watching your ass as she pulls her strap out, that looks like it’s as far in as your tail bone or further, her clit sends ripples of pleasure throughout her body.

She licks her lips and slams into you this time. She’ll have to savor watching it slowly get swallowed up by your tight pussy later. This time she pulls out faster and pushes back in just as fast. She sets a pace that’s both brutal and blissful to you, as the pain lessens the pleasure grows, and it grows exponentially.

Her nails dig into your throat and her other comes around to tweak your clit, it makes you start to shake and twitch, your arms wobble trying to keep you upright.. Her own orgasm building as the strap rubs her back with every thrust, she moans behind you, you tighten around her, and open yourself up more to take her better.

“D-Doctor!” You practically beg, not knowing what for; more, less, faster, slower! But she was right, and you yell, “Doctor!!” again. She gets faster and faster, your butt is hot from the force of her slamming into you. the slapping of skin against wet skin, combined with stuffed groans and more hoarse “Doctor”’s fill the office.

Blackened tears streak down your face as you cum around her cock you shake and convulse barley able to hold yourself up against the low desk, even with the help of her hand still wrapped around your throat. She keeps pounding you. Ruthlessly. Through your orgasm and straight into your crashing next two. “Who would have thought you’d be such a good girl under that attitude.”

Suddenly she pushes in deeper than ever before, stealing even more air from the depths of your soul. You swear you can feel her hitting there too. “Take all of me,” her hand runs down your hair and back. Then she slowly pulls out, letting you really feel the thick vein that twists around her length. You shudder around her, and whimpers keep falling freely from your open, puffy lips, you’re spent.

She plays with your hair gently, before spanking your already warm ass. You jump, “Wha-!” Your too dumb to even form one little word. Her hand rounds where she just slapped and you think she’ll slap you in the same spot when she pulls away, you brace for impact. You yelp! when she slaps your raw pussy instead.

The phone rings…

You don’t see her look at the caller ID, but you hear her sigh.

“This session is over. Come back next week.” She completely pulls away leaving you cold on the outside but still burning for her on the inside.

“What about—?” You start, before she interrupts.

“Session’s over.” she says while buttoning her shirt, then pats down her skirt, before turning back to you, and winks, “Like I said, come back next week” Your heart pounds. Can you even wait a week?

What are you even thinking right now!?

…

You glance back at her. She licks her lips.

She’s on the edge of her desk and watching you get dressed, you walk out the door with a slight limp and her eyes, practically ticklish on your back.

You have to catch your breath outside the thick wood doors.

Sheila groans before picking up the receiver.

“Hello, mommy dearest…” She makes her voice higher pitched and ready to please.

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I was gonna make a post about my ever-vexing search for a professional-looking padfolio to keep my medical binder/bullet journal in and my only options being twenty-dollar cheap things that look serious now but will look less serious in six months when the stitching starts unraveling, the pockets have to be held together with duct tape, the faux leather starts flaking off, and that's assuming the actual binder ring part are big enough to hold more than twenty sheets of paper, OR a sixty to one hundred dollar VERY professional-looking and so durable-looking* that I won't have to replace every year leather padfolio that's spacious enough for all the records and paperwork and accessories I need to carry...

... but then I realized I'm literally just rewriting Vimes Theory Of Boots

*also at this point in the history of hellish capitalism, the one hundred dollar durable-looking padfolio will also most likely fall apart within the year anyway, another phenomenon that has already been named and described more succinctly than I could ever put it: enshittification

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[thewestern]

Chapter 5

Helplessly the Mick looked as Mayor Mockingbird seemingly gravitated toward the small stage. The band was in between songs. Did Larry intend to sit in? Another funny thing about him was that he played the banjo. It was sort of his calling card — a whistle stop parlor trick for all the yokels. Sometimes you had to hand it to him. City slick politicians would go to great lengths to achieve the au natural aesthetic of down-home folksiness. Dress in head-to-toe denim … climb up on some farm equipment … pose with a prize hog. ( … But enough about his wife … ) Heck, the Mayor’s close friend and party-mate wore a bolo tie, boots and a six-x cowboy hat — day in and day out — and he got himself elected to the United States Senate. He stomped them genuine ostrich shitkickers all over them Capitol steps, and would you know what happened next? The President gave that wannabe hillbilly a cabinet appointment … Secretary of the damn Interior. Sure, by the time the next president swore in he was bucked off that gold pony before you could say Jack Robinson. He hardly lasted the eight seconds, but by the grace of god Himself he landed quite softly in a very cushy gig: consulting on behalf of Morningstar Petroleum. (Or more officially the industry group which fronted for them.)

Yes, in American politics it paid to be pastoral, or at least to appear as such. But whatever country-fried humiliation a man was willing to suffer for electoral advancement, few if any would go so far to learn the banjo and pick the fucking Foggy Mountain Breakdown. But that was Larry Mockingbird for you. Shameless in service of himself.  

Scurrying out a few steps ahead, the Mayor’s waifish male page removed a three-by-five note card from his leather padfolio, handed it to the musician stage left with the acoustic guitar, and scampered on back to his boss. The guitar player took a look down at the card, stepped to the mic and said: Ladies and Gentleman, thank you so much for being here on this lovely afternoon. The boys and I are going to take a short break. In the meanwhile, please give a warm welcome to the stage for our dear friend, Mayor Lawrence Mockingbird. [Metered applause.]

Thank you! Thank you all. So much. You know in my line of work it’s rare you have to follow live music, and if you’ve ever had the pleasure to attend a meeting of my colleagues on the City Council, you’d understand why. 

[Polite laughter.]

So let’s hear one more round of applause for this spectacular band, and please go easy on me, I beg you. 

[Frisbee golf clap.]

And … aand … I couldn’t help but notice the song you were playing when I came in. At the risk of incriminating myself, I’ll let you all in on a little secret, but you have to promise not to tell those persnickety councilmembers, because then I’m really in a pickle. Okay, so brace yourselves … Before I entered the beer business, once upon a time, I … was a Deadhead. 

[Stray yelps.] 

I know, I know. Shocking, but true. And people who know this about me often ask, how did you manage to go from following around the Grateful Dead with a bunch of hippies in your twenties — and to be completely honest a good part of my thirties — to becoming the Mayor of the greatest city in the world in your middle forties. And I’d tell them, I haven’t the slightest idea. 

[Incrementally shorter spurt of obligatory laughter.] 

It’s been a long strange trip you could say. 

[Laughter still, with interspersed groans.]

And … aand … It was the man who we’re all here to honor today, our beloved friend Hank, who traveled with me far and wide over this great country, from coast to coast and back, on our quest to see as many shows as was humanly possible. And I’ll spare you the details, for the sake of sparing my political future, so you’ll just have to believe me when I tell you we had the time of our lives. 

Already, the Mick couldn’t help but bristle at this, what was obviously revisionist history. Hank had gabbed incessantly about his Glory Days following the Grateful Dead. Like he himself was playing in the band. These were his war stories. Slanging grilled cheese sandwiches for gas money, rolling around a haystack with the farmer’s daughter, fixing a flat in a white-out blizzard on I-69 (his Vietnam). 

For a few years there I just went Kerouac on everyone’s ass, he’d reflected once, wistfully. Like any half-decent story, a fixture of these psychedelic parables was the comic relief, Larry Mockingbird. And it was laughter at his expense, in case there was any confusion. Recall: Moffett, Mary Ellen. Misadventures with the opposite sex aside, Larry was your classic Touch Head, or an In-the-Darker, which are just two ways of saying he was a phony, a pouser, a tinhorn, a Johnny-come-lately. (Or rather a Larry-come-too-early, as was oft-rumoured in various concentric social circles. Well, it beats the alternative, as Russ argued in a rare and telling defence of his nemesis, Lawrence.) Accusations not to be taken lightly, for If there were one thing a TrueBlue Deadhead could not abide, it was the misappropriation of their culture. 

On the low down, Larry was always more into that yacht rock, adult contemporary sound, Hank said. You know, Doobie Brothers, Steely Dan… blue-eyed soul and all that jazz fusion horse crap. He only tagged along with us to shows to chase skirts, not that he had hardly any luck at that. Give him credit for trying though. That was one thing you had to begrudgingly admire about Larry … he always went where the getting was good. I mean, you try getting laid at a Christopher Cross concert. 

But don’t you be fooled by any of that foolishness, Hank would warn the Mick. When you got between Larry and something he wanted, he could be meaner than a badger. A sow, on her period. For a fact, the most dangerous place in the Metro Area was anywhere between Mayor Mockingbird and a camera, once said one of his most trusted aides turned most fiercest political rival. Yea, he had the banjo, the big words. But when the chips are down? Well, you would do good to forget all that quirky bullshit, lickety split. Make no mistake. Mockingbird was a cold-blooded killer. He would cut your arm off to carry the Seventh District. Sell his own mother into white sex slavery. He’d do it. In a heartbeat.  

The Mayor continued … 

As for the man of the hour, let’s toast, to Hank. [Collective raising of glasses.] If I could be so bold as to try to describe him, I would say, here was a man for his place and time. You know, there’s this word that I love, and the word is Topophilia. Topophilia means love of place. More than anyone I ever knew, Hank had Topophilia.  

Sounds like an STD, the Mick thought. In which case, Hank probably did have it. 

A love of place. [Rehearsed contemplative pause.] Loving something means being willing to sacrifice for it. And we all make sacrifices. Though there are some who sacrifice all — the brave men and women of our armed services, ... and if any of you are here today, I’d like to personally buy you a beer. First responders, too. [Drunken hollers.] I think we all would. [U-S-A, aborted chant.] But, we all have to make sacrifices. When I think back on my life, I’m proud to have worked for the Federal Government as a citizen contractor, and here for the City Government as a civil servant. Still, I can’t think of a time when I’ve had to sacrifice more than when I was an entrepreneur. 

Here I am in a room full of entrepreneurs, and I’m seeing a lot of nodding heads. You’ve all spent the endless days that turn into sleepless nights. You know that to build something for your community. To create jobs that provide for families. To serve your customer in the marketplace. That, my friends, requires a sacrifice that is truly uncommon. 

Oh my god, this is taking forever, Grace thought. Julie was giving her all the signals … She was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. Lay it all on the line. Grace needed an exit strategy to get them out of this bar and back to her apartment, pronto. She had never gotten with a metal chick before. Jam bands were her scene, which made her a strong culture fit at the Newfy. Preferably they could beat her roommates back from their hike, Grace thought. She had a feeling this could get loud.

But then this asshole, who Grace did not recognize from Adam — she did not care for politics or keep abreast of political issues — was making a speech for some fucking reason … And these nerds were standing around all quiet blocking the way out of the booth. That he made allusions to the Grateful Dead had not charmed Grace in the slightest, even as a jam band fan herself. Most fans of the contemporary set — Phish, to a lesser extent Cheese, WSP, etc. — at the very least revered the Dead as the spiritual and artistic vanguards of the genre, such as it was. By contrast, there was a reactionary faction of hardliner Deadheads that dismissed the new school as derivative and shallow. Most of the younger generation were willing to overlook this minority resentment, but a defiant few, Grace among them, returned the favor and resented the Grateful Dead right back. Them and their Baby Boomer, Greatest Generation-ass fans could pound sand. 

Fuck’s sake, here he goes again … 

And I’ll tell you one quick story to that effect. One of our startup war stories, so to speak. When we were just getting going, before we sold our first pint, I called every wholesaler within a hundred miles, every direction. Every last one of them said, no thanks. So not only were we working seven days a week, fourteen hours a day to get our fledgling excuse for a beer business off the ground, but unbeknownst to us, we were simultaneously entering the highly competitive business of beverage distribution. Of course we didn’t have a truck with temperature control. We didn’t even have cars! We had both driven company leases to the jobs we got laid off from before starting the Newfy! 

So, Hank had an on-again-off-again girlfriend who had this busted-up old station wagon. This hunk was a beater’s beater — chipping orange paint job, accented with the wood paneling, lawn mower engine, had to be rolling started. And let me tell you before my administration got to work on the pothole problem afflicting our great roadways, driving that thing was like navigating the Titanic through the North Atlantic. But … buut, when you removed the back seat it could fit six kegs standing up on end. And that was all we needed. On good days we’d even have one riding shotgun, strapped into the passenger seatbelt. 

I can’t recall the girlfriend’s name, it’s been so long … 

(Liar … he fucking remembered.)

… But bless her heart, because somehow Hank convinced her to sell us that jalopy for a song. And I’ll tell you what else, we rode her till she bucked us. Driving to and fro to every dive bar, liquor store, VFW, pool hall, bowling alley. You name it. 

When we were through with it, or I should probably say when it was through with us, that car had more than two hundred thousand miles on it, which some of you know to be about the distance from here to the moon. We thought that was kismet, given our previous careers. As was alluded, many of you know that Hank and I were co-workers before we became co-founders. We spent a combined thirty years at Cavness-Baumann. And then the Space Race ended and the party was over. Here we were, a couple of down-and-out rocket scientists without a clue. 

Again, Hank would have strenuously objected to the Mayor’s accounting of their personal histories. One, not that it mattered, but Hank had worked twenty of those thirty years to Larry’s ten. Second, the term rocket scientist had been applied quite loosely indeed. Larry was a project manager, meaning his job was to hem and haw at the real rocket scientists until they got through with whatever it was he so urgently wanted. 

Hank was one of those quote-unquote rocket scientists, but even he wouldn’t be comfortable with that exact phrasing. Not the title as he understood it implied — guys that work on spaceships. It was true Cavness-Baumann had some NASA contracts, but those guys working on the shuttle program were the real hard cases. They had them boys locked away in a bunker somewhere, doing long division for the rest of their lives. Engineering a quarter-inch rubber gasket that made it onto a rocket booster would count as a career achievement. Unless those rubber gaskets weren’t adequately temperature tested and it was colder than usual on launch day. 

As for them two getting shitcanned when the Space Race ended, again, Larry was half right. The silent starter pistol for the Space Race was the Cold War, and the falling Berlin Wall its finish line. That was the real reason for the contraction of their industry — Aerospace, and Defense. Hank was more of a rocket scientist in the latter sense. Hellcat, Thunderstick, The Penetrator. These were missiles. (Although Hank always thought they sounded like sex toys, especially that last one.) All types — surface-to-air, air-to-surface, air-to-air, submarine-launched cruise missiles, ICBMs, antitank, antiship, assault, tactical. You name it. Yes, they made the rockets that blew up on purpose. Albeit quite often a safe distance from their strategic targets, at the expense of untold collateral damage and civilian casualties. 

If he did work on an aerospace application, it was almost always space-to-earth, as in satellites. Quite often as they applied to missile defense systems, CB’s second most profitable product line to the missiles themselves. Some bad faith critics would construe that to be a conflict of interest. More generously it could be interpreted as vertical integration. 

Other times though it was straight telecom — zapping hundreds of tv channels to a dish on your roof, or pinging that cellular phone in your pants pocket, holstered there atop your pelvic girdle, and by extension your reproductive organs, all throughout the day and the night. 

Privately, Hank was ashamed of what he’d done for Cavness-Baumann. (Would ashamed be the right characterization? Rather, conflicted? Let’s go with conflicted.) He could admit it to himself, and maybe that was more than most, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say so out loud. No, he had trained evasive maneuvers for whenever his previous life’s work came up in polite conversation. For his part, Larry did not share a mutual feeling of contrition. Factually, it was his idea to go with the whole Space Theme when they started out — the brand name being a reference to then-Senator Kennedy’s famous DNC speech, accepting the nomination at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum in ‘Sixty, the rocket tap handles, etc. Since he couldn’t contribute around the brewhouse in any useful capacity, Larry appointed himself the strategic marketing and brand manager. Said rocket scientists-turned-brewers was a compelling founder story. When he sold his shares shortly thereafter, Hank thought about changing the name to something that didn’t remind him of how he personally made the world a worse place, but it was already screen-printed on so much stuff. Glassware, coasters, stickers, t-shirts, the big sign out front. 

Then Hank and I had this crazy idea. What if there was a third place? There’s the home, the workplace, and then what. For many that third place is a church or a temple or some other house of worship, but neither Hank nor I were regular parishioners. More spiritual — in the grand, cosmic sense — than religious. Besides, I don’t know that any congregation would take a pair of tramps like us. 

[Polite laughter, dissipating now quite noticeably.]  

A Third Place. Whither to be among family and friends. Or perhaps to meet new family and new friends. A place for love and fellowship. For community. A place for thinking about the future. 

###

That morning in the handicap stall of the ladies' restroom Kitty took a pregnancy test. I wonder how many girls have pee’d on one of these plastic indicator wands in a bar bathroom, she wondered before stopping herself. She just hated to be judgmental, of herself or others. Beside, it’s not like this baby, if there even was one, was conceived in said stall. Not that it would have made you a bad person. Although couldn’t we all agree though that it wasn’t especially hygienic or considerate of your fellow pub goers. Unless maybe they were into that sort of thing?

All empathy for exhibitionism aside, she would have preferred to take the home pregnancy test at her home. Unfortunately those quarters were somewhat cramped. She felt fractionally better about using the public toilet with the F-word graffitied right there on the door, than she would have, smuggling the soiled applicator stick out of the house in an old hamburger bag.  Either which way she wasn’t ready to tell Mick, whatever the result. And she felt really bad about that. Blend that bad feeling together with what she perceived to be morning sickness, and it had been an all-around crummy day so far. 

She even felt bad about feeling bad. By any reasonable metric, this was supposed to have been unequivocally the best year of her life. Starting a new job at what was considered to be one of the most innovative middle schools in the country. Sure the pay still wasn’t stellar, but it was commensurate with her experience, which was much more than she could say about her last gig. Getting hitched, to the love of her life. That also happened in a bar … this bar … but that was on purpose. Exchanging vows right there beneath the altar of Bertha the bison head. It was a beautiful ceremony, and a damn sight shorter than any nuptials you’d have witnessed in a house of worship. Only thing missing was the officiant. 

Now she was about to find out whether she was about to start a family with that man whom she loved like the sun would shine forever. The most joyous news of her life, it would be — all she ever wanted and more. And yet she couldn’t commit to telling him, the way she had always told him everything else, one way or t’other. Kitty wasn’t the secret-keeping type.

So she tried in vain to occupy her mind, first by grading five-paragraph essays, now by helping the bar replenish for the onslaught of orders sure to be inbound whenever Mayor Peckerwood was through delivering his speech. As for what he was saying, she wasn’t but half listening. 

We spent a lot of time in bars in those days, which we chalked up to our competitive advantage. But this wouldn’t be just another bar. We would brew our own beer! In that way we’d be self-sufficient. Cultivators of our own garden. A company of yeomen craftsmen. Crafting eccentric beer for eccentric people. Truly progressive ales that pushed the boundaries of expectations of style and flavor profile. Recipes that made use of local ingredients whenever possible, imparting our own Western American terroir. Simply put, beer that would inspire a stronger sense of topophilia in all those who imbibed. 

Beer that would make a promise to them. Challenge them. To be more. 

[Fart noise.]

Here we are, many years later. I look around this room. What do I see? Not only does the promise of the New Frontier endure, but here today there are people from all over this Nation who have risen to meet the challenge we set forth. And it all but brings a tear to my eye. You know something — Hank and I’d use to joke: wouldn’t it be great if this were a place where there could be a group at one table, planning a heist? And then maybe a group over here at another table, planning a revolution? Well I believe that dream came true. Because, in a way, you are all rebels. Freedom fighters, in a Craft Beer Revolution! 

Not what Hank was talking about. However, Larry had made out like a bandit. 

Say it with me now: I am … a craft beer … revolutionary! 

[Silence.]

You folks have taken an idea and made it an industry. I know that if Hank were here, he’d be proud as heck about it. 

If Hank were here he’d be wielding an axe, looking for whatever cord was connected to this funky-ass microphone, the Mick annotated again internally. Short of that he’d have been long gone.

And I can assure you that I am proud to be a part of this network of entrepreneurs, craftsmen and craftswomen! [Whoos.] Everyday, I’m inspired by the example you set. As such, in the Mayor’s office I’ve worked tirelessly to transform our city into an Incubator for Innovation, and not just in beer. We are a category-agnostic accelerator — across sustainable energy, natural foods, technology and telecommunications, health and biotech and aerospace and defense. 

The results speak for themselves. Our aggressive corporate relocation recruiting efforts and competitive tax incentive packages have attracted major companies to move their headquarters to this great city. Companies like Morningstar Petroleum, which has committed to creating hundreds of new, high-paying jobs right here in the Metro Area. Morningstar is making sure the world meets its energy needs, responsibly. They’re leading the charge to produce new technologies that reduce emissions. They’re creating more efficient fuels. Now they’re doing it all from a state-of-the-art, multi-million-dollar campus right here in our Seventh District!

That’s because the companies that do business here are a lot like the people that live here. They are engaged members of our community. Perhaps there’s no better example than one of your craft brewing brethren, #x_brüing (pronounced, X [space] Brewing … the hashtag and umlaut were silent and superfluous). Through the One Percent for the Planet initiative, #x_brüing has dutifully pledged to donate one percent of its net profit to social good causes, including crucial programs like the Urban Tree Initiative, which works to maintain and grow our city’s majestic Green Spaces. No doubt work that our friend Hank, who loved the outdoors so dearly, would find worthy of our admiration and support. 

Is Jaime Delano here? Where is Jaime? There he is … Let’s hear it for Jaime and all the folks at #x_brüing for all the great work they’re doing. [Applause muffled through ambient professional jealousy.] Not only have Jaime and I become close friends through his participation in these and other civic issues, but perhaps its no surprise that we are both proud Newfer alumni.

One percent, the Mick pshawed. Quite literally, the least they could do, assuming it’s integers we’re talking. He had a whole separate bone to pick with Delano. For one thing, back when they worked together, Jaime (HI-may) was still Jamie (JAY-mee). Motherfucker done iglesia’d up his goddamn name. No matter. The Mick would continue to call him Dandy Jim, by and by. He was three assistant brewers before Grace — Zeke’s predecessor’s predecessor. If Russ were alive, he’d say, Mick, your ABs have about the retention rate of a Spinal Tap drummer. But that reference would be lost on him; he was not familiar with that band. In any case, Dandy Jim would just have to wait until whenever Mayor Mockingbird was through, if they could ever be so lucky. The Mick trafficked in one grudge at a time … 

But it doesn’t stop in the private sector. We’re taking that very same entrepreneurial spirit and applying it to innovation in civil service. First and foremost, is public safety. Thanks to our public-private partnership with the Downtown Renewal and Revitalization Project, we’ve successfully activated our network of SAFE cameras, which enable the brave men and women of our law enforcement to better harness data and artificial intelligence toward protecting and serving our great city. Since the system went online, I am delighted to report that violent crime is down four percent year-over-year. 

An important aside about the SAFE (Surveilling Activity For Evidence) cameras. Among other peacekeeping applications, the devices were perhaps most effectively deployed in tandem with an integrated gunshot detection technology, which utilized acoustic sensors to identify the sound and pinpoint the location of any firearm discharge within an echo radius of several hundred feet. The camera systems were manufactured by a wholly-owned IT solutions subsidiary of Karakuchi, Ltd., the Japanese conglomerate. Although it provided advanced digital solutions to customers across industry sectors, the Karakuchi brand was perhaps best known for its Kuchi Kendo Stick line of vibrating personal massagers, which was widely adopted by the marketplace for the misintended use case as a masturbation aid for women. 

Secondarily is education. My administration has empowered high-achieving schools like Collegiate Academy of Scientific and Technological Excellence as they disrupt the increasingly obsolete model for public education in this country. Last spring they graduated their inaugural senior class. One hundred percent college matriculation rate. Kids of all races and socioeconomic backgrounds. Truly remarkable. In case any of you haven’t had the pleasure to visit the SciTech campus, I would urge you to seek it out. The architecture and interior design are stunning in and of themselves. Really, it’s the coolest school I’ve ever been inside by a long shot. 

As for the existing schools within our network that have perpetually underperformed, under my leadership, we no longer tolerate failure on behalf of our kids. Look no further than right down the road, to West High School. As of just a few weeks ago, our groundbreaking experiment is underway. With generous philanthropic support, we’ve made massive capital infrastructure investment, manifested in dividing the student body into three micro-academies, thus manufacturing more intimate and engaging learning environments, furthermore fostering a more competitive landscape, or dare I say entrepreneurial spirit among the student body. 

Make no mistake … The rest of the country is taking notice of what we’re building here. Assorted national media publications have ranked us the third best city in which to start a small business, the fourth best city to raise a family and a top eleven city for overall quality of life. And for everybody out there with their love lights turned on, according to another reputable ranking, we are the number two city for singles and dating. [Assorted oohs]. 

Get a grip, Zeke, he scolded himself. On this, unequivocally the most important day of his already fledgling career, all Zeke could think about was Grace, with whom he was deeply in love, and quite hopelessly by the looks of things. Like a flesh eating bacteria, love consumed him. From morning, stepping on his first bus of the day, commuting to work … Till night, stepping off his sixth bus of the day, headed for home. 

Really he was having his first office crush, which anyone with experience can tell you is an altogether separate phenomenon from your standard school crush, for some inexplicable reason. But to Zeke, each new infatuation, regardless of from whence it came, was exactly the same — like spring bloomed anew. Indeed, he was a sensitive young man. And because he also filled out a large frame, he was the sort one might call a Gentle Giant. But really wasn’t that moniker misapplied to any big man who wasn’t proportionally brutish? It’s true Zeke did possess an innocent exuberance that endeared him to many, although usually not in that way. Romantically speaking. So on the other side of the coin, his unguarded personabiity could be a double-edged sword, when even a fleeting attraction would be so easily misconstrued for undying devotion. This making His an existence that was at once blissful and torturous.

Far as he knew, Grace was the first gay person he’d ever known. Here it was just his luck to fall head over heels for someone so uniquely unavailable. The amorous feelings were almost totally unspoken; they had hardly uttered more than a few stray words between them — out of paralyzing nervousness on his account, and unconscious indifference, hers. Rather for Zeke, the spark was physical. Something to do with the way she moved about the brewhouse, with undo elegance, exceedingly worthy of her name. Shot putting fifty-pound sacks of malted barley like they were feather pillows, on which for him to dream of her. Shoveling spent grain from the mash tun with the mechanized fluidity of an excavator, razing the planetary core of his soul. Spraying down the kettle as if to extinguish the fire that burned within him for her. Perhaps he was attracted to her competency in the occupation for which he had proven so inept. Who could say? Whatever it was, the suffocating feeling of seeing her with Julie, and also Margot the night prior, had emotionally metastasized into a fist-sized lump, lodged right there in his larynx. Somewhat confusingly, that sensation was a symptom of heartbreak and asthma. 

Both afflicted him chronically. 

Powerless to fight this feeling, Zeke wanted desperately to shake free from the shackles of his woe, and seize this professional opportunity that had fallen into his lap. After all, here was the Mayor, giving an unannounced speech at one of his coordinated events. The possibilities for social media engagement seemed endless. Actually it was the only moderately engaging thing to occur during his short tenure, outside of a heated dispute over Harry Potter-themed pub trivia that de-escalated just shy of magical violence. (The would-be combatants had managed to fire off a couple of rounds of dueling spells: Expelliarmus and Expecto Patronum, respectively.)

He was even peripherally interested in politics and other local issues  —another thing he and Grace lacked in common — and had in fact cast his very first vote in any election for this very elected official. Twenty-some months previous, during his final semester before graduating West High School, Mayor Mockingbird had appeared at a special assembly to announce the aforementioned awarding of a multi-million dollar grant, endowed by the second richest man in the world, at the time. Wasn’t that something, Zeke thought. The money would be allocated to divide West High into three autonomous academies, to be housed within the existing facility. They were: an academy for culture and the arts, an academy for global marketplace and international studies, and an academy for Future Leaders. 

Zeke didn’t have to give much thought unto which category he fell, being that he already had plans to attend City College in the fall, where from he had since taken a sabbatical of indefinite duration. He also didn’t have any opinion on the consternation the decision caused among his classmates and the broader community. In that moment he was more swept away by the spectacle of the thing. The mayor, visiting his school, on behalf of the second richest man in the world — at the time — no less. Alas, the latter could not attend personally. However in his stead, he was kind enough to dispatch one of those really big checks for the photo opp. You mean like Happy Gilmore, Mick would have asked. Zeke didn’t know who that was, so no … he could not be certain. 

In a flash of clarity, Zeke remembered his new touchscreen camera phone. The Mick had issued it to him for work purposes, under the auspices that he could take photos and post them to the internet. But really because Kitty wanted Zeke to have any phone at all, on account of how he took the three buses to-and-from work, even though he only lived the five miles as the crow flew.  In case of there was an emergency. Actually it was the same phone she had given to Mick on his last birthday. Not the same model — that exact one. Mick favored the old Flippy anyway, and he knew Kitty wouldn’t take offense to his regifting, especially if Zeke were on the receiving end. 

Further snapping himself into focus, Zeke trained his digital lens on the Mayor, who any minute now would be arriving at a point … Before I raise one last toast to our old friend, Hank, I have a small announcement I’d like to make here in this place that was so special to us both. Before that though, I want to leave you with an old marketing parable I have cellared away from my days in the beer business. It’s something I share with all my incoming interns, as Charlotte and Schuyler here can surely attest. 

Here the Mayor briefly gesticulated in the direction of the two Larry Youth members whom the Mick saw arrive in his wake. That brief moment of public acknowledgement was one they would not forget as long as they lived. 

It concerns an old brewing outfit by the name of Schpunk Beer. When was the last time you all had a sip of Schpunk? Have any of you even ever tasted Schpunk? Here I am dating myself. Your fathers probably all drank Schpunk. I certainly guzzled more than my fair share of Schpunk as a young man. In any case, there was a time when this company you’ve never heard of, Schpunk Beer, was the third-largest domestic beer producer in the country. Life was good at the Schpunk plant. Until one year, all the corporate bigwigs got together in a boardroom, and some young hot shot came waltzing up with a presentation. He said, you know we’ve done some market testing, and we can change the recipe to cut costs on our ingredients by X percent, whatever it was, and our consumers can’t identify any discernible difference in the taste. 

All the Schpunk VPs looked around at one another and said, well, what are we waiting for? And so they changed the recipe, ever so slightly. Two years go by, and some new slick marketing guy gets back up there in front of the boardroom — by now his predecessor has been promoted for saving the company untold millions — and he makes the exact same pitch. You know we could change the recipe … save X percent …  can’t taste the difference … yada, yada, yada. And all the Schpunk guys say, wow, what a great idea. And they change the recipe again, ever so slightly. 

This cycle repeats itself a handful of times until about a decade goes by, and all of a sudden Schpunk is in the toilet. Chapter Eleven. All those executives are looking around at each other as they’re cleaning out their corner offices, wondering what in the Sam Hell happened here? For Pete’s Sake, they did the market testing … And the tests were accurate. After each time they changed the recipe, and remember they only tweaked it, ever so slightly, the Consumers could not tell a difference in taste. However, what the executives failed to account for, was that all those small compromises compounded on one another. And when you taste-tested the nectar of the gods they started out with, against the backwater dregs it became … You could see the difference from outer space. 

Listen here. 

This is something I tell all my old friends, and I’ll tell you now. In the history of this great country, we are the first generation that is in danger of leaving less to our kids and our grandkids than we had. Take a moment and let that sink in … It’s true. And we are taking losses across the board. The economy, our education system, the environment. Bottom line: in the so-called land of opportunity, the next generation is heading toward a future with less of It. I look around the faces here and I can tell that scares the hell out of you just like it scares the hell out of me. I know you don’t want less. I can promise you I don’t want less. And we can be damned sure that our old pal Hank wouldn’t put up with less. 

No-no-no. We want more. More for our future. More for our kids’ future and their kids’ future. We want more economic development. More education. More environmental conservation. More public safety. And we don't just want more … We need more … We demand more … And no matter what the cost … … … We will sacrifice for more!

As the gathered crowd roared, Mick looked up to the wall at Bertha, then down to the bar at Kitty who met his gaze intently. 

So I put it to you, let’s make a choice, together, right now … to invest in our future. And make no mistake, it’s up to us right here in this room. The leaders. The disruptors. The innovators. The builders. The dreamers. The crazy ones. Those who will show up. Do the work. Folks who get things done.  

Now allow me to put my money where my mouth is. It is my great privilege, in honor of my friend Hank and the dream we all together made come true, to declare my candidacy for the governorship of this great state. 

Welcome to Day One … starting right here and now, we all take more! Thank you all! 

As the Mayor again stuck both hands to the sky, a small passel of balloons fell from the ceiling. Where in the smoking hell did those come from, the Mick wondered, feeling bamboozled.. Right on cue, the band started back in on what figured to be the official campaign song. Out of a career that spanned decades and thousands of hours of recordings, for the Grateful Dead, this was their only ever single to crack the top-one hundred charts. Their one hit. How about that?

Sorry that you feel that way

The only thing there is to say

Every silver lining's got a

Touch of gray

[Groovy standup bassline] 

The Mayor resumed shaking every hand within a wingspan radius, retracing his steps on his way back out the door, his campaign already rolling with the popular momentum of a runaway train. Zeke was holding his camera phone behind the news cameraman, demonstrating the cinematographic instincts to piggyback off his pro lighting rig and better capture the moment. Grace meanwhile was stuck in a moment she wished she could escape. Margot had arrived unexpectedly and had sat right back down in the booth on the other side of Grace from Julie. There she sat betwixt them, awaiting their inevitable discovery of her romantic indiscretion. Kitty was situated behind the bar, still awaiting the oncoming rush. She was wearing her same back-to-school ensemble, accessorized for the fall season with a denim jacket she’d had since she was herself a student. How had Hank’s sort-of funeral been highjacked by a popup campaign rally, she wondered, not that he’d have minded much — whatever animus he felt toward the Mayor. I know I like to take the piss at Larry, he confided in Kitty one Wednesday, getting late, but I want you to know that I truly do hate the man. And it’s a rotten hatred too. It scares me how I could hate another person so completely. Frankly I’m ashamed of it. 

One of the preppy minions — the puggish female page — reached across the bartop and handed her an envelope. The underside was a form for making a donation. In the box marked required, you had to fill out your Name (First and Last), Address, Occupation and Employer. And credit card number and expiration date if that was your preferred form of contribution. The envelope itself was for depositing checks, or better yet cold hard cash. Kitty flipped it over. In the corner there was a little rectangular outline for postage, and then the logo. A shooting star underlining the slogan: More for Mockingbird.

The Mick drop-kicked a balloon away half-assedly as he watched the Mayor make his grand exit. Dandy Jim had joined the party. They were standing back by the front door, waving back at the adoring mass. The news anchor remained in the foreground, producing a microphone and talking into the camera. The sheriff’s deputy was in the shot, chewing gum with purposeful rigor. Off to the side, the representative from Morningstar Petroleum was chatting up an as-yet unidentified woman in a wax canvas barn coat with a corduroy collar, worn over a black turtleneck sweater. The Mick knew he recognized her too, but from where, he couldn’t immediately place. Wait, now he got it.

Well I’ll be damned, he said, out loud this time to no one in particular. 

There goes Hildy Wolff.