Frank does not give a damn

Today turned out to be a standard start to the day in which we were all given a motivational power talk by Frank. It went along the lines of,

‘What the fox was all that about yesterday?’ he would enquire lightly as he glared around the seated like seal cubs, submissively waiting their turn to be clubbed. This was not in fact an invitation to partake in a meaningful discussion, which I spotted right away. It was an opening salvo in a series of rhetorical questions delivered in a conversational tone.

‘Do you shower of useless turds actually know your arses from your elbows? What if I told you that I have a 5 year old boy at home who could do a better job of sales than you lazy bastards.’

The age of the ‘boy at home’ would vary on a weekly basis.

He had started his purple passage in what was a remarkably calm and civil tone. It was hard to match the tone with the words. There was real menace in the words but he was almost smiling as he spoke. Smile is maybe a bit too generous. His mouth was turned up at each side in what we all know is called a smile, but not a trace of humour touched Frank’s eyes. He was getting in the groove now and the placid singsong tone of his voice had been replaced with an occasional snarl. The permanent redness hovering on his neckline had now risen up to his cheeks. There was plenty scope for it to go higher. Both sledgehammer fists were now planted on the table with his upper body thrust forward pivoting from side to side as he took in all of the assembled gang. He did pause on me for a moment, like he was wondering who I was and what I was doing there.