The Demise of Spamuel D Drake: The Beginning of the EndSubmitted by Spam at 2009-06-04 07:48:23 EDT
Rating: 1.52 on 33 ratings (33 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
The daytime world I live in is woven from the fabric of a thousand lies.
Row upon row of faceless men in grey yell, shout and laugh into cordless headsets, bludgeoning the innocent public into submission with the weight of spurious personalities they swap and change as often the Armani suits they wear to mask the nakedness of the falsehoods beneath. All of them are brewed from the same blend of arrogant superficiality, coated in the thick greasy slime of their own bluster and bravado, drowning themselves in lies until nothing of the person beneath survives and all that's left is a homosaphic pile of ooze pretending to be human. It's necessary here, this culture of mistruth, for the innocent and naive are soon gobbled up by the hunger and greed of their co-workers and so the only way to get along in this ghoulish half-life is to pretend you're better than everybody else and sooner or later, you start believing your own lies. The end result is a sea of people all striving to be seen, all endeavoring to be different, all inseparable in their identical attempts to appear unique.
Surveying them all from his glass-walled office, picking out the weak and unsuited and casting them out like some king of Hades, sits the company director: Andrew Fuhrer, and God, I wish I was making his last name up but he really is called The Fucking Fuhrer. And you can tell he's the owner of the place because his shoes are little shinier than the rest and the ubiquitous perma-tan that seems a prerequisite here appears darker and actually caused by exposure to the sun rather than a hundred weekly to visits to Pyong Yang's Tanning parlor across the way.
In the middle of the seething mass of hateful oxygen theft sit Jay and I, seemingly the only two people who have slipped through the net and still show a few signs of original thought. Jay is only 18 and I know nothing else about him other than the fact he is the only person in this entire rat-infested hell-hole I can stomach talking to for periods longer than 20 seconds so when you think about it, it's a fucking miracle we ended up sitting next to each other cos otherwise, chances are we would have succumbed to the pressure of our colleagues and mutated into bullshit spewing pricks just like the rest of the sales floor. He keeps me sane, man, my conspiratorial compadre in this Nazi-labour camp and so when he asks if I wanna go out for a few beers on Friday night, I actually give it some genuine thought despite my strict 'Don't drink with fuckhead colleagues' code.
When he mentions that he's got tickets to the Derby County vs Nottingham Forest FA Cup game I'm fucking sold.
And if you're trying to jump ahead of the story I can tell you now that you're way off the mark my friends because in the 35 minute train journey to Derby, Jay shows no outward signs of psychosis or abnormality and by the time we arrive, 3 cans of Foster's the better, we are laughing and joking and have become firm friends - unified by our hatred of everything Company.
Sure, things start to take a turn to the bizarre when he hands me my ticket and it's got nothing written on it other than his name and some Derby Country corporate logo but even though it seems odd not to have a row and seat number, it looks official and Jay answers my questioning brow with throwaway grin that assures me he knows what he's doing.
Outside the ground I make my way to the turnstiles to join the rank and file of my fellow Rams supporters but Jay stops me and ushers me to a curiously non-descript unmarked door recessed into the external wall of the massive stadium.
"We go this way." He says mysteriously, and something about how he says the 'we' piques my interest.
So we leave the sound and fury of the hordes of drunken fans outside and step through the threshold into a world so far removed from the noise and savagery I've come to expect from a Derby-Forest game that I immediately look around for any tardy white rabbits that may be happening by.
The spacious foyer we walk into is a plush, marble-floored sparkly prism of modern wealth, it's softly lit walls decorated tastefully with old photos of Legends past and present and a faint aroma of lavender caresses us on a silently air-conditioned breeze. A well-dressed behemoth of a man, who simply has to be security greets Jay with a polite nod but then notices me and raises an eyebrow moving across to block me.
"He's with me." Jay says and the guard's suspicious demeanor dissolves which is more than I can say for my suspicious demeanor which is crystallising the more with each passing second.
"Whatever you say Mr. Knight" Says the guard, almost sycophantically.
The altercation is too much to me and I move to voice my reservations to Jay but he disappears up a wide flight of pleasantly carpeted stairs that spiral around the foyer before I can ask him what the fuck is going on.
We're quite high up by the time we get to the right floor and I see that we're on a long corridor that curves slightly to match the contour of the stadium. And I know where we are as soon as I see the uniformly spaced out doors on one side of the corridor with little plaques above each one.
"Dude." I stammer, "Have we got fucking Box Seats to most important game of the season?"
"How the fuck have you managed to swing that? And why didn't you tell me this earlier you fucking slag?"
"Dad owns a Box" he says simply before stepping inside one of the doors.
And for me, it's a beautiful moment these 15 seconds before I step through into the executive box. Of the hundreds of times I've come to this ground, I've always wondered about this area of the stadium, how it all works, what perks you get to experience, what the views like from the balcony up here. And now, on this FA cup day against or staunchest of rivals, I will finally get to realise a dream I've held for years.
Yep for these 15 seconds I can say it's fucking beautiful to be alive and a Derby County Supporter.
Until I walk through the door and realise that all this luxury, this opulent excess, it all comes at a price.
Because sharing the box with Jay and I, work-shy corporation hating slackers that we are the entire set of directors and co-owners of Carr Stewart Home Finance, the company we hate so much and with so much passion.
And standing in the middle of them sits the king of Hades, Fucking Beelzebub himself: Andrew Fuhrer.
The room falls quiet as I walk in and everybody in there, most of them self-made multi-millionaires, all stop and stare at me with a mixture of disgust and resentment. They know who I am, these rich bastards and hatred for another is obvious.
The door swings shut behind me and there's a good minute of silence, me on one side of the room and 8 corporate scumbags on the other, Jay, standing in the middle.
Andrew is the first to break the silence, as you'd expect from the embodiment of evil.
"What the fuck is He doing here?" he says and I think it's weird, because his question is directed at Jay rather than anybody else.
"He's with me," Jay says, for the second time today "Sorry Dad, I did tell you I would be bringing a mate."
And the realisation hits me that my best mate from work, the guy I've been slagging the company off to for the last few months, the man who I thought shared my hatred of all of the management is actually the Owner of the company's fucking Son.
And I'm about to spend a night out with them.