Bug bombs ignite from six different locations in the store. They are sitting on stools covered by brown crate paper. We’ve got plastic trash bags covering the coffee pot and water spout. The bomb that I ignited was in the bathroom. We’ve seen a lot of roaches in there. They’ve got points of entry, and the smell of poop is a lure.
The accountant was the one who dropped the bombs off. She had sent me a text, asking if I could go and get them during my lunch. I waited until I left to respond, because I never know what my lunch is going to look like, even though it’s the same every day: pick Musette up, get something to eat, and take Musette home; but the accountant wrote me back and told me that she got them.
She had called a couple of times, but I didn’t answer because I was on my lunch, and when I’m on my lunch, I don’t have to do anything work related. It’s just another one of those accountant things, always trying to micromanage, always trying to get us to do more than we need to. She’s got issues, you ask me. I mean, I know that she just had a death in the family, and I know that she had to attend two funerals in the same amount of days, but let’s be real, I can smell the alcohol on her breath, and I publicly disputed her case against me not delivering messages by bringing up the fact that she had in fact been informed of one on the eve of the pig poet and the worrier event.
I’m not going down without a fight. Every moment is a battle. What the accountant doesn’t understand is that she’s part of my narrative so long as I keep writing. It’s how I stay in control. It’s also why you can read Lolita and root for Humbert. I’ll slay her because I move with the spirit. It’s another aspect of divine grace. Giving into God and letting Jesus take the wheel. The accountant doesn’t write anymore, and as such, she’s already lost. I’ve got a grip on the situation through my filtration system. I’m pumping blood through my windowed veins. That’s how I know that I’m taking on the form of the old manager. Which is why Estelle lets me know every time she’s going to take a break. I mean, let’s not get too full of ourselves and our zen like abilities. I’ve got the beard, the glasses, and my position in the store. He left, and I came in. It’s The Santa Clause. It doesn’t take a genius to see.