The Perfect Murder

Copyright © 2016 by thelegacyofme

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. duuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

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The hard surface of the metal chair that Jeffrey Johnson had been sitting on for the past two hours was starting to make his behind tingle with a serious case of the pins and needles. As hard as he tried to hide it, the marketing team that was attending the meeting were still shooting the young intern fleeting, strange glances. Jeffrey internally rolled his eyes. Why didn't they realize that he was going to be one of them soon? Why didn't they sense the air of superiority he held compared to all of the lousy interns at the business firm they were at? Ever since adolescence, Jeffery knew what he wanted to be. The founder of a thriving company; a household name in everyone's home. It didn't matter what kind of company, what kind of products they sold or anything really. Jeffery just wanted to be rich. The majority of people on that Forbes list of the richest people on the planet? They were founders of the biggest companies the world had ever seen. Jeffrey sighed in contentment, wonderfully lost in reverie.

"Someone... Explain to me why the customer satisfaction figures have been low for the past year?" The nasal voice of Maggie Plutarch, the company's current CEO brought Jeffrey out of his blissful daydreaming state. He watched as her middle aged, thin, snake like lips formed her carefully chosen, strained words.

Maggie Plutarch. Jeffery tried to make his shudder of disgust discreet to everyone on the busy meeting room. How could Jeffrey begin to even describe the despicable Maggie Plutarch? She was nasty, as putrid as moldy cheese. An ugly depiction of humanity, that's what she was. Jeffrey would need the three Hekatonkheires and probably even more of their kind to count how many times the lady had picked him out from all the other interns to ridicule. She often made him go on unnecessary coffee runs for the whole department, just for giggles, and then, in front of everyone, would refuse to consume it because Jeffrey had put too much sugar or too much cream or that she didn't like the disposable paper cup the coffee was in.

"It's because you never care to pay enough for us to buy proper glass cups!" Jeffrey would always want to say. But, fortunately he always held his tongue.

Other times, when Jeffery made it too hot, she would say that the raging fires of hell could now be found in a coffee form. Then, the next time when he would serve it a tad bit cooler, she would remark that "the cold breath of Death" was running down her victimized throat.

Jeffrey found that he just could not win against the she-devil.

And it wasn't just Maggie Plutarch. When someone needed something delivered or printed, or photocopied they wouldn't do it themselves like responsible adults. No. They would come to Jeffrey.

It seemed to Jeffrey that instead of being at this company as an intern and soaking up information on the way businesses were run, he was learning how to be a busboy, running tedious and frivolous errands for the lethargic office workers.

"It's because you useless dolts the worst marketing group I've ever had the disgrace to employ, that's why!" Maggie roared when no one to answer her previous question, her rigid state of control finally cracking. Globs of her spit visibly spewed everywhere. Jeffrey flinched. He was suddenly grateful he wasn't sitting at the main meeting table and instead was at a side table, the one for interns.