The background hum of Diamine Industries typically occupied itself with the gentle rhythmic tapping of keyboards, light conversation, and the occasional cough or clearing of the throat. However, for the past few days, the ozonic and once sterile airspace was cluttered with the clamoring of heated phone calls, distrusting murmurs, and raucous rumors. Shifty glances exchanged in the hallways and common areas in place of greetings.
The man who ran it all marched headfirst through the chaos. The icy blue marble that was his eye instead bore a glassy glazed over look to avoid his gaze meeting with any curious office workers. God forbid his line of sight graze another. His left hand held an iron grip on his overstuffed suitcase handle, swinging it ahead and behind himself like a battering ram. Most of the men under his employ seemed to catch his drift, quickly scurrying out of his path.
Diamine stopped in front of his office door and dug into his pocket, producing his keys and giving the lock a couple turns. His shaky and gaunt hand grasped and twisted the cold handle. Before he could shut it behind him, Diamine caught the heads of his employees whipping in the other direction, like guilty dogs caught in the act. He growled and narrowed his gaze as he turned around and forced the door shut with his weight, facing the rest of the room he found himself alone in.
Even the so-called silence in his spacious office grated his thoughts. The blue fluorescent lights above Diamine buzzed incessantly, ringing in his ears like menacing mosquitos. He was normally able to tune out the din, but every little thing had the man on edge today.
He took a deep breath in and sighed slowly. He paced to his chair, setting the hefty briefcase onto the polished wooden desk littered with paperwork. With a groan, he lowered himself into the firm leather seat, throwing his head back and shutting his eye for about thirty seconds before a knock on the door and the handle turning brought his attention back to reality.
His office swung open, revealing Michael Moore, whose put together and debonair demeanor was nowhere to be seen. His brows twisted in anxiety and his movement frantic, like a spooked rabbit as he shut the door. He did so as though he were being followed.
“Zion, you’ve really gotta see this!” He hissed under his breath, wary of his volume. He toted a file folder along with him, smacking it down unceremoniously in front of his boss. Michael’s fingers pried at the edges of the file to open it up and reveal a bundle of newsprint.
Diamine looked him up and down, unamused. “You come into my office to show me more bad news? I’ve seen the news, Michael, what are you trying to say here?”
Michael picked up the paper, folding it over to reveal the comics section. He pointed urgently to a sight which Diamine wished he hadn’t seen.
There in black and white print, an unflattering caricature of Zion Diamine himself loomed over a giant pill bottle with Miss Molly Mandrake imprisoned within it. Hundred dollar bills were drawn sticking out of his pockets as well as a wall of bills behind him. One of his hands was planted firmly on the lid of the plastic bottle while the other hand held tightly to a leash. On the other end of the leash stood a cartoon of Michael wearing a dog collar branded “Pharmagene” on the bone shaped tag. His caricature smiled deviously at a fat stack of cold hard cash in his hands.
Zion’s eye twitched at the irreverent spectacle.
