Syndicate Story

A Syndicate Story

John leaned forward to order his second beer while forcing thoughts about the office from his mind. One hour to play. Four hours to sleep.

His manager reached over to put a hand on his shoulder; he gestured toward a table of Wall Street guys. It was like a funhouse mirror: same disheveled suits, same dark circles under their eyes, same pile of empty glassware. “You know the difference between those guys and us, John?”

John tilted his head to indicate the lack of a smartass reply.

“The difference is that we’re the ones who know there’s a difference.”

John caught sight of himself in the mirror on that note and waved at the bartender, “Shots!”

He raised the new glass, “Let’s drink for the Syndicate.”

His manager raised the shot to eye level, “We eat, sleep, and fuck for the Syndicate – let’s drink for ‘em too.”

There was a minute of silence before John said it. “Copperballs.”

“What?”

“Copperballs. Why do they call him Copperballs?”

“Stimson? You sure you want to know that?”

Silence. Shots. Silence.

“I heard he was on survival training somewhere in the Carolinas. A copperhead got hold of his sack and it took him two days to get back to civilization. So, by that time the wound was necrotic and a labcoat with a sense of humor gave him new balls. Copper. Balls.”

John looked at his manager’s crooked, drunken smile. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it before anything came out. Again. Open. Closed. “Shots!”