I know your game
Fifteen
“I can’t believe he said that to me,” Chris said to himself.
“Cheeky git.” He laughed as he poured his first beer.
“That went down easy,” he thought as he watched some Gordon Ramsey on TV.
“Ramsey wouldn’t let anyone say that to him,” Chris laughed. Cracking open a third can of lager.
“Yeah, that’s fucking right Gordon, don’t take any shit.”
“How dare he talk to me like that. Cheeky fucking wanker,” Chris said.
Free pouring vodkas with a splash of coke.
“No fucking way he said that to me. Nah, he weren’t joking either.”
Bottle of wine, half drunk, in hand, Chris shouted: “Saying it in front of the boss. I know your game, Stu. I know your fucking game.”
Phone in hand, Chris began firing off texts. One to the boss. One to Stu. One to his ex.
“Rum tastes good,” he thought.
The phone bleeped. Chris couldn’t hear it.
“Don’t come in tomorrow,” the message read.
Chris couldn’t read it.
He wasn’t going in tomorrow.