Corporate Headhunter

I bolt awake, almost falling off my stool at the night desk. The myoclonic jerk, I remember from some half-forgotten pre-med class is a primitive reflex against the fear that one is falling out of one’s tree to be dinner for the jungle cats below. 

Feeling watched, I rub my eyes. Its hours before I can set up the breakfast with pre-boiled eggs and recycled fruit. I scan the lobby. 

There’s a man behind the potted plant, camouflaged by plastic palm fronds strapped on his head with a necktie and Sharpie smudges suggesting a skeletal shaman. As we make eye contact, he hurls a crude spear and runs. I take up the weapon, tipped not in flint, but a Mont Blanc pen.

I track him to the physical plant. He’s made it into the ductwork, but behind the boiler, I do find a nest of luggage and shredded quarterly reports.