Office Work
Glen Pearson

 



Fit-Boy woke up next to a girl whose name he couldn’t remember, head raging in hangover.  Don’t 
wake up, don’t wake up you dinlo bitch, he silently pleaded as he attempted to quietly slide out of 
bed.  Just as he got one foot on to some cheap carpet she rolled over and faced him.
	“Mornin’,” she said with a smile which disappeared when she saw that he was about to leave.  
“Oh, goin’, are ya?”
	“Yeah, looks that way, dunnit,” Fit-Boy couldn’t be arsed with any pretence whilst his head 
was pounding this badly.  “D’you see where I put my Stone Island?”
	“Cheeky git.  Just sneakin’ off when ya thought I was asleep, eh?”
	“Quick off the mark, ain’t ya!  Look, my fuckin’ ‘ead’s killin’ us; you can ‘ave me ‘ere moanin’ 
about my ‘angover or I can fuck off an’ you can get on with ya day, whatcha reckon?”
	“Be nice if you actually wanted to stay.  Well, see ya later then.” Stropping, the girl pulled the 
quilt over herself and lay back down with her back to him.
	Surprised that he wasn’t getting more grief, Fit-Boy grinned to himself and pulled on his 
clothes.  As he exited the bedroom he thought he’d try his luck.  “So, you know where that Stone 
Island is, then?”
	“If you’re on about that coat with the stupid tag on the arm, you chucked it off by the front 
door.”
	As he went to leave the flat he spotted his coat on the floor.  A couple of joints had fallen out 
of one of the pockets and he scooped them up, shoved one in his mouth and lit it before opening the 
front door.
	“See you later, Fit-Boy!” called the girl sarcastically from the bedroom.
	“Not if I see you first!” he called cheerily back and blew an excessive drag of skunk smoke 
into the front hallway before going outside.
	As he strutted down the road the skunk started to take a slight effect despite the fact that he 
normally smoked copiously.  He thought back over the previous evening: the Wetherspoons down 
Fratton with Billy who got escorted out by his new missus Chloe after just a couple of pints, recog-
nising an old mate who was with a table-full of birds from his work, working the charm on the sluttiest 
looking one of them, getting her pissed, persuading her to go to another pub to “get to know her better”, 
getting off with her outside and a bit of a grope, letting her take him back to hers, and, and… not much 
until waking up.  Fit-Boy could picture her laughing at the table, knocking back shots, even a vaguely 
remembered grope of her slightly stretch-marked tits whilst drunkenly trying to shag her, did he come?  
Did he even get it up?  Did he care? Whatever, he still couldn’t for the life of him remember her 
fucking name.
	He looked up and got his bearings, still a ways to get back to Eastney and the pubs weren’t 
open yet.  Patting his pockets he was relieved to find that he had his mobile and annoyed with himself 
that he’d forgotten to check whilst he was still in the dumb bitch’s flat earlier.
	A couple of texts hadn’t been seen by him since the evening before:
	   Billy:		21:21	Hey, Fit-Boy, still in the pub?
	   (unknown):	22:22	What pub u 2 gone 2?  
   	   (unknown):	22:37	Good 2 see u agn, keep in touch! Dont do anytin I wd lol
   	   Sharon:	23:12	Thought you was poppin over 2nite???
	   Sharon:	23:45	Take it u not then?
	   Sharon:	23:57	U ignoring me?
	   Sharon:	00:12	Wots ur problem fitboy?
	   Sharon:	00:27	Come on over Im not angry
	   Sharon:	01:12	Oh fuck off!
	   Sharon:	01:13	Sorry didnt mean it come over
   	   Sharon:	01:15	Come over fitboy come on it will be nice
	   Sharon:	01:22	Please come
	   Sharon:	02:11	Oh fuck off fitboy
	   (unknown):	08:32	Hey mate u see my wallet?  Think I left in pub

	Sharon was a bird that Fit-Boy had shagged the week before, big tits, not the nicest of teeth 
if he remembered.  But he did remember those teeth had been attached to some quality blow-job 
delivering lips which is why he’d, obviously stupidly, given the dinlo his number and, even more 
stupidly, said he’d come over to her’s some evening.
	After going through his pockets he found a wallet that he didn’t recognise, bulging with his 
old mate’s wages.  No surprises who “(unknown)” was then.
	It was 9:45.  Fit-Boy decided to call Sharon.  She answered immediately.
	“Fit-Boy!?”
	“Yeah, ‘ow’s it goin’?”
	“Why di’n’t you get back to me last night?”
	“I’m gettin’ back to ya now, i’n’ I?  ‘ad me phone on silent di’n’t I!”
	“Why’d ya ‘ave it on silent for? Who’re you with?”
	“That’s none of your business, is it really, Sha’?”
	“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean nothin’!” Sharon exuded pure desperation down the phone, making
 Fit-Boy grin.
	“Yeah, well, I was gonna say I’d pop round but if I’m gonna get some fuckin’ interrogation, I 
won’t bother, eh?”
	“Nah, nah, come round, Fit-Boy.  I ‘ad a bit of wine last night-” you don’t say, he thought, 
“-but I still got some left!  We can have a drink an’ that, like old-times…”
	Old times?  He’d shagged her fucking twice!  Had they spent any memorable time together, 
apart from the blow-jobs?  Not that Fit-Boy could remember.  But then, these days, quality times with 
women outside drinking and fucking were starting to come few and far between.  His mates’ girlfriends 
were boring and what was the point in putting up with the crap spewing out of most birds’ mouths 
when you could just meet another practically any evening depending on what pub you went into in 
Pompey?  Although the idea of shagging two different women in 12 hours appealed, there was no 
need to rush round to Sharon’s immediately, especially seeing as she was ganting on it.
	“I dunno, bit early to be drinkin’ Sha.”
	“Nah, I mean, we can ‘ave it later or-“
	“Look, I gotta go see this geeza first, I’ll see you innabit.”
	“Oh cool, I’ll-”  Fit-Boy hung up.  He hadn’t checked the contents of his own wallet yet but one 
of the things he did remember from last night was that he hadn’t off-loaded any pills or smoke.  
Obviously, he could help himself to the contents of his new wallet but a grateful, relieved old mate with 
access to work women would probably be better to have in the long-run than a couple of ton that he 
could make with a few phone-calls.
	After texting “(unknown)” (was it Steve? Tim?) to say he’d picked up the wallet in the toilets 
(he remembered now, it had been left on the table and the dumb bitches hadn’t even noticed him 
taking it) Fit-Boy checked through the wallet for ID.  A card in the plastic window of the wallet 
displayed a miserable work ID photo next to “Stefan Jones” in bold type above the work logo.  Tucked 
underneath was a chunky, blank swipe-card for a security door.  A text reply vibrated on his mobile:

		(unknown):	10:11	Cool.  Where can I meet to get it?

	No fucking hurry for that, thought Fit-Boy.  Just because he was going to be the nice pal 
returning the wallet, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of the contents first.  He stuck it back 
into his pocket then updated Stefan’s details against the phone number as he walked down the street.  
Who knows what could have been taken from the wallet before Fit-Boy found it in the toilets?  Mind, 
on that note, anyone taking stuff from the wallet would take the money before anything else, wouldn’t 
they?  Fit-Boy decided he might pop by his dealer, Jason’s, place before going home.  He pulled up 
his contact details on the mobile and pressed Call.
	“Hey, Fit-Boy!” was the cheery greeting.  So, Jason was in a good mood.  Hopefully, that 
might mean things would work out well for Fit-Boy, but, then again, when didn’t they?
	“Alrite, Jason. ‘Ow’s it goin’?”
	“Cool, bruv.  It’s a lay-zee day Sat-a-day.  Missus down the shops an’ I’m watchin’ the box.”  
Jason used to MC at Hardcore events when he was younger, and still occasionally spit some (usually 
terrible) little rhymes now and then with a slight Jamaican twang.  The nonsense rhyming that kept a 
crowd of pilled-up ravers moving didn’t usually translate over too well to everyday speech.  Not that Fit-
Boy would ever tell him that.  Jason was very black, very big, and, to the people who didn’t know him 
(and quite a few who did), very intimidating and very scary.
	“Ah, never mind then.  I’ve got something you might be interested in, but if ya missus is due 
back…….”
	“Whoa, let’s not be hasty, ladies-man.  She just left the abode, me on me own.  You in the 
vicinity so you can show t’ing to me?”  Jason must have had a bit of a smoke himself this morning.  
He normally wasn’t this bad.
	“Yeah, no worries, mate.  Be there in a bit.”
	Fit-Boy texted Stefan to say he wouldn’t be able to meet him until tomorrow (a meeting that 
would be put off until as late in the day as possible) and changed direction to go to Jason’s to flog the 
security card.

	Although Jason’s dark eyes were still glazed he’d dropped the patois as soon as he entered 
business mode with Fit-Boy.  He sat comfy in his leather arm-chair with Fit-Boy opposite him on the 
couch.  Jason span the swipe-card around and tapped a low, glass table in the centre of the room with 
it absently as he spoke.
	“I know this place.  Quite a few computers, monitors and stuff in there.”
	“Don’t forget the furniture an’ that Jase.  Some of them posh office chairs go for like one, two 
hundred quid!”
	“Well, yeah, if I had a fuckin’ delivery van and crew to take all the stuff in!  Behave, mate.”
	“I’m sure you probably ‘ave!  I know you’re a geeza with fingers in many pies and proba’ly 
more stuff that I don’t even know about.”  Fit-Boy knew that flattery wasn’t just for dumb slags on the 
piss, it was usually a winner wherever employed.
	“Tha’s right, rude-boy and you never will know.  So, I take it you’ll either have to give him this 
back before Monday or he’ll report it lost, yeah?”
	“Yeah.  Reckon so.”
	“An’ he definitely hasn’t reported it stolen so far?”
	How the fuck do I know? thought Fit-Boy. “Nah.  I text him straight away saying I found it last 
night.”
	“He trusts you, yeah?”
	“Yeah!  Go’s way back, us two!”
	“So, how come’s you’re ripping ‘im off then?”
	“I’m not, am I?”
	Jason’s black eyebrows rose up his shaved, brown, forehead.
	“It’s his workplace that’s getting done over, not him!  Yeah, ‘e might get a bit of flack for 
losing the card but if he reports it there ain’t fuck-all they can do about it!”
	“Whatever.  So, if I’m to buy this off you it’ll mean I’ll have to get mans in action either tonight 
or tomorrow-“
	“Well, I’ll have to give the wallet back tomorrow but he might not even check it until Monday 
when he’s goin’ in to work.”
	“Of course he’ll bloody check it.  You get given your wallet back, the first thing you do is see 
what’s missing!”
	“Alrite, probably.  But, like, considerin’ what you could potentially get…. What’ll you give us 
for it?”
	Jason tapped the swipe card.
	“Well, considering there’s probably no access to money in this place-“
	“There might be!”
	“-and the short notice for any work-“
	“Eh, I told you straight away-“
	“-AND the fact that this card might not even get mans inside, it might be internal-“
	“Nah, it’s definitely for the outer door, I’ve seen ‘im go in before,” Fit-Boy blatantly lied.
	“-all adds up to a figure that I could count on one hand-“
	“Five ‘undred?”
	“If that ‘and had no fingers.”
	“What?”  Fit-Boy’s weighty, slightly stoned and very hungover head was in no mood for 
riddles.
	“Zero.  Nada. Nut-ting.”
	“But-“
	“But, nuthin’.”
	“Gizzit ‘ere, then.”	
	“Sure.”  Jason placed it on the table and slid it toward Fit-Boy who could see smears of 
powder on the glass.  He went to pick it up but one of Jason’s large, cigar-like fingers remained on top 
of it.
	“Well, you gizzin’ it or not?”
	Jason smiled at him, revealing a chunky, gold tooth.  He lifted his finger off the card and Fit-
Boy pocketed it.
	Normally Fit-Boy would be a bit politer around Jason but his hungover state encouraged him 
to spit out, “waste of time that was!” as he pocketed the card and got up.
	“Ay!  You watch dat tone!  You forgettin’ where you are, Fit-Boy?”  Jason snarled the name 
with contempt, his demeanour changed in an instant.
	“Wot?  Oh, sorry, Jase, I’m just a bit ‘ungover an’ that.  Jus’ wish you could ‘ave said that in 
the first place!”
	“Just because I’m not giving you anything for the card, doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna help you 
use it.”
	“Eh?”
	“But it’ll be you givin’ me a cut!”
	“How’s that work?”
	“Sit dahn, bruv.  I’ll be showin’ you what I mean, we check the scene, but before the return of 
mah beauty queen.”
	“Whatever you say, Jase.”  Fit-Boy lowered himself back onto the couch.

	Fit-Boy sat with a Ralph Lauren bag on the steps leading up to the Civic offices opposite the 
Guildhall as the Pompey chimes rang out.  Despite knowing it was 9pm due to the clock booming in 
front of him he checked his phone for the time anyway, also seeing that there were no messages and 
no mis-calls since he’d last checked two minutes ago.
	“Where is this cunt, then?” he muttered to himself.  Jason had said a bloke called Carl would 
meet him here at nine and there was no sign of him.  Fit-Boy had turned up 5 minutes before hoping 
Carl would be already there.
	Fingering a joint his pocket Fit-Boy debated over the chances of the Old Bill catching him if 
he sparked it up.  They were all down Guildhall Walk as per usual on a Saturday but he wouldn’t put it 
past them wandering the short distance to here so left it alone and fiddled with the almost empty bag.
	His phone went off but it was just a text.  Another minute passed and still no Carl so he 
looked at his mobile.  Sure enough, it was just a bird.

		Sharon:		21:02	You still cumin 2nite

	As the message didn’t have a question mark Fit-Boy decided that there was no need for a 
reply, at least for now.  Where was this cunt?
	Another 2 minutes and, just as he was about to give Jason a bell to say that Carl was a no-
show, Fit-Boy felt a tap on his shoulder.  His Stone Island coat flapped round like a cape as he spun 
round aggressively, bouncing to his feet.
	“Whoa, ease up, mush!”
	“Whatchoo want, then, eh?” Fit-Boy snarled.
	“You, er, Fit-Boy?”
	“Who wants to know?”
	“I’m Carl.  Jason said to look out for a mush in a big coat, like.  With the badge on the arm an’ 
that.”
	“Yeah, well, I’m Fit-Boy.”
	Carl held out his hand to be shook but Fit-Boy couldn’t be arsed fucking about.
	“How come you’re late?”
	“It’s only 5 minutes. ‘Ad to park the van outside that office di’n’ I?”
	“Whatever.  Jase said meet me ‘ere at 9.”
	“If you’d ‘ave waited there at 9”, Carl started, trying to match Fit-Boy’s aggression but 
gradually faltering, “I’d of, like, seen ya at, er, 9.  Wou’n’t I?”
	“Yeah, great plan, Carl.  I’m ‘ardly gonna wait for ages outside the place I’m about to do over, 
am I?”
	“I s’pose-“
	“Cummon.  Let’s get this shit done.”

	“That’s good, like a disguise, eh?” Carl pointed out Fit-Boy’s clothes.  He’d put his Stone 
Island into his bag on the way to the office and taken out a large New Era cap that Zac still whined 
about him returning every time he saw him.  The ridiculously large visor was pulled right down to his 
eyebrows.  Some tight leather gloves were also on his hands.
	“Whatever,” muttered Fit-Boy.  “Cameras, innit,” he explained patronisingly.  He knew that 
CCTV were everywhere, not just in workplaces, these days but assumed none would have been 
zoomed in on him earlier with all the usual crap going on up Guildhall Walk. 
	“Good point,” agreed Carl and nipped into his van.  He came back with one of the blatantly 
fake Burberry caps that had been doing the rounds a few years back.  Fit-Boy concealed a smirk as 
he turned to the security door.  He wasn’t used to wearing gloves but managed to pull out Stefan’s 
card without any problems.
	“You ready to drive, Carl?” he thought it best to mention before swiping it across the security 
panel.
	“Whatcha mean?”
	“If there’s a fuckin’ ‘nother security system be’ind this one I ain’t ‘angin’ about!”
	“I thought you said there wa’n’t?”
	“Yeah, well,” Fit-Boy couldn’t remember all the bullshit he’d fobbed Jason off with and 
obviously didn’t know to what level Carl had been informed. “I don’t bloody work ‘ere, do I?  Jus’ 
sayin’, if we gotta shoot off, we go in your motor.  I ain’t walkin’ around here if there’s some bloody 
silent alarm or somethin’ goin’ off.”
	“Yeah, yeah.  Cummon, let’s not ‘ang about, mush.”
	Fit-Boy nodded and swiped the card.  A little red light above the panel turned green and there 
was a click as the glass door in front of them unlocked.  He pushed it open quickly and they went 
inside.  They were at the end of a corridor.  There was a wide, thin, metal cupboard on the wall on Fit-
Boy’s left.  If there was something that needed some code to be tapped in it would be in there.  There 
was a standard circular-key lock on the front but it was ajar anyway.  Fit-Boy quickly pulled it open 
and laughed.
	“Wha-?” began Carl and then saw what was inside and sniggered himself.  “They might come 
in handy!”
	Instead of another security measure the cupboard contained conveniently labelled keys to 
the entire office on a couple of rows of hooks.
	“Oh dear, someone was in a hurry to get pissed last night!” said Fit-Boy. “Cummon, grab ‘em 
all then we’ll ‘ave a look round.”
	Carl reached over then noticed Fit-Boy’s gloves.  “Er, can you get ‘em?  You’ve got gloves, 
ain’cha? I don’t want my fingerprints on nuthin’.”
	“Fuck’s sake.  What, so you ain’t gonna touch nuthin’ in ‘ere while we’re ‘ere?”
	“I’ll just be careful, like, only, like, things we take with us,” mumbled Carl.
	“Whatever,” Fit-Boy started grabbing handfuls of keys and shoving them in his back pockets 
so that he wouldn’t get them caught up amongst his own.  “You’re doin’ most of the ‘eavy liftin’, then.”
	Carl tried to make himself useful while Fit-Boy filled his pockets.  He saw a light-switch and 
turned it on.  Overhead fluorescents flickered on.  There were two doors at each end of the corridor on 
the sides of two glass walls that leading into two big, open-planned office spaces.  At the end of the 
corridor was a fire exit.  Carl tapped Fit-Boy on the shoulder and pointed towards it.
	“Fire exit.”
	“No shit, Sherlock.  So what?”  Fit-Boy was a bit perturbed by the fact that with all the glass 
they could be seen from outside but didn’t want to admit that he’d forgotten to bring a torch.
	“So, there’ll be a car-park or somethin’.  It’ll be better to load up the van from there instead of 
out front.”
	Fit-Boy grudgingly nodded approval and they walked up to it.  He raised his eyebrows and 
pointed out the sign that read “OPEN ONLY IN EMERGENCY BY PUSHING BAR. ALARM SOUNDS 
WHEN OPENED”.
	“Nah, they always say that, normally nuthin’ ‘appens.”
	“You wanna try it then, Carl?  I ain’t ‘angin’ about if it goes off.”
	“Would do, but,” he wiggled a gloveless hand in the air.
	“Use ya fuckin’ sleeve, ya poof.”
	Carl debated a second.  This arrogant Fit-Boy bloke was starting to get on his nerves barking 
orders at him and it would be good to get one up on him but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to be 
the one to tell Jason they’d had to run off after 2 minutes because he was the one who’d set an alarm 
off.
	“Well?” Fit-Boy sneered at him.
	“Er, you, er, might be right.  Let’s, er, see what there is to take first, eh?  We might not ‘ave, 
to, like, load up loa-“
	“Cummon.” Fit-Boy shouldered past him to one of the doors leading to one of the main 
offices.  This was locked but it had a standard Chubb lock whilst most of the keys were smaller so 
there were only a few of the right kind of key to choose from.  He opened it on the second attempt 
and they went inside.

	Fit-Boy had decided that it would be quicker to lay out all the keys on a table seeing as they 
were labelled rather than poncing about each time they found something locked.  The light from the 
corridor barely illuminated the office so he figured his earlier worries about being seen from the street 
were pretty much unfounded.  He’d sent Carl off to investigate the two office spaces, figuring that if 
Jason had sent him then he’d probably done this sort of thing before and would know what he was 
looking for.
	Carl had looked around the first office area that Fit-Boy was in and walked back to him.
	“Just computers in here and them pedestal things.”
	“You what?” Fit-Boy thought a pedestal was something you put a statue on.
	“Pedestal.” Carl pointed to a small, locked cabinet under a nearby desk.  “Everyone will have 
one.  Probably just have bloody tea-bags and crap in.”
	“What, like, personal shit?”
	“Yeah, not worth botherin’ with.”
	“Why not?  Someone might put money in or somethin’.”
	“If you wanna go through ‘em all, be my guest.  Them PCs’ll be worth a bit more though.”
	Fit-Boy admitted that going through what would probably amount to a few fat bitches 
collections of crisps, chocolate and loose change didn’t exactly appeal.  He picked up the other 3 
Chubb keys marked “Main Door” 1, 3 and 4.  Main Door 2 was still in the door he’d opened earlier.  He 
assumed Main Door 1 was the other end of the area they were in, by the front door.  Carl followed 
him back out to the corridor.  Sure enough, the key to Main Door 4 opened the opposite area and they 
went in.  Where the office space facing the street was for the general staff this one was blatantly for 
the management.  The open-plan office with only the back of someone’s monitor for privacy was 
replaced here with a few glass-walled large cubicles.  Carl pushed on the first door, it wasn’t locked.
	“Not much more ‘ere,” indicated Fit-Boy.  “Same set-up, just that these cunts get their own 
glass cage.  Whoop-de-fuck for them.”
	“Eh, these mushes probably arse-licked for years to get that glass cage!”
	Fit-Boy shook his head at the pointlessness of office life.  His mate Billy didn’t like to admit it 
in his company but he knew that he was proud of the fact that after a couple of years in his workplace 
he’d finally made a manager’s position.  And for what?  To order a few people about and get a bit 
more money?  One thing Billy was never shy of mentioning was the crap that he had to put up with on 
behalf of the staff that he was responsible for.  In comparison, if he bothered to pull his finger out 
dealing at a busy nightclub, in one night Fit-Boy could almost make what Billy did in a month.
	Carl pulled Fit-Boy out of his reverie.  “So, like, whatcha reckon?”
	“Fuck it, we’ll open the pedestals of these manager cunts and then just load up the PCs an’ 
monitors in ya van, I s’pose.”
	“Go get the keys then,” said Carl.
	“God, you an’ ya fuckin’ fingerprints!”  As he went back into the corridor, Fit-Boy glanced 
towards the security door.  He stopped.  There was someone there.
	He quickly backed into the managers’ area and poked his head round.
	“Wha’s up?”
	“Shhhh, there’s someone cummin’!”
	“Fuck!” Carl whispered loudly.
	Whoever it was luckily hadn’t spotted Fit-Boy.  It was a middle-aged, beer-bellied bloke who 
looked quite pissed, judging by his attempts to get his security card out of his wallet.  He was with a 
reasonably fit bird who looked about half his age and was quite nervous, repeatedly glancing around 
in case she was seen by someone.  Don’t find it, prayed Fit-Boy to himself, you dozy piss-head, 
you’ve left ya card at ‘ome, go on, do one.
	His thoughts were in vain, however, as the pudgy bloke pulled out the white card and 
exaggeratedly held it aloft.  Fit-Boy crept back fully into the managers’ area as he heard the click of 
the door unlocking at the end of the corridor.
	“Who is it?” whispered Carl in fear.
	“’Ow the fuck do I know?”
	“Let’s ‘ide under a desk, maybe they won’t come in ‘ere!”
	Fat chance of that, thought Fit-Boy, it’ll take 2 seconds-
	“Where’s all the bloody keys gone?” exclaimed the no-doubt married man at the end of the 
corridor.
	“Eh, Barry, maybe we should go-” said his younger companion.
	“Nah,” Barry was obviously full of drunken bluster.  “I wanna see what’s goin’ on.”
	Fit-Boy heard him try the first office door by the entrance and nodded towards the manager’s 
door that Carl had opened before.  They heard Barry storming drunkenly down the corridor, scurried 
inside and crammed together under the desk.
	“What the fuck? ‘Ere, this door’s open!” Barry went through the first office door they’d 
unlocked.
	“I don’t like it, Barry, let’s go, eh?”
	“Nah.” The darkness in the managers’ area brightened slightly as Barry evidently turned on 
the lights in the staff area.
	“All the bleedin’ keys are ‘ere!” Barry was evidently on a mission of discovery.
	“Cummon, there’s obviously someone ‘ere…”
	“Yeah, ‘Chelle.  Someone who shouldn’t be!  Look this door’s opened an’ all!”
	A couple of loud footsteps and Fit-Boy and Carl’s dark hiding space was lit up by fluorescent 
office light.  The manager’s door had closed behind them and they saw a pair of Reebok Classics and 
jeans storm past the managers’ separate offices.  They weren’t followed by any female feet.  A few 
seconds they went past again, back to the corridor.
	“There’s no one ‘ere,” announced Barry.
	“You sure?” quivered ‘Chelle.
	“I looked di’n’t I?  We’re on our own, luv.”
	“But ‘ow come that light was on?”
	“Some dinlo probably left it on yesterday.”
	“You sure?”
	“I checked, you saw me!  If there was anyone they probably squinnied off out the fire exit.”  
There was a pause as, presumably, Michelle looked at the door.
	“It says an alarm goes off-“
	“That’s bollox, jus’ says that to stop people goin’ out that way.”
	Fit-Boy felt a nudge and turned to see Carl absurdly grinning, the smug prick.  You do realise 
we’re stuck under a desk like a couple of poofs? he thought, don’t get too full of yaself yet.
	“Come on,” said Barry and there was the click of a light-switch.  Fit-Boy assumed he’d turned 
off the corridor light.  This looked promising.  Maybe they were leaving but at the very least they 
obviously didn’t want to be seen by anyone outside.  At the moment he and Carl would have to wait to 
see what the couple were going to do but he was confident that, even starting from beneath the desk, 
they’d be able to jump the pair if necessary.  Barry obviously wouldn’t want anyone to know he’d been
here so probably wouldn’t call the po-
	Barry’s feet appeared in view again, this time followed closely by some slim ankles in high 
heels.
	“Oh, come on Barry.  I’m not really in the mood now!”
	“Sure you are!” Barry replied rapily.  “You said you was well turned-on by being done on the 
boss’s desk!”
	“It’s too bright in here!”  Obviously not too keen on the sight of Barry’s gut whilst being done, 
thought Fit-Boy.
	“Simple remedy for that.” Carl nudged Fit-Boy again with a questioning “What do we do?” 
look on his face.  Fit-Boy frowned an “I don’t bloody know” back at him just before the office was 
plunged into darkness at the flip of a switch.
	“I can’t see at all, now!” despaired Michelle.
	“No worries,” Barry replied cheerfully. “I know this place like the back o’ me ‘and!  Speaking 
of which-“
	There was a loud slap and a cheeky chuckle burst from Michelle.
	“Oh, Barry!”
	Go in one of the other ones, cummon, pleaded Fit-Boy but no, he could vaguely see the 
glass door in front of them opening as his eyes began to adjust to the dark.  Barry and his conquest 
approached the very desk that they were hunkered under.  There was a bump as Barry shoved 
Michelle onto it and slurping noises as he started getting off with her.  As male and female tops were 
removed, chucked on the floor and various “hmmm”s progressed Fit-Boy pondered his options:
	1.	Quickly get out from the desk and give the couple a slap or two to give them time to 
escape.  The good thing being that the darkness would mean that they wouldn’t be recognised but 
then the whole evening would be for nothing.
	2.	Awkwardly wait for the two to finish. Fit-Boy didn’t think tubby Barry would take long but 
then he might decide to lock up afterwards and, short of smashing the place up and attracting god 
knows what kind of attention, there’d be no way to get at any of the gear.
	3.	An even less promising alternative would be to somehow subdue or knock out the pair 
and get the stuff whilst they were disposed of.  He supposed that would be tantamount to some sort of 
hostage situation or something and the police would be a bit more effective in their arrests than in a 
typical robbery.  Fuck that.
	He was so lost in indecision that he didn’t notice that Barry had turned Michelle round so that 
she was facing the desk.
	“I wanna do you from be’ind, ‘Chelle!”  There was just an aroused groan in reply and wet 
sounds of Barry’s fingers at work.  In front of him and Carl knickers were pulled down Michelle’s legs 
which were then spread apart and Barry’s jeans dropped to his ankles.
	“Oi! Watch where your putting that big cock, Ba’!”  Barry sniggered to reveal that his intent 
was no accident and, as Michelle panted consent to the new position, rammed himself home.
	The earlier dilemma was now removed from Fit-Boy’s mind.  Michelle wasn’t expecting 
Barry to batter in with such drunken force and her knee slammed into Carl’s face under the desk.
	“Argh, fuckin’ ‘ell!” exclaimed Carl before he could stop himself and clutched his nose which 
started to bleed immediately.
	“What the fuck?!” shouted Barry and whipped down to pull his jeans up.
	Michelle was immediately hysterical.  “I told you there was someone ‘ere!”
	Fit-Boy had wasted no time in backing out from the desk and was at his feet.  Barry was 
struggling in the dark to do up his jeans around his hard-on and Fit-Boy punched him in the face.  
Barry tripped with the force of the blow and fell straight onto his back.
	“Eh! You leave him alone!” Fit-Boy managed to grab one of Michelle’s arms but not after her 
nails had raked down his cheek.  He swung her round and tipped a nut onto her.  There wasn’t a 
further sound from her as she collapsed to the floor.  The same couldn’t be said for Barry, however, 
who’d now got his jeans sorted.  His man-boobs jiggled as he pushed himself to his feet.
	“’Chelle!  Right, you’re fuckin’ dead, mate! Ooof!”  Carl had clambered out and kicked him 
solidly in the easy target of his quivering belly.  “Argh, fuck….”
	Barry clutched his winded gut instinctively and Carl followed with a kick to his head.  It prob-
ably wouldn’t have been too deadly but it caused Barry’s head to swing round and smash into the 
metal leg of the desk and collapse to the floor.  Barry was instantly dead-weight too.
	Fit-Boy fumbled about outside the manager’s office and turned the light on.  The couple were 
very much out cold on the floor.  Carl’s face was a mess of blood and his crappy cap was askew.  
Even in his current state he still managed to notice: “Nishe titshh!”
	He looked at Fit-Boy, obviously needing guidance.
	“Fuck this shit, let’s go,” he demanded.  “If nuthin’s nicked these two ain’t reportin’ nuthin 
when they wake up!”
	Carl nodded agreement, dripping more blood onto the floor.  On the way past the emergency 
exit he pushed the bar down with his elbow to open it.  Despite having his hand over his face to stop 
the worst of the nose-bleed Fit-Boy could see that he was grinning at the silence.  
	“Fuck’s sake, come on.”  He pulled Carl in the other direction, towards his van.

	“’Ere’ll do, mate.”  Fit-Boy indicated a street about three away from where he actually lived.  
He had no intention of letting his robbing-buddy know where he lived.  Carl pulled the van up to the 
nearest kerb.
	“So, er, Fit-Boy, you want me to, like, tell Jason what happened?”
	Fit-Boy jumped out of the van with his bag quickly.  “Yeah, you do that, Carl.  See ya later.”  
He strode away abruptly before Carl could say anything else.
	After a few seconds Carl drove away.  He beeped his horn as he passed Fit-Boy who gave 
him a quick wave then carried on down the street towards his home.
	Despite the lack of stolen goods this evening Fit-Boy was still up by the contents of Stefan’s 
wallet.  He pulled his gloves off and chucked them in his bag.  Realising that he still had Stefan’s 
swipe card and ID on him he chucked them in a nearby bin.  Like the money, as far as Fit-Boy was 
concerned, they were already missing when he found the wallet.  No way anything tonight was going 
to be connected to him, whether that Barry reported the break-in or not.  Somehow, Fit-Boy didn’t think 
that would happen.  He smiled at the thought that there was now hardly any need to return the wallet 
at all, seeing as there was now practically fuck-all in it and it wasn’t a particularly good one either.  It 
didn’t even look like real leather.
	Fit-Boy checked his mobile.  There was a string of texts from Sharon whose tone ranged 
between curiosity, concern, rage and finally desperation.
	He laughed and pressed Call.



	



 

 

Copyright © 2018 Glen Pearson
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"