Not Silent, but Still Deadly

Not Silent, but Still Deadly(Michael Panetta) Winston Quiple, CEO of Meat-O Products, sat at the end of a long table surrounded by his inner circle--advisors, assistants, lawyers, and various heads of this and that within the company machinery. He clasped his fingers together and grinned.

"All right, people," he said, "what are we going to do about our little problem?"

Silence overcame the room. The men and women of his inner circle made faces at one another, not one willing to look their boss in the eye.

Winston's belly groaned.

A woman nearest him, Clarice Bream, threw a wide-eyed glance at the group as if begging for life. She slowly slid her chair away from Winston and placed her elbow on the table top, resting her hand in a coy manner over her nose.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Winston said, slamming his palms down. "It's not that big of a deal!"

Bernard Hensen adjusted his glasses. "Sir, with all due respect, it was a very big deal."

Winston shook his head. His belly groaned again. "It was good old-fashioned PR, people. Somebody has to show the customers--" he looked down and fondled the tip of his silk tie covered in green dollar signs "--and the investors that Meat-O is edible."

Bernard scratched between his eyebrows with his thumb. He looked around at everyone, and when nobody said anything, he said, "well, of course it's edible, sir. But--"

Winston's belly made a new sound, something between a grumble and a puppy's whimper. He clenched himself in places not meant to be clenched and dug his teeth into his tongue until the pressure subsided. A drop of sweat formed at his hairline.

Clarice reached beneath the table and came back up a second later with a briefcase that seemed far too large for her tiny frame. "I have. . . an emergency," she said. She rocketed from her chair and disappeared out the door.

"Jeez," Winston said under his breath. "I'm not a wussy. I can take a little discomfort. And it's not--" he fidgeted "--it's not so bad. I don't even see what the public is complaining about."

Bernard pursed his lips. "But did you have to eat a whole can of Meat-O for the cameras, sir? Was it necessary to go that far?"

"The only thing I'm concerned about," Winston said, "is that it wasn't far enough! Think about it this way, Barry--"

"Bernard."

"What? The way I see it, Meat-O Products represents a leap into the future. The next stage of civilization, if you will. We're the first company in history to market a product of extraterrestrial origins!"

"Well, yeah, but--"

Winston raised a finger, then continued, "From the moment we purchased the bacteria sample, to the breakthroughs made by our R and D people, to the first successfully grown meat sludge, I knew that I was witnessing history. I knew--"

His gut burped.

Bernard's face reddened. "If you have to, you know, step out for a moment. . ."

"What are you talking about?" Winston barked. He stared at everyone's faces. Some looked as if they were about to erupt in laughter, while others' eyeballs rolled in any direction but his. He checked the clock. Fourteen more minutes until the meeting was over. Could he hold it until then? There was no way he was going to, step out, as Bobby put it. At least, not if he wanted to vindicate theirs and the public's concerns.

Bernard opened a folder. "Sir, with regard to the problem, might I suggest we halt production? At the very least, it'll calm tensions--"

"And dip into profits? Do you have any idea how quickly we'd be in the red, Boris?"

"It's Bernard, sir. And I don't mean that we should suspend production across the board. Just. . . in those countries where people are complaining."

A sharp pain bounced through Winston's abdomen. He imagined a shard of glass flying around in there, chopping and slicing at will. God, he thought, please let me hold it a little longer. Barack said something else, but Winston paid it no attention. He looked at the clock again. Only one minute had passed. There was no way in hell he was going to hold this in for the remainder of the meeting.

He needed to get to his office; it was the closest private place. But how could he leave without making the reason obvious? He'd never be able to look these people in the eye afterward; Meat-O had gained the upper hand, had gotten the best of him, and they would see that.

"What do you think, sir?" Bernard asked. All eyes were on Winston. Bernard pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it to him. "We can leave production alone in China, Cuba and Iran. We haven't heard so much as a peep out of consumers there."

Winston smirked to himself. You'd probably hear more than a peep if you slept in their houses tonight, he thought. He started to laugh.

His insides reacted unfavorably to the motion.

He squinted. His throat ran dry. He handed the paper covered in colorful charts and graphs back. "Good plan, Bieber."

"Bernard," Bernard said through his teeth. He rambled on about his plan. Something about setting up a meeting with the goons in advertising, hopefully shoot a string of television spots to quell concerns, but Winston only half-listened. He needed to get out of there, and fast! But how? "Think," he mumbled.

Bernard held his chin. "I think we should be able to get Tom Hanks. You know--somebody whom people feel they can trust. Or maybe Morgan Freeman."

Winston's gut burned a drum roll. He squeezed the edge of the table and pressed a button.

"Yes, Mr. Quiple?" asked a speaker beside the button.

Winston gulped. "Can you come in here for a moment, Nina?"

"Right away, sir."

Winston grabbed his chair's arm rests and lifted himself ever so slightly. He grinded his teeth as his insides, suddenly loosened from their curved positioning, seemed to drop. He tightened his thighs just in time.

The door opened. A woman with pepper-colored hair leaned in. "Is everything all right, sir?" She stepped into the room.

Winston extended a hand. "No!"

She flinched. "Mr. Quiple?"

"Stay there. I'm coming to you." He waddled toward Nina, back straight, knees locked. A few from his inner circle murmured. He reached her. "Nina," he whispered, "for the love of God, woman, listen to me."

Her eyes bulged. "W-What's the matter?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. Nina was the office gossip. Which meant that doing so much as hint at his predicament was a no-no.

"Is Clarice still here?" he asked.

"I believe so."

"All right, good." His belly made a sound like a straw sucking a cup dry. Nina stared at it.

"Nina!"

Her eyes shot up to his. "Yes?"

"Have Clarice wait in, uh, in the lobby. Tell her that I'll be down in. . . five minutes, okay?"

She nodded, then turned.

"One more thing," he added, almost forgetting the most important part. "We're pretty busy in here. If I forget, can you remind me? From the speaker?"

Nina lowered her brow. "Sure, Mr. Quiple." She smiled, then left.

Perfect, Winston thought. He waddled back to his seat, worked his way to a soft landing, then promptly turned up the speaker's volume so that his entire inner circle might hear. He motioned to Bernard. "Is there anything else you'd like to add, Borat?"

Bernard rolled his eyes. "Nothing, sir."

The next few minutes moved at a sluggish pace. During this time, Winston's gut burped and chirped and howled and whistled like a bunch of prisoners pleading their warden to be let free. He nodded absent-mindedly as people spoke their thoughts on what one had half-jokingly coined "Meat-O-gate." The clock's second hand ticked, and ticked, annoying Winston to no end; time always seemed slower when one was aware of its passing. A low-pitched noise--the deepest and most painful yet--cried out from him.

Everyone became like statues.

Winston felt his face flush.

"Mr. Quiple?" asked the speaker. Nina's voice was so loud it echoed between the walls.

He exhaled. Thank you Jesus, he thought.

"This is a reminder about your appointment in the lobby," she said.

Winston ascended like a phoenix from the ashes. Victory! He bit his lip, trying to fight an emerging smile. And she was discreet about it, too; nobody in the room knew what was going on.

"I'll be back in a moment," he told everyone, feigning a look of surprise at Nina's call. He pointed to Bernard. "Carry on in my place, Beatrice," he said, then hurried to the door.

His fingers wrapped around the doorknob. His other hand held his belly. A tear formed in the corner of his eye. He wondered: is this what it's like to go into labor? Is this what women complain about? Ha! I could give birth, no problem!

He turned the doorknob and leaped into the hall.

"Mr. Quiple!"

Winston froze. A man in casual attire jogged toward him armed with a notepad and pen. A name tag on the man's shirt with the word PRESS bounced in tandem with each step. The reporter stopped inches from him. A window from behind shone sunlight, making the man appear angelic.

"I have no time for questions," Winston said as he pushed past. His office was just around the corner at the end of the hall. He walked briskly, hoping to outdo the reporter.

The reporter maintained speed alongside him. "It'll only take a few minutes."

"I don't have a few minutes, son." Winston picked up pace, but then his bowels shifted, forcing him to rest against the wall. He had to play cool. "Okay," he said, "shoot."

The reporter flipped the notebook open. "Mr. Quiple, between February and July of this year, nearly thirty-seven percent of those who purchased your product experienced bowel irritation."

Winston squirmed. He tried to focus. "I don't have my data on me, so I can neither confirm nor deny--"

"Oh, don't worry, Mr. Quiple. My facts are checked and legit. Your product is targeted primarily toward lower income people. Do you feel you'd've shown more concern for quality control had your base been middle class?"

Great, Winston thought. An activist. "Now what sort of question is that, son?" His belly coughed and spasmed as he spoke.

One side of the reporter's lips perked. "Let's talk about your stunt earlier today. A whole can of that slop, Mr. Quiple. Quite impressive. How do you feel?"

Winston gave a thumbs up. "Real fine."

"Of course, if someone who wasn't as wealthy as you was to get sick after eating your product, they might not have recourse to top medical treatment. What would you tell such a person?"

Winston moaned. First, because of the pain. Second, because why should he care about poor people's health? And third, nobody forced them to buy his product; there were plenty of soup kitchens and charities to feed off of. But he knew to give a more pleasant answer.

"I apologize to all those who may have gotten ill from consuming Meat-O products. My condolences go out to them."

The reporter snickered.

Winston continued, "But the fact of the matter is that, legally, we're okay. My people and I have discussed halting production across the US and--" Something within his waistline quivered. "I have to go, son. If you'll excuse me."

"Good luck," the reporter said with a chuckle.

Winston waddled some more down the hall, nearly careening into employees and other passer byers. A few tried to initiate conversation with him, some even grabbing his sleeve to get his attention, but he would have none of it; time was short!

He reached the end of the hall. His hand latched the corner, acting as a fulcrum for the fast-moving CEO. His office door stood just ahead of him now. "Almost there," he said aloud, not caring who heard. He simultaneously brought his knees apart to increase his pace while grabbing his rear to keep anything from escaping too soon. Sweat lined his face. His pulse throbbed in his throat, and his heartbeat banged out rhythm on his eardrums.

He stopped at the door. WINSTON QUIPLE, CEO beamed at him in big gold letters. He dared to release one hand from his backside, then grabbed the doorknob, his palm slipping in its own sweat.

"Mother of God," he said as he rushed into his office and slammed the door. The entire world faded from existence as his eyes narrowed in on a small door in to the back of the room. He ran to the door and opened it, revealing a toilet. A note hung taped from wall above it that read OUT OF ORDER in bold black marker.

"Goddammit," he said, unzipping his pants.

He turned around. A small waste bin sat near the office door. Winston stumbled over to it and dumped its contents out. He dropped his pants, and then, with one final, glorious exhale, squatted over it.

Only one thing mattered now.

He closed his eyes and let loose.

A sound like a muted waterfall permeated the air. He'd expected something closer to a blaring tuba or exploding dynamite, but whatever. This was then followed by a series of hums and snorts. Not bad, he thought. Not bad. Next came a cracking whip, then a few fire crackers, and, for the finale, a noise not unlike when he took a puff of his favorite brand of cigars. The whole event lasted for about one minute by his reckoning.

Spent, Winston hunched forward landed on his knees. "Dear Jesus, Son of God, thank you, thank you, thank you. . ."

A cough came from the other side of the office.

Winston's fingertips clenched the carpeting. He opened his eyes. He stumbled to his feet, and, with as much dignity as he could muster, turned to face his desk, the direction the cough had come from. Dizziness overtook him. So did nausea.

A woman stood hunched beside his desk, one arm lifted to her face and the other on the desktop supporting her weight. Her skin was pale. Her eyes were shrunken.

Winston's vision blurred a little. "Clarice?"

She nodded. "I decided to, to come up here to see what you wanted, r-rather than wait in the lobby, sir." He head bobbled. She bent her knees, then collapsed to the floor.

Winston tried to approach her but lost his balance in the process. Soon, everything turned black.

#

According to the coroner's report, Clarice died as a result of inhaling large doses of methane and several as-of-yet unidentified gases. The only reason why Winston survived and she did not was because his larger body mass allowed him to endure such exposure. When news of her death broke out, Meat-O Products went into damage control mode. The first order of business? Voting to fire the then-CEO.

Winston was then sued by Clarice's family for everything he was worth. He tried to find work, but nobody would hire him; his infamy had grown to the point that merely associating with him was sin in the public's eye. People even threatened to boycott any company that decided to give him a chance.

So he did what he could to get by. He moved out of the country, to one where he isn't well known, where the general population isn't media conscious. He found a house in a nice neighborhood, steady work in a baron's vineyard, and, when he's ahead on his bills, he's able to afford the deluxe Meat-O entre meals from the local grocery store.

This was one of the countries that Baldwin had mentioned would continue production.

Winston still has noise problems with Meat-O from time to time, but his body is starting to acclimate.

Time will only tell if his mind will, too.

#

END


(Author's Note: I wrote this about a year ago. It's not necessarily the best thing I've written, but I like it enough to share with others for a cheap laugh. Hope you like it!)