Mr. Single
By R.W. Clinger
Last Friday was shitty for me at Banks, Taylor, and Dawn Realty. Banks sent me naked selfies of his fat and ugly seventy-four-year-old wrinkled c**k again. Taylor said I could get a raise if I sucked his wart-covered d**k. And Will Dawn gave me the address to his cabin in Erie, next to Lake Erie, and told me, “My wife doesn’t need to know that I want you to lick my nuts in the shower.” What a f****d-up trio to work for. The worst.
The benefits weren’t so shabby, though. Four weeks’ vacation. A solid retirement plan. Stocks in the company. It was maybe the only reason I stuck around. Surely it wasn’t because of the s****l harassment from the higher-ups.
I didn’t have the weekends off; not that I minded. I enjoyed showing condos or high-end properties along the
