

Law Street

Phil Wohl

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Phil Wohl

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LI

Steve Christianson sat in his palatial corner office facing the Statue of Liberty and ignored yet another law as he lit up a celebratory cigar. His firm had just settled the largest securities class action case in the history of the country, and he would be able to buy that vacation house in Vail to go along with the one he already had on Dune Road in the Hampton's.

He took a long, relaxing puff on the Cuban smoker and then bellowed instructions into the hallway.

"Li get in here and disable the smoke alarm!"

Lihwa Kwan was every bit the Chinese princess trapped in the limited space of a commoner. She did every task with precise skill, preferring to sit in the shadows rather than place her abundance of talents on display in a city that was not known for its humble citizens. Li was the most dedicated of employees, a mail-order secretary if you will, who serviced any and all of her bosses needs and asked for nothing but more tasks in return.

She never looked Steve straight in the eyes, because that would have been an improper gesture and a sign of disrespect in her Chinese culture. He was a voracious eater and had an equal appetite for manipulating and pushing people to extremes.

"It's finger time!" Steve simply grunted.

Li responded like she always had to the request over the past years, by walking over to the tall oak cabinet in his office and pulling out a pack of Vienna Fingers. She then closed the door and walked around the desk and dropped to her knees, crawling the few extra feet under his desk. Li handed the red and white plastic package of cookies to Steve, who slid the tray open while his virtual slave unzipped the trousers of his blue Armani pinstripe suit and then dug deep to find his pleasure source.

Twenty seconds later, when both of them had consumed their mid-afternoon snacks, Steve transitioned back into his unrelenting work persona. Li cleaned up the small mess and returned the cookies to their rightful place in the cabinet. She then opened the door and Steve barked, "Send those loss numbers to Barrett now! He's been waiting for them all day!"

Christianson always made it sound like people were not doing their jobs, but in reality it was his jumbled mind, and the escalation of internal conflict, that prohibited him from having rational, continuous thoughts. Years of being Father Devine's lead altar boy at St. Catherine's Church on Long Island made sure of that.

Li sat back down at her desk inside her windowless, 8x8 office closed her door and flushed Steve's junk out with a healthy dose of mouthwash. She spit the green liquid into her wastebasket and then moved toward her purse, which was buzzing from her hidden phone. The usually unflappable and demure Li - at least inside the confines of Bauman Rogers LLP—was about to reveal her less-sensitive side.

She picked up the small device and it read, "We need to meet tonight."

"No shit, Sherlock!" she muttered angrily under her breath.

SOFTBALL

The Bauman Rogers annual summer outing was a bonanza for the grossly-compensated partners of the firm. It was here that they could display that blatant disregard for the firm's associates and other professional staff by attempting to humiliate them in a variety of athletic challenges. Each event was either rigged in their favor, or designed in such a way that losing would be an option only if accompanied by a pink slip to the winner.

It was also here, cradled in the lap of luxury in the Hampton's, that these married men could chase some skirt while their wives slaved at home while watching the au pair take care of their kids. If ass-chasing was one of the activities planned by the firm's vast marketing department, then Norman Rogers certainly would be a perennial gold medal winner.

Normandy Bernard Rogerstein was born during the tail end of World War II when his father was overseas fighting Nazis. At least that was the story his mother, Zelda Rogerstein, told him. His dad heard his country calling him in the late 1930's and he answered the siren by fleeing the country and settling in Toronto, Canada, where he started a small but successful dry cleaning business after his career as a traveling salesman stalled.

As the story was told, Morty Rogerstein died while on a combat mission in the south of France, about six months before Norman was born. Since the beach at Normandy, France was a well-known landing spot for the allied troops, Zelda decided to incorporate the reference into her bastard son's name. The truth that she never told was that Norman's father was a Spam salesman from Toledo she met at Coney Island in the summer of 1944 and had a brief fling with...

The outing's festivities started with a rousing round of golf, which was an early start time for a group of men who kept hours like they were vampires. Of course, the firm had to book a course about 20 minutes from the Hampton's, in the quaint hamlet of East Quogue, due to the wasp-only restriction of all of the country clubs on the East End.

Norman was the jollier and more aggressive half of the Bauman-Rogers partnership. Seventy-five year-old Walter Bauman's spotless reputation preceded him - it also kept the firm free from persecution during years when other figureheads of the plaintiffs' bar were being tried and hauled off to white-collar jail, affectionately named Hampton's West by its inhabitants.

Steve Christianson had played a round or two with Norman and his wife, Violet, but the slow-pace of the play was no match for his 100 mile per-hour, no-holds-barred style. Instead, he decided to talk to marketing associate Melanie Penders, who was happy to switch him into another group with a young female associate, who would surely be wearing a short golf skirt for the occasion.

It was Jacob Worth's first outing with the firm. The Wall Street veteran had seen market crashes and even survived the smell of his Aunt Edna's egg salad, but nothing could have prepared him for the Armageddon that was to come. Worth was plucked from relative obscurity in the Midwest where he had enlisted in the financial witness protection program after fleeing Manhattan after 9/11. The slow pace of Chicago was a welcomed change from the speeding bullet that is New York.

"Is this Jacob Worth?" a New York headhunter asked him one day as he sat in his Illinois office.

Although he had no designs on returning to the city from which he was spurned, or perhaps spawned, he was nonetheless willing to listen to anyone with a pulse at that point.

"Yes, this is Jack Worth."

"I saw your resume on-line and thought you would be a perfect fit for this job I'm trying to fill."

The words "law firm" initially dulled his senses, but when Lisha Fong said, "It pays upwards of $200,000," all of the trepidations that he had about returning home melted away like a Good Humor Toasted Almond Bar on a subway platform in the summer.

Jack's wife asked him, "But I thought you didn't want to go back to New York?"

Of course, that was before he told her how much they were willing to pay, proving that everyone truly does have a price. But it wasn't until Jack was flown into New York and he and Steve Christianson were face-to-face, that a rivalry between a giraffe and hedgehog was born. Six and-a-half foot Worth being the leaf-eater in the comparison and diminutive Christianson being the carnivore.

"It's not the salary that will make you rich, it's the bonus," Christianson said to Worth at their initial lunch as he positioned a huge hunk of cheeseburger in his mouth.

New Yorkers are infamous for their ability to ignore the sage advice of elders to not "talk with a mouthful of food." He continued to shovel French fries into the cavern of bullshit, but that did not deter his pursuit of the prey.

"What did she [the recruiter] tell you about the package?"

It had been quite some time since Jack had harkened back to his teenage days at the Socrates Diner eating a few hamburger platters. He was an adult now and tended to eat foods that wouldn't stay in his system for an entire football season.

He also learned to simplify his dialect when negotiating. Rule number one in negotiating was to never name your price before the other side. But that golden rule was superseded on this day by his desire to move on from the stationery garbage truck sitting across the small, round table from him.

"Two-hundred-plus," Jack replied without blinking.

If Steve had his way he would pay no one and keep all the money for himself. But, somewhere along the line, he realized that in order to get the money he had to hire people to do all of his work for him.

Christianson was a master negotiator. He realized that if Worth came all the way from Chicago he wasn't just in New York for a sightseeing tour.

"I think we can get to a package between salary and bonus that will get you to two-hundred."

Although he wasn't sure what kind of reaction that would elicit, he figured that the offer would be a good start. In reality, though, Steve needed Jack. The previous financial guy at the firm often spoke above Steve's thought capacity, leaving him feeling even smaller than his stocky five-foot, nine-inch frame. When he was handed Jack's resume, which was sprinkled with a variety of Long Island colleges, including one that he attended, he knew that the language they spoke would be in the same ballpark. The other guy vying for the job was a Harvard undergrad and Columbia MBA... enough said.

Jack heard the number and almost choked on his burger. Having a slab of meat lodged in his windpipe would have been a Heimlich-bonding experience for the two boys, but might have labeled Jack as soft in the dog-kick-dog world of New York law.

Instead, he swallowed the meat and his pride and succumbed to the temptation of untold riches, which would eventually prove to be the classic carrot on the string trick.

"The money is less important than the opportunity," Worth said like a good doggie who was about to double his salary.

"Gotcha'!" Steve said to himself as he triumphantly completed another negotiation.

Jack was at the firm less than a month when he encountered his first outing. That year, he decided to skip the golf and get some much-needed sleep instead. It had been years since he felt the competitive juices flowing through his veins and even longer since he actually acted on the urge to really compete.

Steve knew that Jack was a real jock so he stacked his team with the big man, so his nose could remain firmly planted in Norman Rogers' ass. Rogers was the team's pitcher despite his affinity for throwing softballs that looked as large to the hitters as a Manhattan large pizza pie. It had been 10 years since Jack had picked up a bat, and15 years since he participated in an actual softball game. If this had been a relaxed, casual game where the outcome wasn't contested, then he surely would have transferred less than five percent of his brain cells to the cause. But the daily contesting of every single topic brought him back to his days as a teenager when it seemed like everything mattered and he was under a super high-powered microscope.

Jack batted fourth and played first base for team Rogers. He hit behind his boss Steve Christianson, who unceremoniously ended the first inning by popping up to his counterpart at shortstop, Carlo "The Scooter" Scarnaccio. The team was down 1-0 by the time the bottom of the second rolled around. There were days early on when Jack thought it would be best to take his foot off the gas and let his new boss shine, like so many other bosses before him had received the gift of false modesty. However, by the time he picked up the black aluminum bat and walked toward the right side of the batter's box, he was so far gone that rational thought no longer existed.

He let the first pitch - a ball - go by so he could gage the speed of the pitcher, paralegal Dominic Vaspucci. Yes, Italians do like their baseball. The left fielder moved back a few steps toward the left-field wall, which doubled as the wire-mesh fence to the tennis courts, just at seeing the sheer size of the batter in the box.

The next pitch was down the middle, and floated toward the upper middle part of the zone, which also happened to be Jack's personal sweet spot. Animal instinct kicked in and Jack stepped toward the pitcher and uncorked a furious swing. The ball exploded off the bat and catapulted through the air down the left-field line. Left-fielder and firm associate lawyer Don Benson took one step toward the fence and then simply looked up as the ball cleared the fence still gaining altitude.

Steve Christianson was taking a big gulp of a beer, and was the one choking on toxic fluids for a change. Third-basemen and partner Greg McNulty simply said, "Holy, shit!" as the ball eventually landed half-way into the tennis court area and then rolled to the back fence.

Norman Rogers stood up and yelled, "I think that should count as at least two home runs!" always taking the opportunity to negotiate even the most established of rules.

Steve looked at his boss and took another swig of his luke-warm green bottle of Heineken. It then occurred to him that his choice of a boy from the Long Island over a weak-hitting Ivey-leaguer might have been a tad misguided, if not shortsighted. Then he sat down on the weathered wood bench and gulped down the remaining six ounces of piss-water, while thinking about the thing he loved more than anything else in the world. He sneered and thought to himself as Jack lumbered around the bases, "That Gulliver-looking mother-fucker better make me a lot of money!"

E=M²

"We're almost there," Agent Harry Lawson said to Samantha Waters, alias Lihwa Kwan, as they sat on a vacant, late-night Number 4 train heading uptown.

"What the fuck, Harry?" Li/Samantha said in an accent from the New York streets. "If I have to suck that pencil dick one more time, I might chop it off with a plastic knife!"

The bureau's investigation had reached a critical juncture and could not afford to pull back now.

"You have to hang in there, Sam! We have bigger problems coming our way."

She was frustrated but still had enough of a sense of humor to take one more shot at Christenson.

"Is there another boss with a three-inch dick? Those two extra inches might make my job easier."

Agent Lawson reminded her about their deal and how she had to see it through to completion.

"How much longer? And if you say, it's hard to say, then I'm going to get off this train and head right to Rikers Island myself."

In reality, Lawson was going to say just that, but he switched gears to avoid inciting the volatile Waters further.

"It should only be a few more months, and don't even think about running!" he said with all of the conviction of an inner-city school principal. "Remember when we first met?"

She nodded and flashed back to waking up on a cold, steel table and looking up at Agent Lawson.

"We put a chip into you that it traceable by any of our satellites around the world. So unless you plan on hopping on the next space shuttle and traveling to the moon, SAM, I would suggest you take care of business."

"Then, I'll be free?"

He replied, "Then you'll be free."

She shook her head in disbelief and exited the train at the Yankee Stadium stop at 161st Street, her usual drop-off point after discussing matters with the FBI. Sam switched to the other side of the tracks and headed back downtown to her apartment in Hell's Kitchen.

She was on her way to freedom just before Melanie Meyers came into her life with a machete, and proceeded to confuse matters surrounding Steve Christianson. An associate in the Christianson's Case Development Group left the firm and there was an opening for new blood to enter the machine.

It was six months after Jack Worth joined the firm and the FBI was only a few more turns of the screw away from closing the deal. Li was feeling optimistic that day - she had even started making plans in her head about what Sam would do once she was a civilian again. Go live on the West Coast and ignore corporate assholes that commit fraud, like Norman Rogers and Steve Christianson. That was her thought until the pathologically neurotic styling's of M-squared, as Sam referred to her, joined the group.

It took Meyers all of two hours to create such a ripple in the group that Li became physically ill and had to barf into her waste basket. She realized that her fluids in the waste basket were disgusting and always tipped the nighttime cleaning lady effusively to get her on board with the no-nonsense waste removal.

The 27 year-old Meyers was a relative newbie to the industry, having just completed law school a few years earlier before distinguishing herself as an around-the-clock gopher for a team on a high-profile case. This constant vigilance put a crimp into the FBI's late-night dump of all things Baumann Rogers. An extra security detail on Melanie ensured a clear path to the PCs on most nights.

Jack tried to extend an olive branch a day after his underling, Boris Jankovich, rudely welcomed her to the group. The pair of 20-somethings were attempted to mark their territory in the most unprofessional fashion. In his real life, Jack would have suggested that these two complete assholes get a fuckin' room for god's sake. But this was work, where the big people play during the day, and he had to talk to the one person that had the greatest potential to make his life completely miserable.

"I just wanted to apologize for Boris' behavior today and welcome you to the group."

Melanie had the stability of shaken and stirred nitro glycerin, which sent her into an immediate eye waterfall. Again, Jack would have normally borrowed from Tom Hanks and exclaimed, "There's no crying at work!" unless of course you've just been informed that a large sum of money was going to be deposited in your bank account during the next pay period.

She then went on to tell Jack the sob story of her life and how she was so grateful that he listened and was so welcoming. Jack felt all weird like a fly that had been lured into a spider's web. Melanie gave him the creeps and he opined that she must have made most people feel either nauseous or like an unexpected snack in an inescapable web.

A few days after Melanie's arrive into the group, Boris went on a work strike and was fired. Jack implored him to break out of his funk, but Melanie had gotten inside of his head and found his off switch. Her campaign of annihilation and destruction was well underway, and she was hell-bent on clearing away everyone in her path toward the throne - which was pretty much everyone in the firm except Li, who she thought was an invaluable resource to her master plan.

Steve, for all of his greed and pettiness, did not want to fire Boris. He beat the hell out of the kid for the better part of two years and then was squeamish about letting the unkempt and unprofessional underachiever go.

In a meeting with Jack and data group head and resident lounger Patti Fong, Steve said, "If he is willing to just do the work in the role he is in, I am willing to keep him."

Jack was an eternal loyalist, but he loathed it when employees sat around and drank off of the corporate teat without contributing. He had protected Boris and his surly attitude for months and was tired of both the insubordination and general indifference at performing his fairly routine daily tasks.

"I don't think he's going to snap out of it," Jack said to Steve but he really wanted to say, "What, are we five years old? If I tell somebody to cut the shit and get back to work, they better get off their ass and get back to work!"

Jack talks to us as Boris walks down the hallway with a box of his possessions, "That's really the fundamental problem with the muted language of work. You can never really say what you want to say, or what has to be said. The only person who could get away with some colorful language or off-color remark in the past was the boss - that was, until, the age of political correctness and the prominence of the human resources department took form. Now you can barely say 'fuck' without being sued for sexual harassment."

FONG YOU!

Steve Christianson and Patti Fong had worked together for the greater part of the past 20 years. They met in the bathroom of their first employment experience at Walton, Crabtree & Wright. More accurately, they met hours earlier as Patti was introduced around, fresh out of college and hornier than that dog that always humps your leg when you go over your friend's house.

At the time, Fong was Patti McFarlane from the great state of Virginia, which as we have been told is known for its 'lovers.' McFarlane was as Catholic as a communion wafer and her lineage traced back to some of the South's most followed preachers. Yet, she was in the aged men's bathroom of W.C.W. just after her lunch break with her skirt around her ankles and young associate Christianson conducting what he thought was a locomotive from behind.

They had just finished in one of Steve's longer sessions, a whopping 58 ticks of the clock; 35 seconds if you subtract the time he fumbled to find home base - and one of the senior partners of the firm, Charles Wright, walked into the bathroom and heard giggling and whispering and saw two sets of legs behind the stall.

Patti bravely emerged from the stall first, primarily from a push from behind from Steve, as Wright finished draining the main vein and then washing his hands in one of the two sinks. Patti adjusted her knee-length skirt and washed her hands in the sink next to him. He looked her over in the mirror and apparently liked what he saw, because she was summoned to his office later that day to account for her unprofessional behavior.

The 6-foot 3-inch, 54 year-old, self-proclaimed family man, sat in his high-backed black leather chair facing Ellis Island.

"Please close the door and sit down, young lady," the deep-throated Wright said.

Patti was all of 21 years-old and was only a few months removed from escaping her home and riding on a greyhound bus for the better part of an entire day. She barely survived those early months, but learned real fast how a young woman survives in the big city: use any assets you have.

Patti sat down and fully expected to be fired, or flogged, and was obviously in favor of the flogging option because she had finally slept her way into an apartment with two other girls.

The long and lean Wright rose to his feet and pulled down the vest of his blue pinstripe three-piece suit. "Do you realize how many hours it took me to get this office?"

Wright kept talking so Patti assumed that the question was rhetorical in nature.

"Do you realize how many times I had to bend over and take a pounding from behind in order to work my way up?"

Patti didn't react, so the now-aggressive Wright looked at her and spun his right index finger around in a circular motion. She had seen that gesture before and knew it meant that she should get up and turn her back to him. He came behind her and skirted her with one swift motion, lowering her skirt and pink cotton panties with strawberries to the carpeted floor around her three-inch black pumps.

She stepped out of her lower garments as Wright tapped on the desk, as if Patti was a dog in training. The 5-foot 4-inch McFarlane obediently hopped up and gave up her derriere to Mr. Senior Partner.

A few minutes later, Wright was giving it to Junior Tax Associate McFarlane pretty good, so he asked the question that had been on his mind since their impromptu lunch meeting in the men's room.

"Who was in there with you?"

Patti was holding on for dear life and her head was rubbing against his fine wood desk, so she was about to utter the first thing that came in her mind.

"Jerry Rosenberg!"

But the only thing that Jerry Rosenberg could hammer was a balance sheet, and would not be a believable bathroom hookup. So she quickly shifted to Plan B and something she heard Christianson mutter angrily before she escorted him to the bathroom.

"Fuckin' Greg Paulson!"

Paulson was Christianson's boss and the person most responsible for his misery and lack of career advancement. So Patti took a shot.

She grunted, "Paulson! Greg Paulson!" as Charlie swung his long right hand and whacked Patti on her snow-white butt, leaving a handprint across her ample right cheek.

It wasn't long after that the satisfaction of keeping up with a 20-something melded with the evil pleasure of extracting information. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick roll of money, and flipped three $100 bills on his desk.

"Go get your clothes cleaned and join a gym to tighten that ass up," he said as he sat back down in his chair without looking at her. She scooped up the money and before she left the office, Wright picked up the phone and blurted to his secretary, who received a bigger bonus than most associates for her discretion, "Fire Greg Paulson and promote whoever's next on the list."

He slammed down the phone and said to smirking Patti before she opened the door, "Young lady, that ass is mine if you want to continue working here."

She turned back to look at him, but he had already spun his chair away from her and toward the view.

"Yes, sir," she said as she opened the door and exited his corner office.

Flash ahead 15 year later as Christianson was named a partner at Bauman Rogers. He and Patti \- now Fong - celebrated in his new corner office with a rousing 1-minute, 12-second session. They reclined together on his desk looking toward the ceiling.

"I am now in position to grant you one wish," Steve said.

Patti knew this day would come and had one bullet already loaded in the chamber.

"I want Friday's off," she quickly replied as she rose from the desk and started to get dressed.

"Friday's off? How am I going to explain that?"

She also had an answer for that obvious question.

"I'm a Jehovah's Witness. They don't work on Friday's."

Steve chuckled and then saw Patti's serious face, "Really?"

She looked at the schmuck in front of her and forcefully replied, "Really!"

And thus the four-day Fong work-week was born.

COOKIE MONSTER

Steve Christianson came from a big family where he was the youngest of six children, four girls and two boys. His older brother Mark was a hot-shot entertainment lawyer in Los Angeles, leaving Steve always feeling like he was playing catch-up.

Vying for Maria and Bob Christianson's attention was a daily pursuit for the two boys who were only 10 months apart in age. They were both decent athletes, got okay grades in school - although Mark got statistically better grades and went to better colleges - and were helpful around the house. But the place that Steve won his Italian mom's heart over was in the kitchen. It was also the place where his Irish dad turned away from the momma's boy.

Steve's love for food was unparalleled until he passed the bar exam and started making some money. It was this greed of edible objects that paved the way for his obsession with making green paper, lots of green paper. But that didn't stop him from instituting a weekly team lunch a few months after he was named the firm's youngest partner in its 30-year history and head of the Case Development Group, as it was called in its first iteration.

In Jack's first lunch meeting, he was tasked with presenting his first case and had no idea what to expect. In his 45 years on the planet he had seen, heard and experienced many things that he probably shouldn't have been exposed to, and he was about to add another level onto the list.

Boris took a seat next to Jack at the end of the 14-seat rectangular, dark wood table. Jack instinctively sat at the end to accommodate his daddy long legs.

Steve had not entered the room yet for the noon meeting, as it was his custom to be uncomfortably late for every meeting and appointment. This initially infuriated some of the senior partners until they started seeing a few extra zeros in their bonus checks each and every year as a result of Steve's efforts to hand-deliver the most tasty cases available to the plaintiffs' bar.

"Just keep in mind that Steve might lose focus once Li puts out the tray of cookies," Boris said with a rare smile as he looked across the table at associate David Mann, who was really David Moskowitz, a Reform Jew from Roslyn, Long Island, who "upgraded" to the orthodox level once he realized that this would increase his chances of first being hired and later being retained due to an age-old quota system.

Mann smiled with his rubbery, chubby face and squinty eyes revealing that Boris was speaking the truth.

"Actually, it's tough to get him to listen with or without food," Mann said in typical New York fashion, having to act like he was saying something better than what had already been said. New Yorkers like to repackage garbage and resell it as new, sort of like investment bankers taking subprime mortgages and piecing them together in a bigger pile of sellable shit.

Steve walked into the room moments later as most of the people around the table had already started eating their sandwiches and salads that were passed out by woman-servant, Li. Jack decided to wait to eat because Boris had informed him that they would be first up, in the veritable lead-off spot to present at the meeting. So much for easing into your first week of work...

"All right, let's get this meeting started!" a chipper Steve said as he walked into the conference room without closing the door behind him. Li, in the obedient side of her life, immediately rose to her feet and gently closed both doors of the frosted-glass conference room.

He stayed on his feet and took a glass from the marble counter-top and filled it with ice before pouring himself a Diet Coke. "I'm sure most have you have met Jack, but I wanted to officially welcome Jack Worth to our little family," he said in typical undramatic fashion - especially when the topic of conversation was focused on someone else - without actually looking at Jack. The overflow crowd at the table all greeted Jack accordingly with smiles and good wishes as Li waited anxiously for Steve to sit in his seat at the end of the table and eat the salad she had placed out for him.

"Let's hear what you guys have for us this week," he then said referring to Jack and Boris.

Jack started to present a case after thanking everyone for their good wishes. Steve was about to turn around and take his seat, but his keen sense of constant disruption prevented him from doing so. His mother always let him sneak a cookie or a brownie in before dinner and now that he was the beast of all beasts, he saw no reason to discontinue that fine tradition.

So he reached his hands toward the large plate of cookies on the counter and peeled back the three layers of Saran Wrap in order to fetch a few cookies. The first attempt proved unsuccessful, as the sight of dreaded raisins caused Steve to immediately shove the fingered cookies back on the plate. Worth continued talking about the case, mostly in the direction of David Mann, but all of the attention in the room was focused on Christianson and his search for the perfect pre-lunch cookie.

Li fidgeted under the table as her boss in the corporate world was once again up to no good. Although this latest transgression was not an admissible offense in a U.S. District Court, it broke just about every etiquette rule known to man.

Steve dove back into the plate in search of chocolate and pulled out the plumb he was looking for, a triple-fudge brownie. Two huge bites later his mouth was full and gulped down half of his glass of soda to provide a slip-and-slide atmosphere in his throat. The gluttonous Christianson never stopped at one of anything, especially when it was pleasing, so he spotted another brownie and touched just about every other cookie, ruining the hopes of every woman in the room of snagging a sweet treat after lunch, because they all knew where his hands had been.

He finally sat down after inhaling the second brownie, downing the remainder of his soda, and then grabbing another can for the meal. Jack was finishing up his four-minute dissertation on the case and then waited for Steve to comment.

"Sounds like there could be something there."

He then turned to the group's chief investigator, and ex-FBI forensic accounting agent, and said, "Sam, have your guys taken a look at that," even though he probably heard only about two percent, at most, of what Jack said.

It was then Boris's turn to present his case, and he did exactly what Jack would never do, he read off a few pages of written text. The group had suffered mightily during the six months that Boris was flying solo analyzing cases. Thus, it became important to replace him with anyone that had a pulse.

Everyone at the table turned their attention from Steve's brownie search to their own food the minute the floor was turned over to Boris. Christianson's two percent retention rate instantly dropped to nil, as he chomped on a huge multi-meat hero with cheese. Boris concluded seven minutes later when most people were finishing up their lunches.

Jack looked on in painful disbelief at the bore that was sitting next to him. He again waited for Steve to react, which was apparently the local custom. He looked at Steve and marveled at his ability to swallow great quantities of food without actual chewing it. His pile-and-flush system would have to eventually end in choking at some point, Jack thought.

"So, do you like the case?" Steve asked Boris, not really caring to hear his opinion because he could make a deal with any competing law firm at any time for a piece of the case.

Boris was notorious for guarding his opinion with his life, for fear that anything he said would be scrutinized and thrown right back in his face. Being in his mid-20's and completely wet behind the ears didn't help his cause with this group of seasoned veterans. He often made inappropriate comments and was told "We're not friends!" once by Christianson as he feebly attempted to crawl up his boss's crowded, no vacancy, butt.

"I think the case might have merits but there are a few problems," Boris said taking the most neutral stance he could muster.

Steve had no problem embarrassing Boris, so he turned to his left and said in a friendly tone to Jack, "Why don't you take a look at it and tell me what you think."

Jack thought that was rather insensitive, but he mistakenly viewed it as a vote of confidence of his abilities when, in fact, it was just another slap upside Boris' head. Steve then transitioned to a few seemingly in-depth conversations with Melanie and David, which had the sleeping-gas impact on the rest of the crew, which included marketing people and data people mooching the free food. Steve liked a crowd when he performed.

Just when the group sleep was about to down-shift into first gear, Li got up and walked over to where the cookies were situated and removed the plastic wrap before setting them in front of Steve at the head of the table. This was the perfect place for the cookies – especially if you were Steve – because David the orthodox Jew (who couldn't eat the cookies) was on one side of him, and Jack the healthy eater was on the other side of him. A few of the data guys in need of a sugar rush shamelessly got up and took a few of the raisin-infused cookies to their leader's delight.

For the next 10 minutes, Steve proceeded to clear the plate of 10 cookies, one by one, until there was nothing left but crumbs. Canadian resident and firm associate Patrick Trottier turned to Patti Fong and said, "That man is the cookie monster."

Patti raised her eyebrows and thought to herself, "You have no idea."

BILLABLE HOURS

If you ask a lawyer they will tell you they work around the clock, a slave to the billable hour. While many attorneys pull all-nighters about as often as they deviate from the truth, it is their hedonistic habits that should probably get the attention of clients, not the inflated number on the bottom of their bills.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Norman Rogers said as he closed the door to Steve Christianson's office.

"You staying in the city?" Steve asked as he continued to look at his computer screen while his boss sat down on the green leather couch in his office.

Rogers' 8-5 day was usually extended by various 'business' activity at night, which he told his wife of 35 years usually consisted of taking clients out and attended various 'meetings' throughout the city. The man had five houses scattered throughout the country in Summit, New Jersey, Southampton, New York, Tucson, Arizona, Vail, Colorado, and he still owned his mother's house in Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, which he rented out to a Russian family that had ties to the mob.

"Every chance I get!" Norman exclaimed.

Steve was just starting to master the late-night meeting speech to his wife, who had squirted out three kids in five years. Mary Christianson was blessed with a girl after having two feisty boys, and thanked god for finally giving her someone she could talk to, albeit in a few years.

She always knew Steve was going to make money because of his one-track mind and his ultra-competitive spirit. She helped put him through law school by being the one that worked during the early years, the couple's best years. But once Steve started making money, the balance of power permanently and irrecoverably shifted in his favor.

"It could be time for another double-team. Do you think that waitress from the Frozen Squirrel is up for it again?" Steve asked as he and Norman walked toward the bank of elevators and rolled up on Jack Worth.

Norman reached up and patted Jack on the back, but Steve chose to ignore the Bunyan-esque Worth and continue his conversation. Jack was surprised that the two figureheads of the firm would speak so openly in such a common area. He wasn't sure if he was more offended with the disrespect of their wives, or the shameless overcompensation of male bravado?

Norman continued with his conversation after acknowledging Jack.

"That girl is always ready. We should check out Satin's Playground in Hell's Kitchen. The girls are young and ready for action there."

"Isn't that a swinger's club?" Steve countered as if he had prior experience with that establishment.

Jack looked at Norman, who was fishing for some sort of confirmation from the firm's provider of all relevant information. Jack's world was so tight that he would never gain access to such a depraved universe, so he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to suggest that he didn't know. He felt as if he was in the high school lunch room and his friends were bullshitting about doing things with girls that they never did, but only jacked-off to.

"All right, Christianson. You pick the place!" a quickly-disturbed Rogers replied. "But I don't want to go to Chug and Ride again. Last time I rode that mechanical bull I had to go to the chiropractor for two months," he added as they all exited from the elevator.

The two men branched off from Jack as they left the building. Norman - being his usual hyper-social self - said goodbye to Jack. Steve, still nursing a life-long Napoleonic complex, ignored the gesture and kept walking while directing his comments to his boss.

Worth thought to himself about Christianson, "I don't know if this guy's nose is so far up Norman's ass that he can't see people through the mud, or the more logical and direct explanation that he's just a douche bag?"

The hours that were billed that night involved two cans of whipped cream, a container of Bosco chocolate syrup, three sporks and a bowl of crushed nuts. Christianson and Rogers seemed to always run the risk of crossing swords, but the borderline homophobic act never seemed to bother either one of them.

After a night of climbing the biggest indoor rock wall - made out of fake rocks - on the East Coast, the guys headed out of Vail K10 and headed back to Norman's playground apartment in the Meat-Packing District. When he first bought the apartment in the late 1990s, Norman heard it was an up-and-coming neighborhood but didn't realize that his new play-pen was also the home-base of the gay community. So it was no wonder that sword-crossing was not only an acceptable practice, but it was also a right-of-passage - a vital sub-sect of an initiation if you will \- for members of the rainbow community.

While it is true that older man lack the stamina and sexual desire of their younger counterparts, it is the responsibility of younger women to boost their confidence in the bedroom, or the kitchen table, or the $20,000 dining room table. Norman always had a steady supply of Viagra on hand, proudly displayed in a handy dispenser in the bathroom. He of course took this down when his wife made the rare appearance in the city for a special occasion. Aside from having their three children, Martha Rogers used her beds primarily for sleeping, not taming her pint-sized husband's endless libido.

Mary Christianson was also home that night, and she was definitely not alone. Her three kids were climbing all over her and swinging from the ceilings like a pack of chimpanzees in the wild. The Christianson kids were cute, but they tended to have erratic sleeping patterns. Mary bore the brunt of one kid always being awake. She had slept an average of four hours per day since the kids were born, which was less than half the number of hours of sleep her husband got that night.

He texted her "Meeting went well" on the company-provided car-ride back from scaling the indoor equivalent to Mount Everest. "Kiss the kids good night for me." Nowhere in the correspondence did Steve mention his love for his wife - it seemed like the more money he made, the more he stayed over in the city with Norman. What started out as a once-in-a-while thing had turned into a once or twice a-week habit with the prospect for even more.

Norman and Steve were sitting on the couch half-naked at three o'clock in the morning with lit cigars dangling out of their mouths. Their date for the evening, Becky Cartwright had left a few minutes earlier, sticky from head to toe but headed back to her apartment with five crisp $100 bills in her pocket that she didn't have when she started the night, and a certificate for a lifetime membership to the Christianson-Rogers Fan Club.

The men sat on opposite couches half-naked and still charged up from all the Viagra.

"Man, that girl was flexible," Norman said.

Steve took a huge puff of his Cuban phallic symbol and then billowed smoke rings into the outer reaches of the ten-foot ceiling.

Steve countered, "I never realized that a person could scratch their ear with the big toe of their foot."

Little did they know that Becky was on her way in a company car to 24 Hour Fitness to take a quick shower and then work out before heading to her morning job as a London exchange trader.

"Do you think it's too late to order some take-out?" a cocky Norman asked.

Steve knew he wasn't talking about food and replied, "Depends what you have in mind? Italian? Chinese? Greek? What about a kosher meal?"

Norman chuckled, "You know that there is nothing kosher available after 9:00 p.m.! And even if you order the kosher meal before nine, there's no guarantee that it's going to still be hot by the time it's served."

Steve laughed because of his lone experience with a Jewish girl in college. "What about Chinese then?"

Norman thought about all of Steve's stories with his secretary Li, whom he had no idea was an animal in her real life.

"If we do Chinese then we'll be wanting more a half-hour later."

Steve laughed at Norman's joke just as he did for mostly every attempt at humor by Norman.

Steve picked up his BlackBerry, which was never out of his reach, and searched his speed dial for his favorite late-night Italian.

"Hello, Brittany!" Steve exclaimed in his self-professed charming voice.

Brittany Lagastino was at their front door about 20 minutes later holding two bags filled with pasta drenched with red gravy.

"Did you bring the stuffed shells?" wise-guy Christianson asked.

The New Jersey girl aggressively stepped forward and grabbed his package.

"Did you bring that hard Italian sausage?" she countered, but really thought that it took two of these cafones to make one normal cazzone.

Brit was as easy as she was shrewd. Her legs were open as often as gynecological patients, but she was a working girl in her family's Brooklyn, Staten Island and Manhattan pizzeria chain. By day she made local deliveries and helped out in the kitchen, but at night she visited mostly male clientele with leftovers and orders that were more off-menu in nature.

A typical $20 tab for food would balloon to at least three crisp $100 bills at night, giving the term off-balance sheet financing a whole new meaning.

RAINBOW COALITION

"These motha' fucka's will fuck anything!" Li texted her good friend, business and trading partner from her cell phone, which she knew the FBI would be screening constantly.

"Have they dipped in curry yet?" Gretchen Farrelly texted back.

The trading artist currently known as Li had taken the rap for trading with a shit-load of material inside information in buying gold futures on several occasions.

"No curry yet, but I'm sure they would toss some fruit salard if it was within sniffing distance.

"Where are we at with the daily trades, Sam?"

"Pencil-dick thinks it's a good time to buy stocks, so buy the shit out of Treasuries and gold! Economy is tanking. Clean trade, Inspector Gadget! :)" she added to keep Agent Lawson at bay.

"We have big meeting in Miami the end of the month. You gonna' make it?"

Sam was pissed that Gretch disclosed their plans to the Feds, not knowing that she was intentionally misleading their pursuers.

"Later," was all she wrote in her response.

":0" Gretch replied.

Sam was about to morph back into Li until she saw the reply, which tipped her off that her better half was a real player and knew the game.

No meeting to cash out their almost $50 million in accounts and intellectual property would take place until Sam was loose as a pair of aged boxer shorts.

Human Resources had become one of the most important departments of the law firm. Norman Rogers had seen too many lawsuits filed against the company for his taste, so he went out and actively recruited a stout German named Helga to literally put his affairs in order.

"Is she boneable?" Steve Christianson asked Rogers one night over drinks.

The always-cocky Rogers had his usual shit-eating grin on his face.

"She not only boneable, as you say, she burned up every last speck of my Viagra dosage!"

"You mother fucker!" Steve playfully grunted as he took another painful sip of scotch. He was no more comfortable drinking that lighter fluid as he was waiting in line for sloppy seconds behind Norman Rogers. But climbing the law firm ladder had its price, meaning that the catholic school lifer had to convert to Judaism until his boss no longer served a purpose.

Christianson was utilizing Fraulein Helga faster than he could say "Suck my veiner schnitzel." Steve couldn't help but think—in the 30 seconds it took Frau Zimler to drink from the tainted stein of stale spooge—that he should get in touch with 25 percent of his German heritage more often. Later that evening he had Zimler over a desk and her thick German accent was becoming both a communication deterrent and a natural turn on.

"Der russel is big," she grunted moving in and out of her broken English and fluent German.

Any time a women was using the word big during sex, Steve was happy to accept the compliment.

"You tight little Nazi," he grunted.

Helga was of course familiar with her heritage and the unyielding stigma of the association. She also knew that jobs in the Human Resources capacity were scarce, and that her family was in fact a pack of raging Nazis.

The Director of Human Resources then said the only thing a Wall Street professional could say as she was being railed by the boss from behind.

"Heil Hitler!"

The rush of adrenaline must have done wonders for Steve's premature ejaculation difficulties, because he crashed through the two-minute barrier for the first time in his life and marked the occasion with a celebratory chant, "Heil Hitler!" as he saluted with his right hand and then arced his arm like a softball pitcher so he could slap Helga's milky white derrière.

TECH WONDERBOY

Patti Fong was given a looser budget than most group heads. It was her penchant for human insulation, with a focus on distancing herself from hard labor that created the revolving door of data personnel. She created a system of funneling the pay scale toward the top, leaving only small shards of dollars for the people actually doing all of the work.

The latest casualty of the Fong That! campaign gathered his belongings after being let go following an unremarkable two-year stint. The job was reposted on all of the employment web sites and resumes started piling in like flies on shit.

"I like this one," Patti Fong said to herself as she spun her chair around and looked toward the murky waters of the Hudson River.

She had been through a dozen candidatures and hadn't seen a single one that could support the vast burden of her work. Her salary was now in excess of $200,000, but only half of that was on the official Baumann Rogers books. The remainder of her salary was picked up by Steve Christianson, via an "overflow fund" provided on the side by a roster of clients. These clients were mostly state and county pension funds that were given the lofty responsibility of managing the money of its constituents. In the event of a major loss, which resulted primarily from a significant decline in the price if a stock or a bond, the funds would band together in kind as part of a class - a class action if you will - to try to save face and recover funds.

Recoveries were based more on judge and venue than they were on facts and actual fraud. The more liberal settings such as New York and California were more open to attacks against corporations than the Deep South, where redneck judges set the bar for scienter - the intent to commit fraud - as high as the blue sky in which their courts were located.

Keeping track of clients' losses was the charge of Patti's data group, who would crunch numbers once a complaint was filed. This lack of initiative got under the skin of Jacob Worth, who was aggressively-proactive by nature. However, no potential case made it past go without material client losses, unless Steve Christianson was able to bullshit and strong-arm his way into sharing a piece of the case with other firms fighting over the scrap of meat.

"I'm gonna' hire this guy, so don't give him a hard time," Patti Fong said in her best influential voice as she stepped into Jacob Worth's doorway. Worth had no idea why Patti was even talking to him, because it had been at least six months since she had even acknowledged his presence.

Worth muttered under his breathtaking as Fong cleared the doorway, "What the fuck?"

He had become increasingly agitated by the passive-aggressive stylings of Christianson and Fong, and the more direct abuse administered by Melanie Meyers. The culture shock of returning to New York after five years in hiding in the sleepy Midwest was both significant and increasingly insurmountable.

Just as Worth was debating whether to go from office to office and toss each asshole crashing through their windows and splattering onto the dirty downtown sidewalk, Fong showed up with a ray of light in the form of Bart Pagglia.

Pagglia had started the Tech Wonderboy company from the basement of his parents' house in Huntington, New York, and grew it to a multi-million dollar payout. His software was bought out by BestBuy for its Geek Squad franchise. At first blush, the $500 million price for a program that could fix computers from the inside seemed excessive for a category killer that had cornered the market. But, with Bart's company rapidly eating market share in the tech service business, BestBuy did not want to underestimate the seemingly unstoppable force that was Tech Wonderboy. So they bought him out.

It is said that every success comes with a price, and Bart Pagglia's price was dealing with the federal government after hacking into the Langley, Virginia database and stealing essential code that went into his groundbreaking software. The government waited for the payout and then approached, actually cornered, Pagglia with the information.

"So what the fuck do you want me to do?" Pagglia asked after a dark ride in an unmarked van.

Agent Harry Lawson stepped out of the shadows, desperate to complete a multi-year investigation that was in danger of faking through the cracks.

"You stole our code and we're not happy."

Bart never backed up even in the face of certain danger.

"You can't fuckin' prove it!"

Lawson thought about roughing up Pagglia, but he appeared to be in much better shape than expected. So he backed up and then clicked a switch that replicated a desktop computer to a large screen affixed to the wall.

Bart looked at his replicated keystrokes and then said, "You've had this for six years? Why use it now? How much is this gonna' cost me?"

Lawson smirked, "You can either give all of it to us and go rot in a jail for the rest of your life, or you can go to work at a law firm and help us put away a couple of scumbags?"

Pagglia imagined being used as someone's bitch in jail, and then thought about a similar scenario while working for a law firm.

"Well, at least I get to keep my money if I work for the law firm."

Lawson smiled, "Good. Very good."

TWO AGAINST A COVEN

Pagglia got the job even though his real credentials would have had him on top of the corporate food chain instead of being placed in a menial job that was obviously beneath him. While he knew he had to cooperate with the FBI, the extent of his involvement was nonetheless murky. Remembering his alias, Greg Palmieri, would prove to be much more difficult than the actual job, at least in the beginning.

Greg went to his first group lunch meeting and sat across from Li Kwan not knowing that she was also working under cover. The indentured servant act was so convincing that no one, save Jacob Worth—who was the consummate conspiracy theorist and a tad-bit paranoid - thought she was anything but Steve Christianson's better half at work.

Kwan did not make any eye contact with anyone as she buzzed around the rectangular conference room delivering sandwiches and salads to everyone around the table,

"No cookies?" Steve barked as he looked around the room.

"They will be delivered in a few minutes," Li meekly replied.

She actually couldn't stand watching him eat dessert before his meal, and had sabotaged the delivery of the sweet treats until after Jacob Worth had a chance to get a few words in. But that wasn't good enough for Christianson, who ventured out into the hallway to let his cookie radar locate the chewy targets.

It wasn't Li's best hiding effort, as she simply stashed the cookies in the pantry across the hall from the conference room.

"Bingo!" Christianson exclaimed as he unraveled the web of saran wrap before picking up the tray and carrying it across the hall.

Li was sitting with her back to the conference room door but the blurred image she saw out of the corner of her left eye sent her into a rage that almost broke her cover. Steve walked in with a face-full of cookies and plopped the tray on the available space on the marble countertop.

It took every fiber of her being, plus the collective effort of her ancestors, to calm the fuck down. Her first instinct was to lunge across the table and hurl her fist deep into his skull, but she quickly realized that that wouldn't be good for business. Instead, she buried her head in her note-taking and recording the minutes of another useless, long-winded meeting.

Through the mountain of cookies stuffed in his cavernous mouth, Senior Partner Christianson made a muffled, insincere pronouncement.

"I wanted to welcome Greg Palmieri to the group. He has quite an impressive background and we look forward to him contributing to our team," he said, all the while looking off into space and avoiding looking at the one person he was talking about.

Jacob Worth looked over at Li Kwan, possibly hoping for her real personality to escape the jail of this robot that was keeping her captive. Li wanted to mouth "Fuck off!" but that would have splintered her geisha girl persona. So she simply smiled in a respectful manner and added blushing cheeks to the perfect employee formula, which sent Worth temporarily off the trail because he had to focus on spewing more bullshit that was going to be ignored.

Palmieri smiled and thanked Steve and the other well-wishers in the room once he realized that he was the topic of conversation. The government had created a complete Greg Palmieri profile that would pass the muster at Baumann Rogers, who always did extensive background checks on just about everyone that crossed the firm's path. All traces of Bart Pagglia—both past and present—were swept from the Internet, all but wiping Tech Wonderboy from the face of the corporate earth.

Pagglia met with Worth a few weeks prior in the friendly confines of his Worth's office, and both men had the epiphany that wolf's den was no place for these two free birds.

"He doesn't have fangs," Pagglia thought as their conversation progressed.

Worth new special when he saw it, being that he was surrounded by people of mediocre talent who earned large sums of money by absolving themselves of any and all moral and ethical duties. Pagglia was not merely a Data Specialist as his new tittle presented. He was as intelligent and he was focused, and the only way a person of this ability would be available was if the job market was as rancid as was being reported by the talking heads on the financial channels.

"How did you wind up here?" a curious Pagglia asked Worth in their initial meeting.

That was a curious question, especially from a person who was supposed to be on his best behavior during an interview.

Worth took the question in stride and smiled, "It must have been some divine intervention, or an act by the devil himself."

Bart didn't know whether to laugh or shit himself, so he opted for the former because he didn't view the latter as the most prudent of movements.

After Bart's first lunch meeting he walked past Li's office and she decided to break character for brief moment and check out his assets. Pagglia could sense the locking of a heat-seeking missile and looked over at LI, who quickly changed her facial features from lusting to lock in on her work duties.

The passive flirting went on for a few weeks until the curiosity and aggressive nature of Samantha finally overtook the very person she despised, Li. Pagglia was wearing a tight polo shirt, which left little to the imagination - especially for Samantha's overactive libido. She watched him parade in front of her all day and she barely flinched. That was, until, he waved the red cape in front of her eyes by flexing his tanned muscles.

Li quickly assessed the situation.

"Steve and other senior partners in meeting for a least the next two hours. My office is has been soundproofed by the FBI. Time to finally put it to good use!"

There had been many occasions when Bart sat in endless meetings and imagined what it would be like to be with the group's Asian princess? His interpretation was one of mentor, slowly teaching the delicate flower the ways of the Latin lover.

Too bad for Bart that the illusion was shattered in the blink of an eye, as Samantha grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and yanked him back into her office, using her butt to gently close the door behind them.

Bart abruptly thumped on the long desk, trying to figure out what just happened.

"What the..."

Sam was in total control as she anxiously stepped out of her panties and walked over to take off his pants.

"Okay, Tech Wonderboy..."

Bart's eyes widened at the thought of having his thin cover blown. But Samantha was quick to put them on equal footing.

"You think anyone would be that asshole's servant? Fuck that!" she said as Bart finally was able to relax and get in tune with the moment.

Fifteen minutes later, Bart was slipping his shirt back on and wiping the sweat off his brow, as Samantha grabbed him one last time and kissed him passionately.

"We can't do this by ourselves."

He replied, "Fuck if I'm giving them my money and going to jail."

"Then we'll bring someone else in?"

"It's risky, but it has to be someone we trust," Bart countered.

He thought for the moment and then stated, "I got just the person."

JACK'S BEANSTALK

Bart looked across the narrow hallway from his small, windowless office and thought of the possibilities that awaited him in the office of Worth. He must have been sending out some pretty strong signals, because Jack needed a break from his perch atop of the worst view in Manhattan to chat with his new work friend. Coming in every morning and being face to face with the huge hole in the ground that was the World Trade Center, was started to eat away at him. That, and the constant negative mental pounding administered by gluttonous lawyers, and you had a man that was teetering on the edge and in need of a direction change.

Bart strolled into Jack's warm office, complete with two Bloomberg terminals, a flat-screen television, and a regular computer and said, "Wow, this office is like a sauna."

Jack was doing about four things at once, "Tell me about it. Thank god for this fan," he replied nodding at the small fan on the edge of his desk.

Bart sat down on one of the chairs facing Jack's desk and attempting to gently erode the self-imposed barrier in front of him.

"What did you think of that new vampire show last night?"

Jack broke free of the technology hold, "I was dying to e-mail you during the show."

Bart saw his opening, "I'll friend you on Facebook and then we can exchange comments in a more timely fashion."

The Tech Wonderboy even had his own fake Facebook profile under Greg Palmieri, complete with Photoshop-doctored pictures and trumped-up personal information.

"Cool! I just hope it doesn't get two sappy with that teenage angst thing."

"The brother is a great character. He's definitely more interesting than that love-struck guy."

"My wife challenged me last weekend to write a vampire book."

Bart was even more interested than his initial FBI angle.

"Really? Are you going to do it?" he asked, hoping that something could lift him out of the 9-5 daily office grind.

"Yeah, I think so. Just have to come up with a title, and then I'm off."

Bart sat back in the chair and gives the title some legitimate thought until a voice crashed the blood-sucking party.

"Why don't you take it up the ass and call it whatever you want. We are headed into a blood bath!" Sam shouted in Bart's invisible earpiece.

Bart muttered, "Fuck off," but said it loud enough for Jack to hear sounds.

"What was that?"

Bart's gifts were more technical in nature, but he still was pretty quick on his feet with a reply.

"Suck off," was all he could muster under the circumstances.

"So you want me to call my vampire book, Suck Off?"

Bart couldn't believe that actually came out of his mouth, but after letting it resonate for a few seconds, it wasn't as disturbing as first blush.

"Yeah," he said as confidently as confirming an order for a cup of coffee.

Jack believed that every attempt earned merit, "That's a start. It's better than the nothing that I have right now."

Bart partially deflected the praise and then moved on to real business before Sam completely destroyed his hearing.

"We gotta' get out of here one day and do what we're really supposed to do," he said in a quieter tone that would not drift dangerously into the hallway.

"I'd like to climb Jack's beanstalk!" Sam joked on the other end of the wireless line.

"Shut it!" he tried to quietly yell while inconspicuously removing the earpiece.

Jack swiveled his head from the screens in front of him to the man-child sitting on the other side of his desk. He wasn't ruling out a raging case of Turrets Syndrome.

"You okay?" a now-concerned Jack inquired.

Bart was going to suggest that they go out for a drink after work, until his instincts directed him elsewhere. Jack Worth was all business, and loathed to socialize with people he worked with - especially the people at Bauman Rogers. Instead, he went for a more direct approach.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Bart replied and then shifted into what he thought was a higher gear.

"Have you ever been to BestBuy?"

Samantha was impatient as always at her desk playing the part of the dutiful servant Li Kwan. Bouncing her legs up and down under her desk was definitely a break in character from the usual unflappable Li personality. She stood up and then exited her office with all of the intention of busting into Jack's office and setting him straight on their little FBI-guided operation. But something snapped inside of her head as she cleared the doorway - maybe it was thoughts of going to jail, or maybe, just maybe, a part of her wild self really enjoyed being Li?

Bart swung around when he heard someone in the doorway.

The loud, foul-mouthed Samantha morphed into the soft-spoken Li and delivered a pointed message to Bart in her made-up broken English.

"Excuse me. Bloomberg man come at 10. It almost 10."

Meaning that Sam wanted Bart to stop procrastinating and either get Jack on board, or get the fuck out!

"Thanks, Li," Bart replied as she backed out of the doorway and sat at the community Bloomberg terminal a few steps outside of Jack's office and within heat range of the conversation. Sam still had her earpiece in and could hear what was being said even though Bart had removed his communications device.

Bart had a concerned look on his face, like his life was hanging in the balance. Jack was half-focused on the news rolling across his screen, but turned his attention to Bart after at least 10 seconds of heavy silence.

"Are you all right?" one of the lone human beings in the building said to the other.

Bart finally took his guard down and replied, "Not really?"

Jack looked to care for the people he liked, so he nodded at the door and motioned at Bart to close his door.

"So, what's up, and why were you asking me if I've ever been to BestBuy? Of course I've been to BestBuy."

"You ever go to the Geek Squad?"

Jack always knew there was something knowingly-familiar about his friend from across the hall. This guy had an aura of an industrious CEO, but he was doing the job of a common worker. Jack flashed back to a cover of a business magazine that had been gathering dust in the magazine rack on the floor in his bathroom. Bart was on the cover with shoulder-length hair and a goatee. The guy sitting in front of him was clean shaven and had very short hair, but he still fit the bill of the headline, "Tech Wonderboy."

"Tech, mother fuckin', Wonderboy!" Jack quietly exclaimed.

Bart smiled and breathed a sigh of relief, "In the flesh. Guilty as charged, my friend."

The euphoria of the discovery was short-lived for Jacob Worth. He turned around that precious intel and took his best, albeit sarcastic, shot in the dark.

"What are you working for the Feds?"

"FBI," Bart replied with a straight face.

"Get the fuck out of here!" Jack exclaimed.

"No, I'm serious. It's either do what they tell me, or they take all of my money and throw me in jail."

Sam and Bart both knew that the kind-hearted Worth would be susceptible to A-rated sob story.

"What did you do, steal their code?" Jack guessed.

Bart nodded in acknowledgement of the accurate educated guess.

"Shut up! You hacked in to their database and all they want in return is to put away some pencil-dick asshole?"

"Yeah, that about sums it up."

"You doing this alone?"

And before Bart could delicately implicate his new Asian bump-and-grind buddy, she glided across the hallway undetected with the precision and skill of a Ninja warrior, and slipped into Jack's office.

Jack was surprised at first that the usually polite Li did not knock on his door before entering. But when she sat down in the chair next to Bart and smiled, Worth realized that the person in his office was not Li, it was the other persona she was hiding.

"I knew it!" Worth proclaimed.

"Listen up big man," Sam firmly sad to Jack, "playtime is over for these douche bags. You have to help us put the Cookie Monster and his furry pals away."

Once Jack connected the Christianson reference and realized that the artist formerly known as Li hated her boss as much as he did, he was empowered for the first time in years.

"Count me in. That fucker will probably fire me before I make more money, anyway.

GRIM REAPER

It wasn't long before Jack's pronouncement in frustration actually took form in Steve Christianson's cash-infused brain. The economy was tanking amidst one of the worst financial crises of the last century, creating havoc in the job and housing markets. But all of this unrest was actually a boon for Bauman Rogers LLP. Companies had misled investors as to the depth of their subprime holdings and this was a good thing for the plaintiff's bar.

The senior partners were sitting around a large oval table, eager to carve out their large pieces of the pie.

"Gentlemen," Norman Rogers pronounced as the 12 senior partners settled into their large leather chairs and viewed the company's annual income statement for the first time. It had taken three weeks for CFO Peter Manganello to crunch the numbers, which included about two weeks of a Christianson-Rogers messaging to work out the kinks.

It was the best year of revenue the firm had ever produced. In fact, it was 40% above the nearest comparable year, even after Steve and Norman skimmed five million dollars off the top and gave Manganello $500,000 for his discretion. This was on top of the $250,000 bonus the creepy CFO had coming to him.

"That fuckin' guy give me the creeps," Bart said one morning at seeing Manganello on the 44th floor.

"That guy is like the grim reaper. Whenever he comes up to our floor and walks around, it means that either someone's getting fired or he needs to bury his nose deeper in the ass of the access of evil," Jack stated.

Meanwhile, back at the big money meeting, the senior partners were delighted with their shares of the payouts. The most these partners had ever seen in a single year was a check of about $750,000. Christianson and Rogers knew that the $1.5 million payday would not only placate the usually skeptical group of lawyers, but it would also clear them to make about $4 million apiece. Christianson also used some of his reserve fund to placate his right-hand man and law school classmate, Billy Erickson, who was often on the road making back-alley and bar-room deals with politicians on the take. The firm had been fairly clean \- aside from the usual padding of billable hours - until Christianson joined the firm and then brought Erickson aboard a few years later.

Bauman Rogers became a blip on the FBI's radar screen when Norman Rogers began adding to his modest real-estate portfolio. When he added three significant properties in a five-year span, it triggered an IRS audit which was quickly squelched by investigators.

Agent Lawson opined, "We want them to be good a fat by the time we get to them. Overconfidence breeds an aura of invincibility, and invincibility has always been a recipe for disaster of any dynasty.

It was the best year in the history of the firm, yet Norman Rogers transitioned into a more somber tone once the euphoria of the partners payouts calmed somewhat.

"We're operating in difficult times gentlemen. Therefore, I believe it is in the firm's best interest..." as he looked at his CFO for the desired effect, "to initiate a salary freeze and curtail the level of associate bonuses."

There wasn't a dissenting point to be found in a room of perhaps the finest dozen litigators in the class action world. With the job market flush with available talent, and jobs hard to come by, it was a win-win scenario for the pay-to-play millionaires of Bauman Rogers.

Jack Worth had been anxiously awaiting his review. In reality, he really didn't give a shit what bullshit Christianson was about to say about his performance. For it was the money, and just the money, that piqued his interest.

It was always tremendously awkward for Worth to walk into Christianson's cavernous corn office. Although it was only a few steps from his dark box, it was the veil of absurdity and impropriety that always made Jack so uncomfortable. That and the fact that Christianson would barely acknowledge the giant's presence, made for mixed feelings of extreme anger and often despair for the sensitive Worth.

Steve stared at his computer screen, which always had a collection of porn streaming on the ready. He also had a Bluetooth wireless device in his ear so he wouldn't miss a grunt or slap of the action. His first instinct was to ignore The Worthless subject in his doorway, but then he realized that he had to take the shovel out from under his desk and lift a little more bullshit. So the fake climax to the girl-on-girl action would have to wait a few minutes while he faked his own climax, of sorts.

"Is this a good time?" Worth asked as he took a few bigger steps into the room.

While his salary might have helped in paying part of the stack of bills surrounding his feet, a big bonus for all of his hard work would be mightily appreciated. And so goes the thought process in fairyland, where dreams turn into magical carpet rides.

Steve took one more look at his screen, hit the pause button on the action, and then collapsed site and replaced it with a full-screen stock chart of a perspective case.

"Yes, come in and sit down," Christianson said as he motioned to the chairs facing his large mahogany desk. Referring to Worth would have been an act of true acknowledgement, and he wanted absolute no part of that respectful act.

"Why don't you just turn around and pull down your pants, so I can properly kiss your ass," was what Steve wanted to say. But, short of lip-to-skin contact, he went about his delicate balancing act.

If Christianson had said, "I have some good new and some bad news," then Worth would have replied, "Give me the bad news first. I always like to end on a good note."

Steve probably felt that cosmic pull and went the other way, preferring to deliver what he had as good news before screwing his meal ticket with a smile.

"First off, I'd like to say how much we appreciate your attitude and willingness to do whatever it takes on this team. You are the ultimate teammate and we all enjoy working with you."

Roughly translated... "You are a big pussy! I am going to take all of the money you helped me earn and give you a bonus so small that I could wipe my ass with it. And since I know that you will take all of my shit and never retaliate, you will not get another dime in salary from me ever again!"

Despite the kind words, Jack still had this gnawing feeling that the douche bag in front of him was about to go in a different direction, like a death row prisoner's last meal, or a pig on the way to the slaughterhouse.

"That being said... we are in the midst of horrendous economic times. We have decided to institute a firm-wide sally freeze for all employees, and that also includes all of the partners. None of us are taking an extra dime in salary this year."

He then showed a crack of weakness, "You can check with anyone in the firm on that."

Worth was the ultimate soldier, "I believe you. If you say it is so, then it is so."

"Bonuses are also down throughout the firm, but we wanted to acknowledge your contribution. So, we are giving you a..."

And time stood still as Jack had already drifted off to another place, shielding himself from what would undoubtedly be a horrendously-disappointing number.

"Fifteen thousand dollar bonus. We think we will be able to make it up to you next year," Christianson concluded.

Jack was true consummate soldier and knew it wouldn't be prudent to stoke the flames any further.

"I am behind whatever decision you make, and I'm willing to whatever's best for the company."

Worth's words bounced off Christianson like he was the man of steel. This attorney was not unlike others in his profession, but he took paranoia to a more rabid level.

"Again, you can check with other people. This is across the board."

While Jack was upbeat and supportive, his insides were churning.

"These mother fuckers are screwing everybody! What, Am I supposed to ask someone else that was given the shaft to confirm that the also had to bend over and take it?"

For some reason, Steve felt like he had to finish off the brief meeting in grand style, by going all politician-style and sealing the betrayal with a handshake and a sincere look. After all, he had aspirations of becoming either a politician or a judge when he was done pillaging the law firm.

While shaking Christianson's hand, Worth had the sobering realization that it was time to step up his game and wholly join the efforts of the FBI's takedown. That stance was reinforced when he looked at his bank account the next morning and saw that $50,000 tax-free dollars had been deposited in his account from an unidentifiable source. While he wasn't sure if the actual donor was the government or his new partners in fighting crime at Bauman Rogers, the truth was that he really didn't give a shit anymore!

THREE'S COMPANY

It was exhilarating for Sam to finally be able to shed her Li character a work, even if it was for only a few moments a day. The compression release was no less thrilling for Bart, who had climbed to the top of the mountain after starting a company in the basement of his parents' house, which he subsequently bought for them.

Sam, on the other hand, tried not to mix her home life and her business life for fear that she would slip up and blow Li's impeccable cover. While she had to deal with the likes of Steve Christianson and Norman Bauman 24 hours per day, she also had her real life and her business partner Gretchen Farelly to deal with.

"You've been unusually calm lately," the long-legged blond-haired, ex-cheerleader observed while they sat and watched television in her apartment. "Either you're getting more dick in your diet than usual, or the coming to the end of that Mickey Mouse investigation?" Then she talked into the lamp as if it had a hidden microphone.

"No disrespect intended, Agent Lawson."

Sam was getting tired of her partner's jealous ways.

"Hey, vagina! The microphone is over there," Sam said as she nodded at the flat-screen television with the built-in camera and microphone.

Gretchen smiled and then shot a double middle finger at the TV.

"What's up, bitches!"

"Hey, Gretch, this isn't a reality show," Sam points out.

Meanwhile, back at FBI headquarters in Midtown Manhattan, two agents discuss their plans for the evening.

"You going to watch The Real World tonight?" Agent Cartwright asked Agent Brown as they monitored the feeds from Operation: Pay for Play.

"Nah, I'm gonna watch the girls," Brown replied as he picked up a zip drive from the desk and dropped it into his left shirt pocket.

Although surveillance tapes were not allowed to leave the building, footage of Sam and Gretchen wasn't technically considered core surveillance because the audio-visual equipment wasn't technically government issue.

Agents had planted cameras all around the two bedroom apartment, including new-age equipment installed in the shower head that was able to transmit images clearly without aquatic disturbance.

Gretchen played for the cameras and lifted her shirt to give the agents a view of her ample assets.

Sam rolled her eyes, "Why do you have to share my goodies with every pervert who works for the government?

The cheerleader smirked, "Just trying to support our boys on the front line," as she played her part in attempt to distract attention away from her life and business partner.

There was an assertive knock on the front door.

"You expecting anybody?" Sam asked.

"No, you?"

Gretchen had no idea who was at the front door, but her curiosity was at its peak as a result of the sequestered lifestyle.

"Who is it?" she said in her sexiest voice.

"Look on the video monitor. That's why I got you that thing!" Sam yelled from the other room.

"It's a guy with muscles and, I assume, a decent hang-low," always-horny and boisterous Gretchen stated.

"I can hear you," a voice said from the other side of the door.

Gretchen was about to open the door, but Sam came out of nowhere and cut in front of her.

"Wonderboy, what the fuck are you doing here?" an annoyed Sam asked rhetorically.

"I just wanted to see how the other half lived," Bart said as he walked into the apartment and his body was instantly greeted by cock-starved Gretchen.

"Well hello, hello, hello," she said. "Where do I sign up to work out on that caramel ride?"

"Back off, Gretch! That's my penis!" Sam said in a stern voice, making her intentions known.

Gretchen followed Bart into the apartment like a puppy trailing its master. She still had her cute voice on when she said, "Aw! Can't we share him?"

That was before she realized that her business partner and lover was getting a bit more than the one inch daily requirement of dick.

"Wait a minute. Wait a mother fuckin' minute!" Gretchen started her tantrum. "Are you saying that you're sucking more than just little Stevie's raisin?" she said to Sam.

Bart was starting to get the sinking feeling that the burrito he ate at lunch would be defying gravity and heading back up the chute.

Samantha Waters was not the kind of person you wanted to confront in an aggressive manner, but Gretchen let her emotions get the best of her.

"Oh no you didn't!" Sam stepped closer to Gretchen. "Do you think this hoochie is gonna' sit still while pencil-dick is finished before I'm done filing my nails. And then I see this juicy steak," she smiles amorously at Bart, "and all hell breaks loose!"

Bart smiles back even though he is still trying get the imagery of Steve Christianson with a pencil instead of a dick out of his head.

"Is this guy in, or is he out?" Gretchen asked, demanding clarification on whether Bart was aware of the FBI operation.

Sam slid even closer to Gretchen, and the two were now face to face.

"Oh, he's all the way in. In fact he's so far in that I wasn't sure if I could handle all of it."

The bisexual couple often skirted the line between homo and hetero, and this was starting to look a lot like a sinful combination of the two.

Sam and Gretchen stared intently in each other's eyes while Bart seriously pondered his future.

"So, let me get this straight... are you saying that you've had sex with that asshole?"

The two women looked at him, effectively saying, "If you serious? We're about to rock your world and you're talking about some asshole who is hung like a peanut?"

He put his hands up in surrender to make peace while saying sorry.

"I had to pop his cherry to make sure he was good enough for you momma," Sam said in her sexy voice as she put her hand down Gretchen's shorts.

Gretchen gasped as one of Sam's magical fingers found its way inside of her.

"Remember when you popped my cherry."

"Holy shit!" was all Bart could whisper to himself.

"You squealed like a pig when I put that second finger in," Sam said as she did just that.

Bart took a few steps forward, as he thought that it was time to fulfill every Internet millionaires fantasy, besides having sex with Princess Leia.

Sam used her free hand to stop Bart's flow.

"Not just yet there Mandingo. I have to get this bitch all oiled up before you go in there with that python.

"Let me see that python," a full aroused Gretchen said to Bart.

Sam again intervened.

"If you see that python, you're gonna' cum and then fall asleep.

She then turned to Bart, "Keep that snake in your pants, and get over here and start earning your keep."

And Gretchen did eventually fall asleep, but not until two hours later when the trio was in bed.

Sam looked over at Bart, who had Gretchen snoozing on his chest.

"We should all live together."

"Yeah, we might need to pool our resources when this thing is over," Bart sensibly replied.

Sam grunted, "Ha, he said pool our resources."

And then Bart got a third wind and they went at it for the better part of the night while Gretchen slept through it.

AGENT ORANGE

The only way to move up the chain at the FBI was to close cases. The saying was "Closers get the balls, losers squash on walls."

Harry Lawson was still waiting for his balls to drop, and had forgone a series of singles and doubles for the prospect of the equivalent of an FBI grand slam. In fact, Agent Lawson took two of his potential hits - in Bart and Sam- and pooled them to go after the big fish at Bauman Rogers.

"You get these scum bags and that promotion is as good as done," Lawson's boss said to him before delivering the other side of midnight. "But, if you fuck this up this up, then you'll be looking at some fly-swatting, shit-stench of an assignment in the butt-hole of some third-world country. Capeesh?"

Lawson nodded, "Capeesh."

The pressure was on but Lawson was confident that the end was definitely near. So he decided to resume his normal weekend activities. I had been a few months since he blew some steam off, and felt the scheduled party would be the perfect opportunity to get back to basics.

"We have to get this fucker!" Sam said as she sat with Bart on a couple of leather tub chairs at Starbucks. Gretchen was busy at the front counter picking up their orders, but then joined the duo by plopping down on the long leather sofa across from them.

"Who are we getting today?" she playfully asked.

Sam replied with a scowl on her face, "Lawson."

Bart slowly placed his index finger in front of his lips, to signal that they should probably tone done their outward communication. He picked up his iPad and used the stylus to write across the screen:

"WE HAVE TO GET SOMETHING ON HIM."

Sam looked at Bart after swishing the statement around her brain for a moment, and then nodded her head in agreement while extending her right fist for Bar to bang his fist into. Gretchen, as usual, was a little slow on the take, so Sam grabbed the iPad from Bart and wrote:

"STRAIGHT UP HIS ASS!!!"

Gretchen now understood the task at hand, but needed clarification on how they were going to get there.

"How?" she mouthed.

Sam was sick of the silent treatment. She turned to Bart, "I tell you... if that bitch wasn't so good with numbers and didn't have that magic vagina..." she pointed toward the center of her universe between Gretchen's legs.

Gretchen smiled, "Eat this and like it, bitch!" she exclaimed as she lifted a cranberry scone from the couch between her legs.

People in the coffee shop were so hopped on caffeine that they digested the comments without incident.

"LET'S FOLLOW HIM TODAY," Bart wrote on the pad, to which the ladies nodded in approval.

Bart gathered the latest in surveillance equipment from a friend in the field, and the trio was quickly on Lawson's tail, turning the tables on him for a change. Lawson pulled his Ford Taurus out of the FBIs underground garage, which had scanned his car for foreign objects upon departure.

"Did you see that flashing light? That means his car is clean," Bart observed while Gretchen drove the Mini Cooper Countryman at a safe distance behind Lawson.

The tinted windows on Mini concealed the passengers from view, so passenger Pagglia extended his right arm out of the car and rested the special device in his hand against the door. He then clicked the on button, and a beam of orange light transmitted to the back of Lawson's car, in the form of a beam the size of a small dot. Bart aimed for the lower right portion of the bumper, "Got 'em."

He slowly squeezed the trigger until the gun locked on to the car and the GPS tracking system in Sam's hands produced a high-pitched ring and the word 'LOCKED' was displayed across the 10-inch screen.

Sam yelled "Got it!" from the back seat and then Gretchen made the next left turn away from Agent Lawson and out of sight.

"Let's go get some food, just in case we are out of range for a while," Bar stated.

Gretchen asked, "How long?"

"We want to be about five minutes behind him," Bart replied.

"I'll text our order in," Sam said. "This way, it will be ready when we get there."

They were starting to become a well-integrated machine both inside of the bedroom and out, and this day would go a long way to keeping it that way.

Once the healthy snacks were secured, Gretchen followed the tracking system's verbal instructions and was headed north in pursuit of Agent Lawson. The trio wasn't sure how long it would take to find anything on Lawson, or if they would uncover anything at all, but it was the only real shot they had.

When they arrived at a spot where Lawson's signal had stopped, in an upscale residential neighborhood on Long Island, New York, about 40 minutes outside New York City. His car was parked and the trunk was open.

Gretchen stopped the car about 200 yards away from Lawson, on the other side of the street. Sam darted out of the car like a Ninja and set up at a house across the street with her hand-held video camera, which was transmitting a signal to both a central database and the small device that Bar was carrying. He and Gretchen trailed behind Sam, and eventually made up the distance in time to witness the beginning to what was setting up to be a weird, yet fruitful day.

The three detectives were shrouded by a huge bush, as they watched Lawson pull a huge orange dinosaur costume head out of his trunk and then pull it over his head. He already had the bottom of the costume on, and was now ready to provide all the entertainment needed for this party.

Once Dino-Lawson walked into the backyard, he was greeted by the delighted shrieks of what was obviously a child's party.

"We gotta move," was all Sam said as her people followed her across the street into an adjacent backyard.

They watched as Lawson performed for about 10 minutes and then played with the pack of five year-olds for another 20 minutes.

"Is that sick fuck rubbing his Dino dick against that kid?" Sam questioned in disgust.

She zoomed in with the camera as Bart looked intently at his screen.

"I believe he is. But we probably need to get a frame his face at some point."

So, the trio pressed on, recording another half-hour of inappropriate contact between an orange dinosaur and unsuspecting pre-pubescent partygoers. Then it really got weird...

"I'm getting bored. Can we go home now?" an impatient Gretchen whined.

Sam wasn't going to stop without sweeping all of the dirt into the trash. She had a feeling that there would be more, coming from such a sick and depraved fuck as Lawson.

"Just sit here quietly and stick your fingers in your twat. The big people are in the middle of a little business here."

Bart felt bad for Gretchen, as she looked at him with her saddest set of eyes. He nodded and reached down with his available left hand, and let his fingers do the walking inside of Gretchen's shorts.

Once inside, he said "Better?"

Gretchen smiled, "Better."

"Fuck! I think he's done for the day," Sam angrily exclaimed.

But Bart looked down at his high definition screen and replied, "Holy fuck-balls. Just keep that camera steady. I get the feeling that this guy is going to do something crazy."

With the formal portion of the Dino entertainment now over, it was time for the little rug-rats to go for a swim. Lawson said his goodbyes after accepting a wad of cash, and then headed out of the backyard. At first, it appeared that he was headed straight toward his car, but he looked around and then roll-dodged to his right - FBI-style - and then took a position on a small hill adjacent to the pool cabana.

Dino Lawson was obscured to the street by a thick row of bushes and trees, and the only open viewing could be found at Sam's camera position in the neighbor's yard. The children ran into the 15x20 pool cabana to change into their swimsuits, which triggered Lawson to step out of the bottom of his costume.

Bart removed his fingers from the fountain of youth, much to Gretchen's chagrin.

"Why did you stop? I was getting close..."

Bart said nothing, preferring to point toward the screen with his moist left fingers, as a wave of nausea and disgust precluding him from speaking. His first instinct was to run across the yard and kick Lawson's ass, but then he thought about the inside of a jail cell and stayed put.

Lawson pulled down his shorts and was now tugging furiously on his little agent. Fifteen seconds later he finished against the structure and then collapsed on the ground, his Dino head rolling off as he rested against it on the ground.

The usually-unflappable Sam could not believe her eyes.

"Oh, my god."

And then she regained her gumption, "We are so gonna' get paid."

THE LONGEST DAY

It was the day of Billy Erickson's annual outing at his summer house in the Hampton's. Erickson was Steve Christianson's right hand man at Bauman Rogers, a relationship that dating back to their years together in law school. Billy had this choir-boy exterior, but he traveled the world lining clients and potential clients' pockets with under-the table cash, with the promise of even more cash in potential securities class action lawsuits.

It was just barely noon and Linda Erickson was already making a significant dent in her latest bottle of scotch. The prospect and security of marrying a lawyer seemed alluring as a 20-something, but three kids and an absentee husband 15 years later, left her shattered and perpetually liquored up.

She greeted guests from the firm with all of the grace of an agitated gorilla. Since the gathering was limited to employees of the now Case Starting Group, Linda figured that she didn't really have to look her Sunday best for a bunch of data people, Norman Rogers, and Steve Christianson, who she became intimate with only a few days before her husband joined the firm four years earlier.

Christianson obviously had difficulty playing well with others, so when his best law school buddy was in line to switch firms, the move took a little more time than expected. Once the negotiations between Steve and Billy concluded, with Billy being made a partner from day one, there was one more final detail to hammer out before he would officially join the firm.

"I just have one more detail to finalize before we welcome you aboard," Steve said on the phone to Billy one day, as Li walked into his office, closed the door, and fetched the Vienna Fingers for another session of Finger Time.

Steve then hung up the phone and dialed another land-line number.

It was 9:00 a.m. and the phone rang three times before it was picked up.

"Hello," the tired female answered.

"Did you get that bottle of scotch I sent you?" Christianson asked as he motioned to Li to get busy with his little business.

Linda Erickson laughed, "Yeah, I'm already half-way through it. Works really well in my morning tea."

Steve was not great at extended small talk.

"Well, I've concluded my business with your husband, which means that we have a little business to conclude before we bring him aboard."

Linda Erickson looks at us, "When he's says little, he means little. I've given birth to three kids with heads the size of melons. That little thing in my elastic vagina... five minutes on my back for a new BMW. I could do worse."

Steve was not accustomed to having to go anywhere for pussy, let alone his best friend's wife's motherly goods. But this was business, if not puffing his chest out in a power trip, so he met her on Long Island on the way to his house, as he drove from work one evening. It was one of the first nights that he told his wife that he would be home late, as a result of an important client meeting.

Linda Erickson happily left the non-stop shrill of her kids with their full-time nanny, who was the only functioning adult in the house, anyway. She arrived at the Garden City Hotel more than an hour before Steve, who was running late as usual. Linda drew a bath in the luxury tub and then soaked for the better part of the hour until she started getting her sexy back. The hand-held, pulsating shower attachment started doing its work, peeling away years of vaginal stagnation like a high-powered pressure washer.

Christianson walked into the room expecting to be scolded, as usual, for being late, but he received an offer that he couldn't refuse instead.

"Why don't you get in here and finish the job," Lady Erickson purred.

Her husband was traveling to Europe, and the man walking toward her and furiously tearing off his clothes was the most attractive thing she had seen since that scotch he sent arrived.

Christianson loved gadgets and props, probably because his own gadget had a limited shelf life. Two hours later, they emerged from the tub, soapy and pruney, but completely satisfied for one of the rare moments of their adult lives.

Steve got dressed, reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crisp, one-hundred dollar bills, much to Linda's delight. He peeled off five bills and tossed them on the dresser. Steve then reached into his front suit pocket and pulled out a shiny BMW key ring with two keys attached, and then placed it on top of the money.

He looked over at Linda and smiled.

"Your new car will be delivered tomorrow morning. We should do this again sometime," he stated and then walked out of the hotel room.

They had met that same room at the Garden City Hotel almost monthly for the first year, until Norman Rogers started pulling Steve into the city more regularly to enjoy a higher grade of talent. This left Linda Erickson bitter, but still driving around in a top-of-the-line BMW SUV. However, four years later, the car was gone and so was the love between her and her men, Billy and Steve.

The Erickson's summer house was a simple ranch with a decent-sized, fenced-in backyard. As the guests arrived, Billy was nowhere to be found. He was the consummate moving target, preferring to remain in constant motion over stopping and thinking about his sordid upbringing.

The guests were arriving in a pattern that was befitting of their pay scale, with the secretaries and data people followed by Jack Worth, Senior Partner Paul Jeffries, and then Norman Rogers and Steve Christianson, fresh off another night of assorted take-out at Norman's Manhattan apartment.

Christianson loathed these outings with his department. He had nothing in common with these people other than they were his veritable servants. He also didn't look forward to being in the presence of Linda Erickson, who wanted nothing more than to chop his balls off at this point. Yes, a neutering would be the only thing to satisfy her scorn against these abusive men of power. She had attempted to dial the number to Christianson's house many times over the years, to tell his wife what an asshole her husband was. But, in the end, she figured that Mary Christianson had already received that memo.

Linda Erickson was in the kitchen when Steve strolled in with a bottle of red wine and a $100 smile. He presented the bottle to her and then retracted the phony smirk upon viewing her disinterested gaze. Everyone else was outside on the back deck, away from any action that would occur in the dark recesses of the kitchen and foyer.

The scotch was talking loud and clear on this day.

"You mother fucker? Get the fuck out of my house," she whispered with great intensity.

He came in close and replied, "You wouldn't have this house if not for me, my dear."

And then he felt her breasts and her butt, like she was a possession that he could access at any time, "Have you been working out?"

She was both infuriated and turned on at the same time. It had been quite some time since someone, anyone, had taken liberties with her like that. It made her feel vital and violated, but mostly vital.

She was desperate, and acted accordingly.

"I'm not wearing any panties."

Steve was constantly reasserting his manhood all over the tri-state area, as his half-Italian machismo prohibited him from backing down from any manly challenge. He had Linda pressed against the refrigerator, and reached down with his left hand to test the open waters.

She moaned as she parted her legs slightly to give him greater access. One minute later, she was shuddering to climax while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear, "I'll be back later so you can blow me." So much for an intimate moment with the sensitive and classy, Steve Christianson.

He walked over a few paces to the sink and washed the sticky fingers of his left hand with antibacterial soap. He then walked outside after grabbing a few sandwiches. The man's appetite was about as insatiable as his need for ego replenishment.

There was only one employee in the group that was an excused annual non-attendee, and that was Li. Bart attended the outing as his alias, Greg Palmieri, but Sam stayed in the office as the 24-hour per day work servant, Lihwa Kwan. It was her tremendous work ethic that made for the perfect cover.

"We have to take advantage of this day," Agent Lawson said to Sam the night before the outing.

For her part, Sam was trying to keep from punching Lawson in the face following the whole birthday party, Dino-jerk fiasco. But it was her overriding desire to finally be free of all of this FBI shit that gave her the necessary focus and calm to complete each subsequent task.

Sam spent the day transmitting just about every computer file at the law firm over to the FBI local database. She also gave herself a Brazilian wax, taking full advantage of both her freakish flexibility and incredible pain threshold.

Just about the time Sam was lifting the last batch of office files, Linda Erickson was ingesting the last batch of Steve Christianson's download in the basement, as they pretended to be searching for bottles of wine.

When he said, "Linda, can you help me locate a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon?" Norman Rogers smiled. It was his code words with Christianson for "I'll be right back after this woman blows me."

Rogers had ventured down the stairs a few hours earlier with Billy Erickson's perky 20-something secretary, Emily Sherman, who took care of him while also texting with her friend.

<what r u doing>

<0....>

<who r u blowing>

<the old dude that signs my checks>

<ew!>

<slow>

<finger near @>

<bingo!>

<eat you later>

<protein's on me>

<club soda & vodka>

<lots of vodka>

It wasn't bad enough that the employees had to drive to the ass-end of the Island, but they also had to do it on a Monday.

"This is the longest fuckin' day of the longest fuckin' year," Bart thought as he hung out on the beach with his pseudo co-workers. Outings for valued people at TechWonderboy consisted of long weekends in Cancun or Las Vegas, not some lame day with shitty food and impossible travel. Retreats for his employees were also paid in full by the company, including travel costs. The formula made Bart Pagglia a rich man, at least at the time.

Bar looks at us, "Fuck if I'm gonna' give any of that back!"

TRIPLE CROWN

After a night and early morning of lovemaking, Bart and Sam headed to work with a renewed sense of purpose. Since all of their assets were frozen by the government, transportation came in the form of the public variety. The subway was the preferred mode of transportation on this morning. They stood on the oppressively-hot platform, and Sam was getting all of her frustration out before she had to morph into Li and stifle her emotions for the day.

"This is such bullshit. Fuckin' human beings treated like a bunch of caged animals."

Bart always tried to temper Sam's hot flashes, "We should go for the fuckin' triple crown."

"What are you talking about Wonderboy? Horse racing is not my favorite subject. I'd rather ride those fuckers for fun, and hold on like I was riding your joint last night."

People all around them were way too numbed by the heat to process the graphic sexual interplay. But Bart was steadfast in his conviction that just about anything was possible.

"We have been handed a gift from the gods, so we must take advantage of everything that is in front of us."

Sam was intrigued, but confused, nonetheless.

"Okay, we don't go to jail and we get to keep our money. What's the third piece?"

"Fuck that weak bullshit! We have to take it all! Every last fuckin' cent these assholes have."

Sam was about to say "But," until she felt a familiar sensation.

"I would fuck you right now if it wouldn't send us to jail."

Bart was ready to whip it out again, as the subway car pulled into the station.

"All right, you can put your thumb in my ass while I stroke the salami. This train is so crowded anyway, that I'll probably have sex with a least four people and not even know it."

Once Sam transformed into Li, she acted as if Bart's penis had absolutely nothing to do with her now-barren, but neatly-groomed vagina. The last thing she said to him was, "Fuckin' triple crown. Make it happen, meat, but don't leave a trace this time."

Bart was an expert hacker in his more formative years, but it had been a few years since he wandered not-so-innocently onto the FBI database and lifted a bunch of code. So, he decided to walk across the hall again and talk to Jack Worth, who was always the voice of reason amidst a chaotic workplace.

"Do they monitor that shit, 24/7?" Jack asked.

Worth had been much more assertive and focused since he banded together with Sam and Bart against the powers that be. He also wasn't living paycheck to paycheck for a change, and that helped him sleep much better at night.

"I believe they only have access in the early morning hours when these vampires stay inside to avoid the sunrise," Bart replied.

"So, theoretically, you could poke around in the firm's database during those other hours, or just when Arvin and the tech guys are off-line."

Bart nodded in agreement, "I would also have to negotiate around the German HR Gestapo."

He could see the devilish thoughts racing through Jack's ever-expanding head.

"Or, I could go right through her..."

Once at Sam and Gretchen's place that night, Bart laid out the plan, or what was his best first draft.

"Do we have to take all of their money, too?" a skittish Gretchen asked.

Sam waved her off.

"No, I'm okay with the steal from the rich and give to the even richer part of the plan, it's just the sticking your dick into that German bitch's hooch that I can't get past."

Sam was marking her new territory like a Doberman Pincher on a fire hydrant.

"We have to get in there, and that bitch guards those files like you're trying to steal her bratwurst," Bart stated.

Sam wasn't buying it, "Well we'll have to figure something else out, because you're not fucking that and then doing all of this!" she exclaimed, with all of the bravado of a true Asian sister for real.

The tricky part was the timing of the FBI takedown. If Bart programmed the action too early, then they would surely be discovered and the jig would be up. But, if the plan was executed to perfection, then the fruitful returns would certainly be commensurate with the exorbitant risk taken.

The fact remained that Agent Lawson needed a big bust, but he should also be serving 10 to 20 for being a disgusting Kootie of a pedophile... not that any of those sick mother-fuckers are anything less than steaming piles of shit. To let him go unscathed would be unjust, so the trio had something special planned for him as well.

BAUMAN CALLS IT A DAY

Sometimes timing can be impeccable in life, while at other points a well-choreographed exit simply gives the appearance of being a random, solitary act. Walter Bauman had lapped the block more times than he could count, and was one of the most connected lawyers on and off The Street.

Nobody ever told Walter Bauman what to do, although both Rogers and Christianson had hinted at the last two quarterly partners meetings that it might be time for him to move out to pasture. The greedy duo was concerned that too much of their share of the pie was being taken by someone who no longer contributed.

Rogers stated in his most the most passive-aggressive stance he could take, "We have to make sure that compensation, especially at the bonus level, is in line with the actual work being done.

Christianson, who sat across from Rogers at the massive mahogany table, was quick to pile on.

"It's time for us to move into the 21st century, gentlemen. The competition out there is fierce, and we all have to be committed to doing whatever it takes to stay ahead."

Bauman, to his credit, never bribed or paid for business. He might have done some questionable things with billable hours more than a few times, but that appeared to be a common practice in the legal profession. However, he had known that something wasn't kosher over the past two or three years, and the weight of impending doom was heavy on his mind.

When Walter Bauman's year-end bonus went from a comfortable $200,000 to over a million dollars, the long-term guilt started to overtake the short-term euphoria. He came from parents of the Depression Era, a time when everything was scarce and you had to claw your way through every inch in life. Being the son of a laborer made the radical jump in pay that much more difficult to digest.

He came home one night from work and handed an envelope to his wife as they sat down for dinner. Miriam Bauman slowly opened the envelope and pulled out a check with more zeros than she had ever seen before.

"Walter, what is this?"

Bauman dropped his head and then picked it up again to speak, "I fear that this is my payment for keeping quiet."

Miriam was even more confused.

"Quiet about what?"

"I don't know, but if I find out, then that will be the end of it."

Bauman had been so respected over the years because he work clean and he worked hard. For a man that cared so much about his reputation, however, he still managed to accept two more huge checks that totaled nearly three million dollars in subsequent years.

It wasn't until little birdies started chirping in his ears that Bauman truly got the itch to retire. Such a distinguished career would not be smudged by the actions of others, he thought. Walter had many friends in the government, including one that sat next to him every Friday night a Temple Shalom.

"I'm not hearing such good things about your firm and the FBI," Martin Glick said to Bauman between prayers.

Bauman acted indignant, "What does my firm have to do with the FBI?"

The questions kept coming, "You tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

Glick countered, "Tell me what? Why would the FBI come after your firm?"

"I would never pay anyone a dime to play," Bauman strongly stated.

"I'm not suggesting that you would do that..." Glick concluded before they both stood up slowly and continued to pray.

Nine months had passed since Glick tipped off Bauman the first time, but he neither confronted the other senior partners nor sought asylum by leaving the firm. That was, until, Walter Bauman was invited out to lunch by his friend, Marty Glick, one sleepy summer afternoon. The day just happened to be the same as the soiree at the Erickson house.

"You've run out of time, my friend. It's only a matter of days before your house comes down," Glick said almost as soon as he sat down.

Bauman knew that his time was running thin, but he was in complete denial over having to retire.

"Are you sure?" a bewildered Bauman questioned.

Glick had known Bauman for over 40 years, and made sure he had one more bullet in the chamber.

"We can offer you a consulting position. The pay is shit, but we will be able to work together on the ethics committee."

Bauman's panic over having to retire was quickly soothed by his friend's offer to keep the ball rolling. His fears of ending his work life had caused him great stress over the past year. A mild heart attack was covered up by Bauman - even his wife didn't know. But Rogers and Christianson found out and were planning on using it during their next full partners meeting.

Bauman was an extremely proud man, but he extended his hand and shook Glick's hand while nodded simply in thanks.

Four days later, at the full partners meeting, Rogers sat at the head of the table and looked over at his boy Christianson in accord. This would be their day to stomp out the useless and tired, and take full control of the firm. Greed had no boundaries, and was ascending well past gluttony to a level that would surely lead to self-cannibalization.

"Okay, settle down," Rogers said over the din of conversation in the boardroom. "Let's get right into the business at hand," he added.

The overpaid mob quieted and Rogers was all set to immediately go for the jugular.

"It has come to my attention..."

Bauman had heard, 'It has come to my attention' before, because he had used that lined for years before Rogers made it his own. That opening phrase generally had something disturbing attached to it, with only limited occasions when it was used by Rogers to set up one of his many corny jokes.

Walter Bauman was done playing the corporate game, and was calling it a life. He had grown tired of hearing Norman Rogers chirp incessantly, and was now about to take over the room, his room.

"Before we get to the general meeting agenda, I have a comment to make," the elder-statesman of the firm interjected, causing Rogers to take - what he thought - was a temporary step back, before moving two huge steps forward.

"I wanted to tell you all how much I have appreciated your hard work and support over the years..." Bauman's words resonated throughout the plush boardroom, impacting the intended human targets at different levels of emotion.

Rogers immediately looked over at Christianson, who had this elated but 'You gotta' be shitin' me' look on his face.

Bauman's words were pointed in the same, irreversible direction as "It has come to my attention," just a few moments earlier. He then continued, "As much as I didn't want to admit this day would come, alas it has arrived. It is a rare moment in our profession when a person can go out on his own terms. I never wanted any of you to have the unenviable task of asking me to leave... so, I am hereby announcing my resignation effective today. This will keep me off the books for this year's payout, so the rest of you may profit fully."

There was an awkward silence for a brief moment, while the shocking news filtered down. Lawyers are excellent actors and even better schemers and conspirators, as most of the attorneys in the room had been angling to remove Walter Bauman from the current year's revenue stream.

Rogers was so excited that he kicked his legs against the rock-hard center console and damaged his foot. Although, he was so euphoric that the pain didn't fully matriculate until later that day.

The meeting broke up immediately as the partners gathered around Bauman to wish him well. It had already been decided that Steve Christianson would take his place next to Norman Rogers as the front men of the firm, as senior partner and chairman, respectively. Rogers Christianson would truly be transformed into a 21st century legal conglomerate, or so the powers-that-be surmised.

Rogers was texting his secretary from his BlackBerry within 10 minutes of the announcement, and she immediately called workers to come in the next day and wipe out Bauman's good name and replace it with the surname of the lightly-hung Christianson.

LORD CHRISTIANSON

Employees were jockeying for position at the firm as if they were coming down the homestretch of a race. The news of Walter Bauman's departure hit the lower Manhattan offices with the force of a sonic boom, as most of the staff spent the night wedged up Steve Christianson's smelly, hairy ass.

"I'm not putting my nose up in there!" Sam said to Gretchen shortly after transitioning out of her Li character. "That douche bag needs to take a bar of soap and wedge that shit up his ass! It's a good thing that mother fucker shoots so fast... I only have to hold my breath for like 15 seconds."

Norman Rogers had just passed 60 years old and was a relative neophyte in comparison to Walter Bauman. But he had become the new dinosaur in the blink of an eye, and was up next in line to be targeted for old geezer termination in this young man's game.

It was obvious that Christianson was the future of the firm, and anyone who wanted to make the trip up with him had to be morally baseless and ethically bankrupt.

Steve always liked to keep his good friend Billy Erickson down at least a few notches below himself.

"Christianson Erickson one day?" Billy asked as the men painfully sipped scotch the evening of Bauman's exit.

Christianson looked defiantly at his friend and said, "In your fuckin' dreams, Bill."

As much as Steve relied on the contributions of his underlings, it was a game of every man for him or herself when it came to sojourning down the ladder to hell. His ego was being fed almost daily now, making him even more clueless of the impassable brick wall that was waiting for him just around the corner.

Sam continued her rant, "That bitch almost ate a whole package of those fuckin' Vienna Fingers today. He seemed more interested in that than me doing his knob. Don't I suck a good dick?" she asked Gretchen, who didn't have the proper intel to make that call.

"Hey, meat," she yelled across the apartment to Bart, who was busy working his magic on the computer.

"I give good head, right?" she implied more than asked.

"Yeah, but I could use a little more current information," Bart replied.

Sam never backed down from a challenge, which is primarily the reason she was able to be subservient to Christianson and put up with his bullshit. She quickly accepted the challenge and was on her knees manipulating Bart before he could get more keystrokes out.

Gretchen never wanted to be left out, she stripped and lay down on the desk in front of Bart before straddling is face. Bart didn't get be a multi-millionaire in the tech world for nothing, as he continued to write code with his left hand without being able to see he screen in front of him. He thought about using voice recognition technology for a moment, but quickly shifted gears when all he could hear was the garbled language of sex.

The few moments of euphoria that Steve Christianson experienced, as a result of seeing his name plastered all over the firm, was short-lived at best. There were rumblings in the hallway that Steve would move into Walter Bauman's corner office and that a new head of the Case Starting Group would be named. Billy Erickson's name was being thrown around, but he didn't want to lead anyone, let alone be anchored to the New York office. He had girlfriends in almost every city he passed through, and was starting to grow fond of one woman in particular.

"You wanna' take over the group?" Christianson asked Erickson just before the weekly lunch meeting was to take place.

"Fuck no!" Erickson replied defiantly without hesitation.

Steve's mind always processed thing quickly in moments of greed.

"Then we should probably leave things the way they are."

Billy nodded in agreement and replied, "Sounds like a plan."

So, the duo headed into the weekly lunch meeting and, although he had the urge to blurt out his news, Steve focused on his food first. There was the typical cookie stalk and then pounce, followed by the picking at a wrap or salad, and then finishing up devouring any sweets that remained in his path.

Melanie Meyers was in the middle of one of her 20-minute ramblings, as she spit up random facts that her brain had attached to. The group was in a collective slumber, thinly camouflaged as a food coma, when Christianson awoke from his brownie and chocolate chip cookie hibernation and cut the pretentious neophyte off at the knees.

"I have a special announcement to make..."

Meyers made a face, as usual, to imply that the big, stupid jerk had once again exhibited substandard manners. She was perhaps the most disrespectful employee in the history of the firm - or any firm for that matter - but was tolerated for her around-the-clock working hours and freakish client report production.

"I have come to a decision about who will be replacing me as head of our little group," Steve said with much pride.

"And the truly cool part is that this person is sitting in this room, and is one of us."

No one in the room had been contacted about the position, yet they were at least two people that sat up straighter in their seats. Of course, the first person that was the completely delusional was Melanie Meyers. This whacko couldn't wait to be crowned queen, and looked upon other employees of the firm as mere subjects, even though she was only a third-year associate of the firm.

The other person was four-day workweek Fong. While it wasn't immediately clear to Patti how she could lead a group in only 32 hours a week, she figured that nothing Steve Christianson could do would be surprising, save lasting five minutes and waiting until she finished.

"That person is..." Christianson continued the torture as he looked around the room at each person to heighten his words. Jack Worth sat at the other end of the table and thought, "This mother fucker is just going to pick himself!"

Sam, in her yellow slated Li character thought, "I wonder if Master Steve will give bigger bonus this year? And then Sam crept back in, "Shut the fuck up, Geisha bitch! I make more money than this peanut dick, anyway!"

Christianson continued, "It is with much thought and consideration that I name..." he paused for the desired extra ounce of anticipation, as the careers of the people in the room hung in the balance. With Steve, their careers were in continuous limbo, as a veritable standstill in both professional development and compensation. Without Steve, there were so many unknown variables, the least of which was job security. Christianson might not have empowered his staff, but he usually didn't show most people the door, at least at the lower end of the food chain.

He smiled and looked at Erickson, who returned with a knowing look. "Myself!" was all he said, which as greeted with a barely audible, collective grunt, and then the phoniest round of applause.

Worth mumbled, "Bingo!" as he continually tried to avoid the gazes of Bart and Sam, who were his partners in fighting FBI crime.

Bart thought, "This guy has definitely let the power get to his head. It couldn't be any more perfect."

Sam thought, "I wonder if Bart has a brother?" And, indeed, he did.

Patti Fong thought, "This four-day week is killing me. Next year, we transition to the three-day work week as I fake a pregnancy."

Little rich girl Melanie Meyers thought, "I wonder if Bergdorf's has the new Manolo Blahnik shoes?"

And, finally, Billy Erickson thought, "I can't wait to see Mary Margaret in Ireland next week."

BART'S GERMAN ADVENTURE

Bart had been honing his multi-tasking sex skills for weeks in anticipation of his encounter with Helga Zimler, the firm's human resources Gestapo. He also knew that if Sam has anything to do with it, she would restrict his access to Helga's Shpetzel, offering her Chinese dumplings for his egg roll. But he would still have to get through the door of Helga's office and distract her enough to download key personnel and financial data, such as bank accounts and other offshore funds.

Zimler lived in Germany for the first 15 years of her life until she decided to abruptly leave home one day, following a disagreement with her mother. They differed on who would set the table that night. Although it was a seemingly trivial discussion, at least on the surface, the balance between parent and child had been irrevocably breached, and it was time for the top-heavy teenager to venture out into the world on her own.

She spent the first few months wandering around Europe, surviving on the money she had accrued working at a local lederhosen shop, which specialized in women's suggestive undergarments. There was also an XXX-rated sex shop in the dark recesses of the store, where men and women of all ages basically 'got jiggy with it.'

Once she exhausted her funds, Helga decided to head for the one place she knew would be an excellent funding source, the Red Light District of Amsterdam. The she found solace in taking her clothes off in front of strangers and then performing random sexual acts requiring incredible flexibility.

Two years later, she had a pimp named Otto who asked her to 'toss some salad' one day, but she went postal and stabbed him in the neck with a salad fork. As life slowly drained from the Danish pimp, Helga walked emotionless out of the room and abruptly turned the lights out on her more formidable years.

She finally sojourned to America in her mid-20s, as a completely redesigned person. It was time for her to walk a straighter path, at least after she trapped a husband to her beaver. Two weeks after she arrived in New York, she found a guy who had a job and his own rented apartment, and that was enough to secure her place in the country of opportunity.

Helga and Ronald Douglas said "I do" about a year after they met, and lived with his children from a previous marriage. Helga became the family's breadwinner, partly as a result of her detail-oriented style and partly because of her unsurpassed methods of taking care of both clients and bosses in a very special way. She was also looking for any excuse to get out of the house and away from those horrible kids and the man that gave her U.S. Citizenship.

But, five jobs in 10 years gave her a limited shelf-life at most companies, due to her open door policy, which was very popular with the higher-ups but not as accepted by their husbands and wives. Christianson and Rogers heard about Helga's special talents and were eager to bring her aboard to get the firm's payroll and their packages in better shape. She was also amazing a firing people, something that neither man wanted to be involved in following a few wrongful termination lawsuits.

Bart and Sam watched Helga for little more than a week, and then conferred about her work habits and schedule.

"That bitch works hard. I am impressed," Sam stated.

Bart bought that line of bullshit for a second and then loaded up a steamy retort.

"You just want to stick long, slippery things in her holes!"

Sam nodded in agreement and got some color in her cheeks, which was slightly out of character.

"Guilty as charged, officer. Before you go sticking that salami in her Oktoberfest, you gotta' let me get in there," she pleaded. I gotta' see what's going on down there."

Sam and Helga were two sexual beasts that would often exchange glances in the hallway. Sam always tried to maintain her Li character, but Helga wasn't buying it. Although she maintained a safe distance and silence about Li, she also knew that a crossing of their paths would prove inevitable one day.

"I'll see what I can do," Bart replied. "I only have a limited amount of time to get in there are extract the goods."

"It's pretty safe to say that the one thing you won't be extracting is her virginity."

Bart stuck his fist out and said, "True that," as Sam banged her fist against his.

Helga was definitely a creature of habit, working from 8:00 am to 6:00 pm every day, and then she would alternate between Rogers and Christianson on days they were in the mood for a hummer. The frequency of these bro-jays appeared to be in direct correlation with their relative activity during the day.

Bart's head was spinning from all of the possibilities, and he couldn't imagine putting his mouth anywhere near Steve Christianson's little pebble of a dick. Fate smiled on him on a quiet Friday afternoon late in the summer, as both Rogers and Christianson were out of the office. All employees were allowed to leave by three o'clock if their work was completed, but Helga always stayed until six o'clock regardless of the day. She enjoyed the quiet of her office, and her husband was already home with the kids.

By five o'clock, the hallways of Rogers Christianson were as deserted as Norman Rogers' wife's jungle beaver. Bart walked past Li's office, and Sam came out to play, sticking her tongue between the two peace fingers on her left hand. He laughed and gave her a thumb's up sign, and continued on his journey through the Swiss Alps.

Helga always gave the appearance of being busy. Her desk was neat, she was working the computer mouse with her right hand, searching through papers with her left hand, while a vibrating dildo in her ass kept her posture quite erect... an old trick she learned back in Germany at school.

Bart had received valuable intel prior to entering the firm's brothel that would give him the necessary access. The words "SHUT THE FUCK UP AND FLASH YOUR MEAT," were displayed prominently on a sheet of paper. Tech Wonderboy was no fool. He was going to do whatever had to be done to get out of this wonderfully-ridiculous mess.

He walked into Helga's office and his balls perked up at the sight of her sizable rack, which was getting plenty of air time under a low-cut shirt. The script called for asking some lame question about his 401K plan, and when it would be full vested. But, Bart wasn't one for doing things by the book, and the words "SHUT THE FUCK UP AND FLASH YOUR MEAT" dashed through his mind.

So he stepped through the doorway, closed the door behind him, and before Helga could voice any concern, he unzipped the fly of his pants and let his one-eyed python out for a look-see. Helga had her work persona, much in line with Sam's Li persona, but she quickly transitioned once Bart revealed his true intentions. She licked her lips and said, "Give me that kielbasa, you unga chocolate man!"

Bart was happy to make good on that request, while simultaneously gaining access the company's well-guarded payroll database. He had tried to gain access by hacking into the main server a few days earlier, but quickly realized that Helga's computer was the only local connection utilized. Bart first tried to access the data remotely from his hand-held device, as Helga was busy manipulating her own hand-held device.

He texted Sam:

"OMG! This girl can blow..."

Sam bounced her legs up and down for the better part seconds, and anxiously waited for the next text from Bart.

"Getting resistance from her system, even after sliding digital code up in there?"

Sam wondered if he was fingering her, or trying to download information. She also wanted to know about her underwear.

"Not wearing any," was what he replied. "She has a vibrating dildo in her..."

Sam dropped her phone on the desk and raced down the hall toward Helga's office. She then opening the door without hesitation and stepped in the room, before closing the door behind her. Sam raised her skirt and was also not wearing underwear, revealing a small landing strip.

Helga removed Bart from her mouth and purred, "Vie are cleared for takeoff, ya?"

Sam walked behind Helga, who fully expected her to take a dive into the German countryside. She bent down and winked a Bart, who thought that the action was just swinging into high gear. Without warning, Sam pulled a stun gun out of the back of her bra and placed it on Helga's ass, eliciting an "Oooohhh," from the German bombshell. She pulled the trigger of the 'runt' gun, sending 4.5 million volts through Helga's anus and up her spine. The electric shock went through Helga and to Bart's most sensitive organ.

"Oh, shit!" Sam exclaimed, not knowing at first whether the shock had forced Helga to clamp down on her man's penis.

Helga passed out and was ass-up on the floor, while Bart was semi-conscious lying on the desk. Sam bent down and licked Helga's posterior so she could create enough lubrication to extract the lodged, vibrating device. She pulled it out, like Little Jack Horner sticking his thumb into a pie and pulling out a plumb.

The blinking neon light on the two-inch device burned out and then the drive in Bart's hand illuminated and vibrated, signaling that it was now transferring data from Helga's computer.

Bart was a bit groggy, but the device's vibration brought him back to the moment.

"How did you know it was a cloaking device?"

Sam replied, "Everyone knows that a real ass dildo would make you so wet that you would have to wear panties, or the very least a thong."

The data transfer concluded and Bart was now back to his old self.

"You're just lucky that she didn't make a snack out of Bruno," Bart said, referring to his manhood.

"Tell me about it. That wild mushroom is the only thing keeping me out of a strait jacket these days," Sam countered. "So, what are we going to do with Little Anal Annie?"

"We have to nip this shit in the bud, and then keep the door closed," Bart replied as he sat down in Helga's chair and went to work on fire-walling the hell out of her PC, while diverting all activity to his database.

"Holy shit! She's off next week," Bart said as he dipped into the employee records.

"We have to kidnap this bitch!" Sam said without hesitation.

Bart quickly warmed to the idea after the threat of committing a felony wore off.

"That could be fun," he beamed.

LET'S MAKE A DEAL

Things were certainly coming down to the wire at the firm formerly known as Bauman Rogers LLP. The FBIs sting operation was entering its last week, with the final shards information being collected to seal the air-tight case against the principles of the company.

Agent Lawson was taking nothing for granted, as he gathered Sam, Bart, and Jack in for a final pep talk.

"We have to be careful. Never know when you're going to be caught with your pants down at your ankles."

Bart nearly choked on the irony of the situation, and the bottled water he was drinking.

Lawson was oblivious to his own demise, as he implored Sam, "Pat him on the back. It probably just went down the wrong pipe."

Sam patted Bart on the back and had to fight back the laughter, as a few tears trickled from her eyes.

"We'll do our best, Agent Lawson," Sam said.

Bart recovered enough to ask in his most innocent voice, "Do you have any idea when I'll be able to access my account?"

Lawson knew that Bart would never see that money again. In fact, he was planning on using a portion of the cash to fund a vacation, buy a new car, and purchase a vacation house on the beach in North Carolina.

"As soon as we make the busts, the funds should be available in 48 hours," Lawson replied with a completely straight face.

"That mother fucker was going to keep my $500 million!" an outraged Bart yelled as he and Sam walked alone toward the subway.

Sam laughed and then gave him all of the comforted he would ever need.

"Yeah, but we have that wonderful video of Agent Orange!"

Gretchen was sitting on the couch with a bound and ball-gagged Helga, while they blissfully watched the hidden video of Lawson doing his nasty thing at the kid's party. The HR Manager was purported to be on vacation at work, and had to call her family and tell them that she had to go away to a last-minute conference for a week.

Meanwhile, back at the office, Norman Rogers was putting the bow on another low-productivity, high-energy day. He was at the top of the food chain and the tree of life was bearing fruit in bushels. That was, until, he entered the dark phase of his day.

He rarely traveled home to New Jersey during the week, and his wife was away at one of their vacation houses, anyway. Rogers had asked Christianson to play, but he had an "urgent meeting with a prospect," meaning that he was about to be in the briefs of a law school student within minutes.

Rogers had become something of an adrenaline junkie, piggybacking his hedonistic kinship with Christianson. But, the years of racing 100 miles per hour had finally taken a toll on him, at least psychologically, as he crossed the 60-year threshold. Christianson was 20 years his junior, and was now running wild as the chest-pounding, big gorilla in the legal world.

As the days passed after Walter Bauman's exit, Norman Rogers started feeling more like the hunted, which was a 180-degree departure from his years as a hunter. He spent his entire career as an attorney, and the first 20-something years of his life as a civilian, in full attack and advancement mode. The feeling of weakness made Rogers quite squirrely in his shorts.

Norman was feeling so bad for himself that he went back to his $1.2 million apartment and sat quietly and stared blankly out of the window for the better part of an hour.

"Fuck this!" he said, finally breaking out of his self-loathing trance.

"This is bullshit," he muttered as he reached inside his jacket pocket for his phone.

He dialed his go-to women, Rhonda Sherman, because a bootie call to a girl simply wouldn't do. Rhonda was always the voice of reason for Norman, and she could also suck he chrome off the tailpipe of a '57 Chevy!

Rogers reclined on the couch as while Rhonda went to work on 'Little Norman.' She was in her late 30s, had never been married, and 'dated' married men exclusively because of their unavailability and positive short-range focus.

"I'm starting to feel like it's time for me to start exploring other options," he stated.

Rhonda replied in a muffled tone, being that she was blowing Rogers, but he somehow understood what she said.

"Are you thinking of leaving the firm?" was the penis-deciphered question.

"I don't know. Maybe in a few years, after a couple more big paydays."

"I don't think so," she bluffled.

"What don't you think? That I'll retire?" he questioned.

"That you'll make it two years," she replied while lapping his balls.

Sherman had ties to the SEC, and was always tuned in to all things Wall Street. She never underestimated the continuous paranoia of the attorneys that her full lips and cavernous mouth came in contact with.

"What do you know? How long do I have?" he said in an uncharacteristically-frazzled tone of voice.

She bluntly replied, "A week, at best."

The delay in translating bluffled—blowing and muffled—words into English was a bit vaster on this one. Rogers was initially in shock, but he then quickly recovered, removing his left hand from her hard nipple.

"Could you stop sucking my dick for a minute and have a conversation with me?"

Norman stood up once she disengaged from his joint. He needed to stretch his stubbly legs and pace while he thought. He first went and fetched his bathrobe from the bedroom, while Rhonda fished a small bottle of mouthwash out of her Coach purse. She gargled and then spit the taste of Norman's junk down the kitchen sink.

Rogers knew that the penis-obsessed Sherman would not be able to focus if he didn't place a cover over his helmet. He turned from the bedroom wearing a Four Seasons Hotel robe, and decided to plop down on the couch in anticipation of school being in session.

"What the hell is happening?" he impatiently asked.

She removed a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

"No smoking in here!" a short Rogers yelled.

Rhonda slammed her smokes and lighter back into her purse, as any remaining sense of calm was obliterated.

"What the fuck, Norman! You have your head stuck so far up your ass that you don't even realize that your firm is going down!"

Norman was in complete denial.

"Going down, where? Going under? We just had a financial meeting the other day, and we are comfortably in the black!"

"You are totally in the dark, Norman!" Rhonda yelled.

And just as he was ready to go fire back, she went on the attack.

"The fuckin' FBI has been crawling up your ass for months now! It might even be years, for god's sake!"

Norman's mind was experiencing a meltdown, and any remaining wood left in his pecker disappeared, helping close the penile accordion.

"FBI?" he muted softly, knowing that the rest of the information would crush his world as he knew it.

He thought of all the business trips he went on with Christianson and Erickson, and how they became proficient at sliding money 'under the table' to retain potential clients and keep current clients motivated. Millions of dollars had been paid out, in what announced to the biggest 'pay for play' scandal in more than two decades.

Norman regained his composure and then did what he does best, scramble to protect the only ass that ever mattered, his own.

"Can you get me a meeting with them?"

She looked at him in a typical New York, "What's in it for me?" manner.

"It might be too late," she said.

Norman never acknowledged the word 'no.'

"I'll make it worth your while. You make this happen and I'll send you on a trip anywhere in the world."

Sherman wasn't thinking vacation. She looked around and counted, "I want this apartment."

Norman's face reeked of hesitation, so she pressed on.

"I'd be giving away one of my big chips for you. It's the apartment, or jail, Norman! You make the decision."

Norman scanned his sex palace, and then thought about another sex palace of sorts, but he would be on the receiving end of large, tattooed men with little regard for human life. He rose from the couch, as Rhonda walked toward him. They shook hands as Rogers said, "I'll have the place cleaned."

She smiled, "Call in an industrial cleaner, redo the kitchen and the bathrooms, and you have a deal."

Norman smirked, "Get me that meeting, and you pick out all new furniture."

"Now you're talking," she concluded.

The FBI bust was now a few days away, and Agent Harry Lawson was none-too-pleased with the late-breaking development.

"How the fuck am I supposed to complete this bust without our key target?"

Agent April Collins was his agency press liaison, and she was also a regular clit-licker in Rhonda Sherman's bed.

"What do you have to gain by throwing Norman Rogers in jail?"

"What do to mean?" a now-confused Lawson questioned.

"You have nothing to gain by putting an old guy away. Our surveys indicate that the public is more sympathetic to people that might spend the rest of their lives in jail."

She took a deep breath and then continued.

"Conversely, if you were to \- let's say - take down Christianson and Erickson, we could spin it as nipping new-age greed in the bud. We could also paint Rogers and Bauman as old-school victims in a scheme perpetrated by the new breed of corrupt partners."

Lawson let the new information wash over him, much as he did with his Dino pants around his ankles a few weeks earlier at the kiddy party.

"I don't just like it, I love it!" an elated Lawson exclaimed.

"Rogers will meet with you tonight at the Mets-Cubs game. Nineteen-hundred and 30 hours. Here's your ticket," Collins stated.

Lawson looked at the $200 ticket.

"Company seats?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Not any more. Too bad it's for the Mets. After we take over those seats, see if they have any Yankees' tickets."

"Will do," April smirked and replied.

Under normal circumstances, Rogers would make anyone wait for him to a show up. On this night, however, he felt a little less pompous than usual. He arrived more than a half-hour early, which gave him ample time to cycle through the movie that was his life.

Staring out onto the plush green grass of Citi Field, created an instant flashback to his formative years watching the Dodgers at Ebbits Field in Brooklyn. Life was so much simpler back then, Norman thought, as the half-hour seemed to elapse along with his life in the blink of an eye.

"Mr. Rogers," Lawson said, as he sat down in the box seat next to Norman.

It was impossible for Rogers to be in listen-only mode, but Lawson expediently put a halt to the prospect of a two-way conversation.

"I am going to talk, and you are going to simply nod in either agreement or discord. Do you understand?

Norman was staring straight ahead as he nodded his head up-and-down.

"Good," Lawson stated in a tone befitting canine obedience training.

"Will you be willing to fully support the efforts of the bureau to prosecute wrongdoers of your firm?"

Rogers nodded his head in compliance.

"After which time you will no longer practice law in the State of New York or any of the surrounding regions."

Rogers neither ascended nor descended, so Lawson offered further incentive.

"I hear there is an opening for a community advocate a few miles from your place in Arizona. I have already accepted the position on your behalf."

Rogers nodded his head in understanding, although he would have rigorously negotiated just about everything Lawson said, under normal circumstances.

"A car will be waiting for you outside the stadium in 20 minutes. You will be taken to an undisclosed secured location, where you will be asked a series of questions. The answer to these questions involves Mr. Christianson and Mr. Erickson as willing accomplices in a scheme to pay for client access and to defraud shareholders. You will state that neither you, nor Mr. Bauman, had any knowledge of, or authorized, the said activity. Are we clear of your objective?"

Rogers smirked and gladly nodded his head, only this time he turned to his left to look at Lawson, but the agent had already slipped out of the box and vanished from view.

He watched the end of the inning and then made his own exit to the parking lot, where an unmarked black Chevy Impala was waiting for him. An agent emerged from the back seat and opened the door for Norman, who stepped in without incident.

It was a long night for Lawson and Rogers, and the core of agents assigned to the case. Rogers confirmed much of the information the bureau had already gathered, and he also led them to other critical pieces of information that further strengthened their case against Christenson and Erickson, including many of the offshore accounts they used to fund the bribes and other illegal activity.

The night ended with the two men shaking hands and Lawson saying to Rogers, "I suggest that you get on the last plane out of here tonight."

Rogers was back to being Rogers, "You make it sound like I have a choice in the matter."

Lawson was undeterred, "We all have a choice in life, Mr. Rogers. Only, you no longer have the freedom to make that choice."

Rogers went silent.

"There will be a car waiting for you outside, and a one-way ticket to Arizona waiting for you at the gate. You're a lucky man, Norman. If you hadn't called that trollop to suck your dick, then you would be only a few days from realizing what your freedom is all about. Good day, Mr. Rogers," he concluded as he walked away.

FOURPLAY

Bart, Sam and Jack had not heard about the Rogers exclusion from the manhunt, although he was never the target of their collective angst, anyway. Steve Christianson would have to go down, and not just on Li in the mid-afternoon in his office.

"Can you put another M&M in there? I want to see if I can guess the color before I fish it out."

Li was sitting on the edge of Steve's desk, bare-ass naked from the waist down with her legs spread. She reached into the large yellow bag and gripped a single piece of candy, in order to hide the color. She then lowered her fist toward the hairless slit of all happiness, and inserted the oval candy without revealing its hue.

Christianson was amazed.

"Wow! You're like a pussy magician."

Li was also trying to keep Steve on schedule, "You have appointment in five minutes. Guess color."

Steve closed his eyes and inserted his tongue inside side of Li, who diverged from her Li character to imagine Sam yelling at Steve, "Bart's dick was just in there this morning! So, in essence, you're licking Bart's dick!"

She then imagined Bart shaking his head in disbelief at the thought of Christianson being anywhere near his package.

Christianson was always a pompous ass, so it wasn't much of a stretch for him keep him guessing "Green!"

Meanwhile, Bart was in Jack's office, informing him that he was about to be fired, let go, shit-canned.

"What the fuck!" Jack yelled.

Bart didn't have any more space left in his world for bullshit.

"Let me remind you that this place will barely exist in a few days..." not wanting to reveal his plans for taking down the entire firm.

"Oh yeah," Jack replied, as he was now an outsider in both the FBI operation and the counter-FBI subplot.

"Just go in there and act surprised, but not angry," Bart instructed.

"They will ask you to sign a document, and then they will deposit three months' pay in your bank account tomorrow.

Worth nodded in accord.

Bart then pulled a small device out of his shirt pocket and said, "When you're in there, push this red button and download all of Christianson's computer files. Remember that it doesn't work unless you're a few feet away, so make sure you sit in the chair to the right of his desk."

"Okie dokie, Smokey," the now-loopy Worth replied.

By the way... it was a red M&M.

Jack Worth was fired by Christianson and the grim reaper himself, Peter Manganello, without incident.

"That mother fucker just got salary-dumped, and he barely put up a fight!" a boisterous Christianson said after the beheading.

Peter was busy jerking off under the desk, "We just saved about $80,000 this year, and that's before any meager bonus you would have given him."

Steve beamed, "Keep trimming, Pete. Daddy needs a new Ferrari!"

Back at the den of iniquity, Bart was probing for answers to some crucial questions.

"Did you know that Jack was going to be fired?"

Helga was sitting naked on the floor between Gretchen's endless legs, while Sam tickled her many erogenous zones with a feather. What started as an out-in-out kidnapping, in order to keep Helga away from talking to the partners, turned into an audacious sexual romp in which boundaries and standard conventions were smudged.

Helga was not initially forthcoming with the information, primarily because she wanted the group to probe her further, to force the words out of her. She revealed her most wicked smile and replied, "I do not know what you are referring to."

Sam was on her knees and looked up a Bart, who nodded at her to initiate the next level of manipulation.

While she enjoyed playing with the feather, her aggressive nature would not allow for a prolonged effort. She was wearing only a sheer, lacy pink thong, as she leaned into Helga, staring deeply into her large, Arian blue eyes.

Bart realized at that moment that he had reached the apex of his existence. But, if recent history was any indication of things to come, life would become just one heavenly moment after another.

"Oh my," Bart whispered to himself at the sight of the three beautiful women in the height of their sexual prowess and exploration.

Sam edged closer to Helga as she sensuously ran her left hand through Helga's dirty blonde hair, before taking a firm hold on the back of her neck. They passionately kissed for three minutes, as Gretchen kissed and licked the back of Helga's neck, while Helga reached back between Gretchen's legs and made love to her with her right hand.

Sam wanted to fuck the shit out of Helga, but she needed to extract some vital information from her first. She pulled back, leaving Helga with a sad look on her face like she was a schoolgirl whose lollipop was taken away.

"Yes," Helga stated, as Gretchen wrapped her legs around the German bombshell, applying a little more pressure for emphasis.

"We met the day Bauman quit."

"Was it Christianson?" Bart asked.

Helga nodded and said, "Jack Worth was the first name he mentioned. He said he was sick of looking at that giant motha' fucka's face."

Everyone laughed at Helga's attempted ghetto pronunciation. Just as the collective mood in the room was reaching a crescendo, all of the air in Helga's balloon went pop!

Sam was the first to notice that Helga was crying, and then sobbing, while Bart was fixated on Sam's ass and Gretchen was behind Helga and couldn't see her face. The Asian goddess moved along the area rug on her knees until she was able to put her arms around Helga, who rested her sobbing head on the shoulder of comfort.

Bart was still following the ass, which was now slightly jiggling from the impact of Helga's convulsive sobbing. Gretchen felt a radical change in Helga's body language and temperature, and instinctively wrapped her arms around the both women in front of her.

"What the..." Bart initially said and then put a little giddy-up in his step to get over to the pile of love.

"We're sorry!" he said. "We didn't mean to make fun of you," assuming that she needed an apology because they were making light of her thick German accent.

"What's wrong?" Sam asked as she broke the hug and wiped Helga's tears away with her thumbs.

Bart reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of tissues, which drew a curious reaction from the women.

"It's allergy season!" he innocently replied, clearing out much of the sexual innuendo surrounding a potential spoogie cleanup.

They turned their collective attention back to Helga's emotional outburst.

"Are you okay?" cheerleader Gretchen hugged Helga and asked her new snuggle buddy.

Helga wiped away her remaining tears and then honked into a few tissues.

Bart looked at Sam and said, "Nice pipes."

Helga calmed down enough to speak.

"It's been a long time since I have felt so welcomed, so loved. I left my home in Germany many years ago, when I was just becoming a woman, and have been searching for a family ever since."

They all met in a group hug.

Helga than said softly, "Don't want to go back to husband and horrible kids."

Sam spoke for the group, "You don't have to, love. We're gonna' need a bigger bed, Bart."

They all laughed.

Bart replied, "When we're done with all of this, I'll have one custom-made," all-but-guaranteeing that he'd be knee-deep in deliciousness for the foreseeable future.

THE LAST SUPPER

Jack Worth was not the only casualty of Steve Christianson's "I'm the fuckin' boss and I'll fire the people that make me feel uncomfortable!" campaign. Norman Rogers had the following conversation with Steve a few days before his meeting with Lawson.

"I want to get rid of a bunch of people," Steve stated.

Norman looked at him like a father-figure trying to break it all down for his difficult son.

"Listen. I don't give a shit what you do, as long as we can keep making money. Although, we should probably keep that German bitch around. You can bounce a quarter off that ass, and she runs a pretty tight ship around here."

"Duly noted," Steve replied. "Believe me, that piece of Bavarian ass is in no danger of getting shit-canned any time soon."

Rogers acted like he didn't care, but he still wanted to give the appearance of being involved in the day-to-day activities of the firm.

"So, who are thinking of firing?"

Christianson was not going to reveal his true intentions, in a power play that would cement him as the new leader of the firm.

"I think we'll start with a handful of associates. We just settled a few big cases and I don't think we need all of those extra people."

Rogers concurred, "We can add people back as the need arises." He sensed that Christianson was holding his cards close to the vest, and that was making Norman increasingly suspicious.

"Anyone else to thinking about?" Rogers added.

Christianson was in a sadistically-playful mood, to say the least.

"I was thinking of letting Li go."

Rogers' head whipped to the side, so he could look Steve in the eyes. Both men knew how much critical information Li had on both of them, and all of the partners of the firm.

The scene cuts to Li sitting in her office, morphing into Sam for a moment - tongue out and rock-and-roll hands rose to the sky - and then right back into a focused, demure Li.

"Maybe a person or two from the mailroom, and one person from the data team," Steve stated.

"Anyone else?"

"Nope," Steve countered.

Norman put his stamp on the moves, "Chop ahead!"

Rogers didn't hear about the firing of Jack Worth until he received the following e-mail from the Director of Research the day he was fired:

Norman,

I wanted to thank you for the opportunity to work at your firm.

Best regards,

Jack Worth

Norman really didn't give two shits about Jack Worth, but he was concerned that Steve chose to deceive him about his intentions. Although deception was part of the scummy legal game - hell, Norman had convinced everyone that he knew what he was talking about all these years - but it was the first time that Steve Christianson had taken the lead in their relationship. Up to that point, Christianson played the role of worshipped and well-trained puppy to a tee.

Steve was summoned to come home by his wife on Wednesday night to watch their son in a school play. He obliged only because his dick needed a night off after an all-night session with a guy who underwent a sex change operation only six months earlier. All Steve saw was the cute blonde, although he was oblivious to the still-visible Adam's apple. Lucky for him that the night would be a preview of what was to come over the next three to five years.

Christianson sat at the dinner table in his house and felt completely out of place, vaguely connected to his three young kids and disjointed to his wife Mary. She looked across the table at him and sensed that her life was not what she expected it to be. She had a promising career in public relations, but now was a baby-making conduit with an unyielding chocolate yearning, three ungrateful kids who never gave her a moment of peace, and a husband who stuck his little dick into just about anything with a pulse.

Mary secretly hoped that something would change, anything, so that she could regain some meaning in her life. Divorce was not an option because Steve could hire the best lawyers, who could drag her through the mud and reduce her to an unstable whore incapable of properly taking care of her children. She surmised that, at least he was half-right.

Christianson wanted to hang out with Rogers the following night, be he had returned to Arizona to take care of some family business, or so he told his younger charge. He then turned to Erickson, who had just returned from a week with one of his girlfriends in Europe and was looking to catch up on some sleep.

"Let's hang out at Norman's," Steve said to Billy.

"I gotta' get some sleep," Erickson counted, in one of the rare times he would admit to be tired.

"Go to dinner with me and then crash in the guest room," Steve said before moving up the ante. "You know those kids will never let you sleep if you go home."

Erickson knew his wife would give him shit, and it was showing on his face.

"You know she's going to give you shit, anyway, whether you go home or not," Christianson added.

Erickson imagined his wife yelling at him, and then his kids jumping all over him in bed while he tried to sleep.

"I'm in," Erickson conceded.

The two men had not formally celebrated Steve's ascension to the firm's throne, which, in turn, meant that Billy had also moved up a peg.

Christianson was at his best when everything was about him, which had largely been the case over the past two years. He was the ruler of his small case-starting universe, and everything from cookie selection to fishing candy out of his secretary's vagina was skewed his way.

The Capital Grille had just opened near the office of Rogers Christianson, and Steve had already eaten the filet and sampled the fruits of the sommelier's loins.

After the boys ordered some oysters, which they viewed as a way to lure women to the table to get aphrodisiaced, Steve's friend the sommelier stopped by to suggest bottles of wine based on their dining selections. The markup on these bottles was equivalent to a woman telling lightly-packaged Steve that he was hung like a bear.

Steve slapped the high-priced sommelier on her derrière after she swallowed an oyster, signaling that their association would continue throughout the evening. He then raised his glass to propose a toast.

"Here's to two Long Island boys that made good..." and then Steve switched into typical punk asshole mode, "despite all of those mother fucka's who said we couldn't do it. Fuck 'em!"

Erickson clanked Christianson's glass and replied in kind, "Fuck 'em!"

The two men sat for the better part of three hours, as a procession of food befitting kings was delivered in a steady stream. Their appetite for food was only rivaled by their unyielding risk appetite, which had vaulted the firm to the top of the plaintiffs' bar in only a few short years. This upgraded status was a dramatic turnaround for a firm that was highly respected, but floundering in a new age where size definitely mattered. Size in the form of your client roster, not the depth and knowledge of your legal staff.

Norman Rogers had taken the firm about as far as it could go, and he needed help in the form of a partner in crime who had no moral or ethical restrictions, to grow the firm into the 21st century. First, he brought Christianson on board, who he sensed was an even bigger asshole than he was, and then years later he officially hired Erickson, who had been providing material inside information to Rogers and Christianson for years while working for a competing firm.

Erickson was a weird dude, to say the least. He would never get involved in public displays of affection, with either his wife or the many women he visited around the globe. So it wasn't a surprise when Steve was groping Eva the sommelier in the corner of their private dining room, and Billy was twiddling with his BlackBerry instead of double-teaming the Grade A piece of ass in front of him.

Steve was always open to sharing ass with Norman Rogers, but those days had come to end now that he had removed his nose from the intimate reaches of Norman's ass sphincter. He had only shared a woman once with Billy, while the two were parading around Europe. They were both so drunk that there might have been at least a few incidents of sword-crossing. It was even debatable if the 'woman' was even a woman at all... breasts implants and a tucked-in penis may give the illusion of femininity, but the dude still stood on his feet when he went to the bathroom to pee.

The party shifted back to Norman's apartment, which unbeknownst to Christianson was in the process of being transferred over to the orally-fixated, Rhonda Sherman. It would be the last the last time that a dick was serviced in that apartment, that wasn't housed by Rhonda's mouth-garage.

Eva Bonafice, the Capital Grille Wall Street's Sommelier, was actually Emily Menendez of beautiful Flushing, Queens. The name change was obviously a move to heighten the illusion of knowledge and sophistication. She even had business cards and a section - complete with a wine blog - on the restaurant's web page.

The two phonies were entangled on the living room couch, while Erickson meticulously flossed his teeth in preparation for the best night of sleep he would have, perhaps, in his entire life. Billy was a traveling machine, as he was on the road in excess of 100 days per year. His bloated body had become used to about five hours of sleep per night, maybe five and-a-half when he got his freak on, which occurred quarterly with his wife and every other day while on the road.

Erickson professed to run at least five miles per day, whether on the road or a home. He often boasted about his athletic prowess and fitness to Jack Worth, whose office was next door and the two men would be the only people in the office when they arrived at 8:00 am. Worth often looked over Erickson and his sponge-like body and thought about the other things that he must have either been hiding or exaggerating?

Christianson, on the other hand, was a chronic insomniac. He often blamed the lack of air in his sails - flaccid penis - on his lack of sleep. While Eva and Billy were busy snoozing in the apartment's bedrooms, Steve was busy talking to Melanie Meyers, who was always available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. She often tried to initiate conversation with him over the weekend, but he predictably was the initiator, not the responder.

Melanie's eunuch boyfriend was sleeping soundly next to her when Steve's text came through at 2:15 am. He always gave the appearance of being a workaholic, at least in the first 10 seconds of every conversation. This technique had been effective, especially with less-experienced lawyers and staff.

S "What is the status of the telecom brief?"

Melanie's phone was between her legs, and the 'vibration-only' setting was greatly appreciated as her internal computer fired back up after being in screen-saver mode. She slept about two hours per night, and was so wound up that she worked through most nights. Melanie let her BlackBerry buzz a few more times for pure pleasure, and then scooped it up and answered the Great Oz.

M "Just putting the finishing touches on it."

S "What about the district court study?"

M "Finishing Judge Meyerson's profile. Done by 5."

Since the 10 seconds were up, Steve shifted out of professional boss mode and not common douche bag.

S "What are you wearing?"

Meyers' can-do attitude was emblematic of associates trying to make their mark on a firm in order to be elevated to partner status. There wasn't a single thing—in two years working for Christianson—that she turned down. He simply threw something out there, and she would enthusiastically reply, "I can do that!"

The only times she showed any signs of discord were during the weekly lunch meetings. She would argue with Steve—even slap him down—every time he aired one of his shallow, weakly-vetted theories (which was quite often).

"T-shirt and shorts."

Melanie's petite build, bordering on depleted and anorexic, held appeal to Steve based on his view that just about anything was fuckable. She was just a hair over five feet tall, and had somehow managed to stay in double-digits her entire life. The girls at her all-girls-school were adept at eating and then ejecting said food within five minutes, so it wouldn't fully enter the digestive tract. She would pick at her food in lunch meetings, but mostly avoided using her mouth for food by using her mouth to speak, incessantly.

S "Underwear?"

M "Thong."

S "Take it off."

M "Shorts and underwear off. U?"

Steve was already in his birthday suit.

S "Yes. Get busy."

Melanie was so detail-oriented and eager to please that she couldn't even fake masturbation. What she did fake was the finish, not the act itself. Meyers was closing in on her 30th birthday, and had NEVER achieved an orgasm. Her clit might as well have been a slab of bologna, because it was basically a useless fold of skin.

She set her BlackBerry on the bed and did some crunches, while her boyfriend, Sergio, snored in the bed next to her.

S "Glorious!" Steve texted after five minutes, as he simply stared blankly out of the window, ignoring 'Little Stevie.'

Melanie, as usual, was equal to the task.

M "Serendipitous."

S "Get back to work."

She said out loud, "Gladly," and then texted back.

M "On it."

The almost-weekly exercise repetitively reinforced that misery truly had company.

JUDGEMENT DAY

It was an airless, early September morning. Fall was trying to assert itself, but an Indian summer warm front was sweeping through the East Coast for the weekend.

The day couldn't have been set up better for the FBI agents assigned to tail Christianson and Erickson, as the two marks were holed up in the same location.

Agent Proud, who was sitting in the front seat of the hotel on wheels, talked into his sleeve.

"Sponge Bob is on the move. I repeat, Sponge Bob is on the move," referring to Billy Erickson, who exited the building at 7:30 am. The bureau obviously had a similar view as Jack Worth, as to the sponginess of Erickson's stocky body.

Billy jumped in a Lincoln Town Car, and another unmarked FBI vehicle followed the black car at a safe distance, as to not arouse suspicion. It would have been Worth's job to keep an eye on Erickson if he had not been fired. Instead, the FBI used its eyes in the office, in the form of mini-cameras, to track the boys.

Since he had nothing better to do, Steve jumped into the shower with his personal sommelier, who managed to uncork some early-morning tension for Christianson. He never arrived at work before 9:00 am, and rarely made an appearance before 10:30 unless money was involved. He liked to heighten the anxiety of his staff and ensure that tasks would pile up, and there would be plenty of things to talk about when he finally arrived.

While Sam was completely lax in her real life, her Li character was perfectly in sync with her boss. Li was a work ninja. She never appeared in her office until Steve Christianson hit the elevator in the lobby of the 50-story building. Actually, it was part Li, part FBI tracking Christianson with a GPS device.

"Good morning, Li!" an exuberant Steve said on his way past his assistant's office to his corner office, which offered the most spectacular sunset views. The building was angled in such a way that the Western exposure provided unimpeded access to the end of the firm's business day, and the beginning of the firm's shady activities.

But Christianson would not see the sunset on this day, or any other day in the foreseeable future. He opened one of his ceiling-long mahogany cabinets, and placed his briefcase, which housed more prophylactics than legal briefs, on one of the middle shelves. His eyes bulged as he noticed a familiar friend resting comfortably nearby.

"It's finger time!" he shamelessly bellowed into the hallway, as Sam rolled her eyes and stuck her finger down her throat like she was throwing up, before yielding to task-oriented Li, who quickly emerged from her office and enter Steve's space. He sat down at his desk as Li closed the door and then walked over to the cabinet to fetch Christianson's favorite cookie, the Vienna Finger.

Billy Erickson had a full morning, including eating four bagels with cream cheese during a meeting with clients from Canada, who seemed to love the "big unsweetened doughnuts." He had spent the last 20 minutes sprawled out in the single bathroom, which was built in the event of a handicapped person rolling through the office. The massive dump would have surely deterred others from entering the regular bathroom, and cleared out any remaining squatters who had the misfortune of experiencing nerve damage from the paralyzingly gas fumes.

He emerged from the bathroom about 10 pounds lighter and looking forward to eating more unhealthy shit for lunch. Billy then remembered that he was supposed to call one of his favorite European clients to plan the dates for his next trip. So, he walked a little faster than usual down the hallway, and then turned left into another hallway, in the rectangular maze that was the firm's offices.

Once Erickson closed the door to his office and landed safely in his high-backed leather office chair, the wheels were irreparably set in motion.

Agent Lawson sprouted some mini-wood as all of his years of hard work and determination had come down to this moment, his moment. He would not only get a huge promotion for his efforts, but also had plans for the $500 million that he put aside from Bart's Tech Wonderboy payout, which had been moved to an account only he knew about.

"The eagles have landed. I repeat, the eagles have landed," Lawson said into his wrist communicator, which was hooked up to 50 FBI agents that were poised to ascend on the offices of Rogers Christianson LLP.

"We're a go! I repeat, we're a go!" Lawson proudly stated.

"Why do these guys always repeat everything twice?" Bart asked Gretchen as they waited on the pavilion outside of the building.

"They're dummkopfes," Helga said from an adjacent street, so she wouldn't be spotted by either Christianson or Erickson.

Bart and Gretchen laughed because the observation from their new German ally was funny, and they were confident that everything was positioned to work out in their favor. He tapped the screen of his iPad and a series of 14 areas of the firm popped up in small boxes.

Bart could see a group of agents stacked up at the service elevator, and then he tapped another screen, which showed them riding up. He then touched another two screens, which showed agents positioned in vacant conference rooms on either side of the main elevator bank.

While Christianson and Erickson were the primary targets, there were another 20 attorneys that were going to be charged for everything from fraudulent hourly billing practices to evidence and witness tampering. Disbarment was in the cards for about half of these lawyers, while other half would be levied significant fines and professional censures. Rogers managed to save all of his peers that worked with him from the firm's infancy, in exchange for the keys to his summer beach house in the Hampton's. Lawson also swiped the title to Rogers' boat.

Li handed the red and white package of Vienna Fingers to Christianson, as she unzipped the fly of his pants and let them fall to the floor. She had seen enough of that little worm, and she was also sick of working for Christianson.

The elevator reached the firm's main floor, as Bart switched the camera view to a split-screen: one on the armed agents ascending from the elevator, and the other on the action in Christianson's office.

Gretchen couldn't watch her girl have to touch the weenie of such a lightly-hung scum bag.

"Don't touch his dick, Sam!" she shouted, forgetting that she was in the middle of a very public street.

Bart laughed, "Don't worry, Gretch. New Yorkers would walk by someone bleeding and dying without blinking. He then shifted gears.

"If she touches that bitch, I'm going to use a few containers if disinfectant soap to get all of those germs off! Then, I'm going to beat his ass in!"

Sam was just about to reach inside of Steve's boxer shorts to attempt to extract Little Stevie from the bush, when the door swung open without a knock.

"Thank god!" Bart shouted.

"Praise the lord!" a Southern Baptist tourist said as he passed by with his family, placing a one-dollar bill in Gretchen's hand.

Bart chuckled, "Don't spend that all in one place, now."

"Praise, Jesus!" he said to the tourists, as the power of the almighty dollar would surely brighten his day.

Erickson was on the phone when five FBI agents burst through his office. Billy appeared to be unflappable, because he calmly said, "I'm going to have to call you back," before gently hanging up the phone.

He stood up and walked in front of his desk, as one of the agents stepped forward and said, "William Erickson, you are under arrest..." as another agents stepped behind him and fitted him with a set of handcuffs.

Erickson was routed in front of Christianson's office, as the other pack of agents burst into the latest iteration of 'Finger Time!' Steve was initially mesmerized by the package of cookies in his hands, but then picked up his head to see what was going on.

He looked down at Li, at seeing Erickson in handcuffs, and said, "Li, call my lawyer," and then he stuffed two Vienna Finger cookies in his mouth, and another two in his left hand, as Agent Lawson entered the room to inform Christianson of the charges against him.

Li raised off the floor and quickly the dialed a good friend of Norman Rogers, Bruce Waters, and was about to talk to his secretary before Lawson shifted gears.

He turned to a few of his agents and said, "Make sure you get her in cuffs, too," as the agents obliged and spun Li around as she surprisingly dropped the phone on the desk. While Sam would have said, "What he fuck? Get your fuckin' hands off me!" the totally introverted Li simply took the move in silence, at least for the time being, so she wouldn't break her cover.

Erickson and Christianson were escorted out of the back of the building and put in separate cars, so they wouldn't be allowed to build any kind of unified defense. Once their cars drove away, Helga said, "They're coming out the poop shoot."

It took Bart a few second to convert his thoughts of bowel movements into usable intel.

"Oh, they're coming out of the back of the building!" he said, looking at Gretchen, who thought Helga was reporting on her trip to the bathroom.

They raced over from the front of the building to the back of the building, and their timing couldn't have been better, as Li was still in character and being escorted out of between two agents. Li looked around and saw no sight of either Christianson or Erickson, so she decided to leave Li behind and upshift into Sam.

She spotted Agent Lawson, "What the fuck, Lawson? You deranged, psychotic mother fucker!"

Nobody was going to talk shit to Lawson on his turf, on his special day in the sun, "Before we lock her away for fraud, she has to tell us where her little friends are. The three of you are going away for a long time for your crimes against this country!"

"Eat me, Lawson!" Sam shouted, as the frustration from keeping her inner Samantha inside in favor of Li had final surfaced.

She spotted Gretchen and Bart and then said to Lawson, "There they are."

Gretchen held Bart's arm as they casually strolled over to Lawson and Sam, while a group of agents got ready to pounce on the latest fraudsters.

Lawson held up his hand so his men would temporarily stand down.

Bart said, "I'd shake your hand, but I'm not sure we here that hand has been."

Lawson stepped closer to Bart and whispered in his ear, "Where I am going to send you, you will have all sorts of hands on you from places only nightmares know about."

Bart wouldn't back up an inch, "I don't think so Harry, because the truth is that I do know here your hands have been."

He continued, "Now you're going to uncuff Sam, let us walk free and never... and I mean never, think about us ever again, no matter what we do."

Lawson stepped back ever so slightly and replied, "Why in god's name would I ever do that."

Bart looked at Gretchen and then Sam and smiled, and they returned the knowing glance with smiles of their own.

He then walked a few steps to his left and motioned to Lawson, "Step into my office."

Lawson wasn't in the mood for games, but he was nonetheless very curious what the Tech Wonderboy would show him in his portable office.

Bart navigated his iPad like a virtuoso conductor leading his world-class orchestra. With seconds, the video of Agent Orange's birthday romp flashed across the screen for Lawson to view.

Lawson barely flinched, but he knew he was about one move away from Bart announcing "Check mate!" Bart was in a playful but extremely powerful mood.

"We not only will get our freedom, but I want you to transfer my frozen money back now," he said as he flipped from the video to Lawson's bank off-shore bank account.

Lawson then lost his trademark cool, "How?"

"I know your password, but I thought it would be more fun to have you transfer the money for me."

Within seconds, Bart's $200 million fortune was transferred to his bank account, which he instantly protected.

"Before you go, I just have a few pieces of business to conclude," Bart continued. "We have cleared out all of the assets of Rogers Christenson as of..." Bart said as he switched screens and then dramatically tapped a button, as millions of dollars found its way into Bart's account. He again hit another button to secure the funds."

"How do you know that I can't get at that video?" Lawson tried to fight back. "After all, we caught you so easily the first times."

"I'm glad you mentioned that, Agent Lawson," Bart replied, as he slapped Lawson on the back. "You see, my latest venture will be an even higher level of computer security called Fort Knox. I not only stole the name from the vault, I also lifted all of the security codes that protect the gold bullion. Of course I've made modifications so that no one can penetrate my system to get at any of our stuff," he explained as he brought up the video - Lawson's Dino pants around his ankles - and hit the gold bar icon, securing the video.

Lawson dropped his head in defeat, but Bart still had a few rating shots left. He moved closer to Lawson and whispered in his ear, "If you ever come looking for that video, or start poking around any of our stuff, I have built a security mechanism in to the program that will release the video to all government agencies, YouTube, and just about every media outlet in the world."

Bart backed up and Lawson nervously walked a few steps away from him so he could give instructions to his agents.

"Release that one," he said pointing to Sam, "and the rest of them are free to go! I don't have time for this shit!"

Bart was almost done...

"Oh, and Lawson!" Bart motioned for the agent to come closer.

"That house and the boat that goes with it are also mine."

Lawson was getting to vehemently object, but Bart nipped that unacceptable behavior in the bud.

"Harry, you should be happy that you still have your job and I don't turn the dime on you and have them throw you in that van. Besides, look on the bright side."

Lawson was defeated, "The bright side?"

"When you get back to your office, they're going to give you a huge promotion."

Lawson stepped back, smiled, and extended his right hand.

"Well, there is that," he replied as the two men shook hands.

OPEN

Lawson decided that it was be prudent to let it go, even if he was down $500 million, a Hampton's beach house, a boat, and a budding second career as an orange pedophile birthday dinosaur. Bart also utilized some other programs he lifted from the government to keep an eye on Lawson, and to make sure that he stayed clear of anyone under the tenuous age of 18.

Melanie Meyers somehow avoided prosecution, and had a momentary burst of confidence that this would finally be her day. With Christianson and Erickson both out of her way, Meyers set her sights firmly on the case-starting throne.

It was only minutes after Erickson, Christianson and Li were shuffled out in handcuffs, and the unflappable Meyers was already stomping into Norman Rogers' office, amid the total chaos that surrounded her. She looked for anyone else to talk to, once she was informed by Rogers' secretary, Rosa Gonsalves, Norman's out!". To which she followed it up with, "Bitch," as Meyers continued down the hall on her rampage of new-found, if not misguided, power.

Little did she know that the firm Rogers Christianson LLP had ceased to exist a few minutes earlier when Agent Lawson gave the green light for Bart and his merry band of pirates to clean out the firm of all of its assets.

It seemed as if Meyers was playing the part of the grim reaper, because each and every office she stepped into, the attorney was in the midst of being escorted away in cuffs. She then shifted gears and decided to call on some of the older lawyers, who apparently were not going to spend time in jail.

Melanie starting talking to one attorney named Paul Jeffries, "Don't you think it would be prudent to let me lead the charge, so we don't lose any clients?"

Jeffries had been at the firm over 30 years, and was unflappable even in the midst of complete and utter disaster.

"Young lady. While your thirst for client retention is commendable, I believe that your current focus is askew. If I were you, I would be more concerned with finding a new stable, rather than trying to ride this expired horse."

Meyers finally left the firm after building security had to revoke her privileges, and she decided to open her own firm after dipping into her multi-million dollar trust fund that her grandmother set up years earlier. She worked alone for the rest of her days, because there was only one person who could live up to her stringent standards.

Panic spread over the softening body of Patti Fong, as her meal ticket was escorted out by the FBI. She might have said, "Fong me!" if she had any semblance of a sense of humor, but she had just purchased a beach house in the Hampton's and was counting on a huge bonus in a few months to help maintain her inflated lifestyle.

She had no advanced warning, or knowledge, of what was happening, and went on her computer to see if her paycheck had been automatically debited to her bank account. Patti breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of $5,700, Rogers Christianson LLP Payroll. It would be the last such payment she would receive, and her monthly stipend was summarily reduced to $1,600 for the next six months of unemployment, which was a big hit from the $12,350 she was receiving.

Six months later, her unemployment benefits expired, and so did her dream of owning a vacation house in the Hampton's. She had to sell the small three-bedroom house at a loss, which was a small price to pay for faking a religion and basically filing her nails at work for years. She eventually turned to a life as a Mary Kay Cosmetics rep, after an unsuccessful extended job search, and now is happily in pursuit of her very own pink Cadillac.

Jacob Worth was predictably not shocked when Christianson was arrested, but he was surprised to see the firm go under. He was even more surprised, however, to check his bank account the following week and see his checking balance at $255,444. With only just over $5,000 to his name a few days before, the new entry said, "TECH WONDERBOY THANKS YOU!" And Worth smiled for having known Bart Pagglia.

Norman Rogers slept well the night he got word of the official FBI action. His wife usually avoided such talk of her husband's business dealings, so the matter never came up.

Rogers lived the rest of his days in relative obscurity as a local advocate in Tucson, Arizona. Norman might have had to shed a few assets to stay out of jail, but his biggest loss was the freedom to stick his circumcised pecker where he pleased. His move to Arizona wasn't a total loss, however, as it gave him a chance to experience a climate that was similar to his future home, hell.

No bail was set for either Christianson or Erickson, because defense attorneys, and the judge, deemed them to be flight risks because of all of their international connections.

Erickson's two years in a minimum security prison gave him a chance to further compartmentalize his life, and focus on what he really wanted to do with the rest of his years. Being married and spending time with his kids were no longer an option, as Lori Erickson literally cleaned house six months after Billy's surprise incarceration.

She was shocked at first, but in no way was she disappointed with the outcome. Short of Billy's death, this was just about the best scenario she could have asked for... and she did repeatedly ask the heavens to intervene.

Lori filed for a divorce, and then sold the three houses the couple owned. She took part of the proceeds of these sales, which totaled in excess of $20 million, and bought a house on a 20-acre farm in rural Pennsylvania, which were only a few minutes from where she grew up. She also helped sell her mother's house nearby, and moved her in with her three kids, who immediately flourished away from the pressures of the big city and in the open spaces of the country.

By the time Billy Erickson was released from prison, he was not only a man without a family, he was also a man without a vocation. Disbarment ensured that he would never work as an attorney again... at least not in the United States. Billy spent his entire life struggling to search for meaning, and being a lawyer gave him some semblance of peace. So, he decided to literally take his act on the road. He went straight from the minimum security prison in Virginia to the airport, where a one-way ticket was waiting for him to start his life in Europe.

A former client hired him before his release, and his favorite Euro girlfriend, Mary Margaret, was waiting for him to start a whole new life, which he did in earnest.

Steve Christianson's experience was not as seamless as his buddy Erickson, but it definitely was a microcosm of his hedonistic lifestyle.

Bart had one final request of Agent Lawson, who appeared frustrated until he heard the request.

"Send that mother fucker all the way up the river!" Bart exclaimed.

Lawson smiled and replied, "I have just the place."

It was a maximum security prison in Lompoc, Texas, that finally flipped Steve Christianson's life in a positive direction. Within the walls of hell, he finally learned the error of his aggressive ways, and that he was much better suited to receive, rather than give.

One year at that facility, followed by two years at a medium-security prison, gave Christianson a crystal-clear picture of his career path once released from prison. Since law was no longer an option, he knew he would have to work from the bottom-up in his new profession.

Mary Christianson had filed for divorce less than 24 hours after he was arrested. She also sold the couple's properties, and moved down the block from her parents in a new community in Charlotte, North Carolina. No forwarding address was provided.

Steve had a contact inside who set him up for an interview a few days after his release. No ticket was waiting for Steve, so he scrounged up a few dollars, courtesy of some of his new-found skills, and hopped on a bus to Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Two weeks later, Steve was a new man. He had worked out religiously while in prison, and continued to work out with his new buddies on the outside, who also fed him a steady diet of steroids.

"We need to enhance that," his new boss said during his interview, so Steve happily received a penile implant.

His first man-on-man film entitled, Boned in the Wind earned him the AVA awards of Best Newcumer, Best Oral, and Best Receiver. Life was again meaningful for Steve Christianson, a.k.a. Rex Blowman.

Life in Malibu, California was pure bliss for Bart, Sam, Gretchen and Helga after they quickly escaped New York. Their new $50 million beachfront mansion also doubled as the corporate headquarters for FORT KNOX COMPUTER SECURITY in the early years, before BestBuy bought that company, too, for another $500 million. Sam and Gretchen also sold their company for $50 million.

Bart always dreamed of having a big family, but none of the women had any interest in either getting married or having babies themselves. He looked at his harem of beauties, and thoughts of marriage to one woman were the further thing from his mind.

The group decided to adopt a few kids, instead, which pleased Bart to no end, because his women could keep their daily Pilates schedule and maintain their rocking, kick-ass bodies!

Sam adopted an Asian baby girl, Gretchen found a 16 year-old cheerleader from Wisconsin that gave her baby girl up, Helga found a German baby and had her shipped via FedEx Second-Day Air, and Bart found an orphaned baby boy in the Dominican Republic that he made his own. Four nannies were hired, and a new soundproof wing of the house was built shortly after the babies arrived.

Bart smiled as he thought of how money had brought him everything he ever wanted in life. No diaper changes or feedings would ever get in the way of him and his ladies when the urge arrived. Sam kissed his neck as Gretchen and Helga walked in the room wearing only grins on their faces.

"Gotta' go," he said, as heaven once again awaited him.

