February 25, 2006

The union offices were abandoned on Sunday, of course. Just a solitary light flickering in the center of the reception area, littered with old Sports Illustrated magazines. "How typical of such workers," thought Carl Williamson, representative of the stereotypical 90s manager, looking to squeeze blood from a stone to get more work from his employees.

He straightened his suit and set down his briefcase as Rod Masterson, his nemesis and so-called champion of worker's rights, emerged from his office. How typical of a union, to suck deep of the heartsblood of a company's capital, destroying the very thing they wished to preserve. Great Britain proved that, of course.

Rod dropped off his manuscripts and went over to Carl, nodding to the secretary, "Afternoon Carl."

Carl nods, vowing internally not to shake such a germ-infested appendage as that hand of Rod's must be, his voice rich with a nasal New England accent, "Good afternoon, Mister Masterson, I've come to produce the latest set of terms for you and your..." and he pauses, unable to hide all of his distaste at the thought, "union."

Sucking his tooth (a most /disgusting habit, thought Carl), Rod glanced at Carl, "Well, I figured that they'd send someone, Carl. Would you like to give me the highlights, or do I need to spend a lot of time reading it again."

Smirking with a definitive air of superiority, Carl looked at Rod evenly, "I would not wish for you to strain yourself. The terms have not changed, and the company cannot afford to give your union the... luxuries, it desires."

Rod chuckled, and started rambling on some nonsense about the union being a partnership with the workers and the company, which was complete balderdash. After all, they worked for the company, not with it, as their latest inane demands clearly proved. However, Carl thought, a trump card could be played, that would make major long term gains in place of a short term concession or two.

"With liberal firebrands like Mr. McAllister running amok in the city council, and probably, Lord help us, in the State Assembly, what can you expect?" Carl smiled internally as he played the card, wanting to protect his company's interests, and watching with barely-hidden glee as Rod seemed to waffle on his support of the populist. "That should nip /this/ in the bud, hopefully," Carl thought, as he left the latest agreement proposal on the table, speaking aloud, "Good day, Mister Masterson."

As he left, Carl felt a hint of elation, for if the unions did decide to become neutral in the race... well, anything to hurt that populist, moralizing troublemaker could only be good for the corporation, particularly if he or his cronies ever discovered... ahem, no use dwelling on what might be.