Christ, this is getting out of the hand.

Another one? What the hell is this, open mic night?

I turn around to see the second newcomer, and something insides me clenches tight at the sight of him. It’s not that he’s hideous—he isn’t—or that he’s dressed in a weird way. In fact, there’s a certain attractiveness to him, despite the fact that he looks to be in his 50’s.

His thinning dark hair is combed back, and he has one of those noses that seems stolen from British Royalty. His smile is wide, showing two rows of perfect little teeth, and there are few wrinkles creasing his skin. But the way he eyes the board, and his confident strut as he unbuttons his jacket...there’s something off about him, I just can’t put my finger on what it is exactly.

“I’m sorry for my late appearance,” he continues, stopping right in the aisle between the seats and addressing the Board President directly. “I had other business to attend, unfortunately, but I couldn’t skip this one. Even if it means I had to get there just a bit late. Seems like I missed quite the show.”

Again, as he continues to speak, I feel that unconscious reaction inside me, pushing me away from him and making me doubt every single one of his words. In a way, he looks almost too perfect and polished in how he chooses to present himself. Colt, as perfect of a specimen as he is, still has that deep-seated cockiness that makes him feel like a real human being should. Even the Jeff guy seemed like a real person, no matter how crazy.

This new guy, though, feels too slick. Too artificial.

Just like a used car salesman, one that’s all smiles and firm-handshakes as he carefully nudges you to a piece-of-shit car that’s going to die on you once you’re 50 miles away from his shiny stand.

I look to my side, at Daphne, trying to find out who the hell this guy is. She just shrugs at me, mouthing something that looks like a I have no idea.

Thankfully, that gets resolved fast.

“My name is Hiram Hooskins,” the new comer announces, finally taking his eyes out of Seymour Cooper and scanning the rest of the room. His smile is a warm one, but there seems to be ice in his eyes. Almost as if they’re lifeless. “I’m a businessman, and I’m always looking for new and exciting opportunities...as any businessman worth his salt should. And that’s why I’m here, to officially bid for the vacant site in this building, the magnificent Clarendon Tower.”

“And what is your line of business, Mr. Hooskins?” Seymour asks him, his elbows on the table as he leans forward to better check out the new bidder. “You’re probably aware of this, but here, at Clarendon Tower, we enforce the highest standards when it comes to the businesses we allow to operate inside our walls.”

“I’m aware of that, indeed, Mr. Cooper. And that’s exactly why I have something I consider quite new and exciting,” Hiram replies without missing a beat, carefully straightening his tie as he does it. “See, Clarendon Tower has been known for a long a time as the place where the wealthiest among the wealthiest congregate. It’s the place of choice for the elite...and rightfully so, judging by the outstanding residents I see here today.” At that, a few of the residents open up into smug smiles. Proud bastards, all of them. “And, of course, everyone in this room is very proficient and mindful of keeping Clarendon Tower as an exclusive and glamorous place.”

“Just get on it with it, man,” Colt says from behind me, stifling a yawn. A few of the residents frown at him, but this time I smile. He’s right; what’s up with this asshole’s monologue? Is he trying to lull us all into sleep so he can steal the site from under our noses?

“Ah, of course, Mr. McCoy,” Hiram smiles, saying Colt’s surname in a way that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Jesus, why does this guy have to be so goddamn creepy? And why does he know Colt’s name? Somehow, I get the feeling that he knows my name as well. Seems like he did his homework before coming in here.

“Well,” Hiram continues, “my proposal is a simple one—I want to open a space in the ground floor of Clarendon Tower that will put the public on your side. No more talks of the 1%, no more being sneered at by the other New Yorkers. Instead, you can get the good press and all the good will. And that, in the long run, will help Clarendon Tower turn even more of a profit.”

“For fuck’s sake, stop talking in riddles,” Colt adds once more, a note of frustration coating his words. “What’s your miracle idea?”

“I want to open a Jobs Center, Mr. McCoy, one that helps people who have been laid off find work again. Especially those whose jobs have been outsourced for foreign countries. It’s a real problem for America, as you know...and I think Clarendon Tower could be the lighthouse that guides those poor souls somewhere safe. Don’t you think so?”

At that, a great part of the audience responds with a very audible oooh. Just like middle-school kids who’ve just been told they’ll be able to choose between pizza and hamburgers for lunch and dinner, every day of the week.

Thankfully, not everyone seems convinced by Hiram’s smooth talk. Some residents are drumming their fingers against their knees, looking straight at Hiram while they try to decide if the guy’s for real.

Still, this is a fucking mess.

With me, Colt, and Hiram after this place...it’s going to be war.

“Very well, Mr. Hooskins,” Seymour chirps in, smugness dripping of his oily skin. I guess the bastard would like to have his name on the newspaper if such a project was approved. Yeah, he’d love to bask in that, and get patted on the back for looking after the unemployed in America. What a damn hypocrite. I wish I could slap him with that dildo machine again. “You drive a hard bargain, that’s a fact. But two other options have been presented, and the bylines require me to hold an informal voting with the present residents so that we can move onto more official producers.”

“Very well,” Hiram nods, that creepy smile never leaving his lips. From behind me, I can hear Colt hissing in frustration. He’s not the most patient guy, it seems.

As Seymour calls for the votes, I tap the tip of my right heel against the floor nervously. It goes tack-tack-tack, echoing across the whole audience room, until Daphne lays one hand on my knee and smiles at me. “It’ll be fine,” she whispers and, although I don’t believe her entirely, her words are enough for me to take a deep breath and calm down.

The next five minutes go by in a hurry.

Hands are raised, and hands are lowered, but from where I’m standing I can’t get a clear count. Still, I feel a bit calmer when I see a lot of hands raising in favor of the spa when Seymour calls my name.

“Well, unexpected,” Seymour finally says, going up to his feet, “but I guess we don’t have enough of a clear majority to settle this piece of business right away. As such, we’ll have to reconvene in two months time and have another vote before I approve of it.”

Great, just what I needed. Two months of sitting on my ass, while what I need to be doing is getting my spa up and running as fast as is possible. God, I don’t know who I hate the most right now—if Colt McCoy, the rich asshole who thinks he can rain down cum all over the peasants, or Hiram Hooskins, a bastard so damn creepy that I might have to take a shower after I get home.

“Alright,” I hear Colt say from behind me. I turn around to face him, and he has a wide grin ready for me. “Time to campaign.”

I might not like the guy that much, but he’s right.

It’s time to campaign.