As each ear-slapping, floor-shaking echo of a stiletto heel bounced off the concrete floor, the employees’ sphincters tightened a little more. That tell-tale cadence could only mean one thing: Sheila was here.
Most of the Glomoclom employees only knew this red sole-wearing, no soul-bearing woman as The Grim Reaper. Sheila knew her nickname but she didn’t care. It was her job to help these employees realize their full potential–elsewhere.
Between her morning triple espresso and her 3PM hand-delivered ginger shot, Sheila had single-handedly made four men over forty cry, inspired one woman to vomit and–by ducking just in time to replace her face with the brick wall behind her–broken the wrist of a raged-out tatted-up twenty-year-old. She looked at the list of remaining soon-to-be ex-employees and giggled.
Thirteen was her lucky number.