Just like clockwork, every Monday afternoon the parking lot would fill up, the girl at the front desk would smile and greet, one by one, the assortment of retired citizens, dressed in their casual Friday attire. Each one ready to step out of chore mode and enjoy being surrounded by friends.
The clubhouse, where these games were played was located in Greed Acres. Only those who lived in the area and paid the absorbent fees were allowed to participate. Picture identification badges were issued to ensure no one ever snuck past their check points. There were guards stationed even before you ever reached the parking lot.
Slither Bartowski ran the clubhouse with an iron fist. Never reaching his height or human potential, he had forever been left out of the normal development of growing up. In a constant state of anger, he would allow no snacks or beverages into the clubhouse. He yelled to compensate for his height; he ordered his staff of frightened girls as if they were slaves and he hated his own name. He would bark at anyone calling him Slither. The brass plaque on his office door read, Slither Montgomery Bartowski III. He hated the third. That seemed to fester more than the name Slither.
Never showing fear or
concern, the retirees would smuggle in their favorite snacks. A Thermos of Jack Daniels, a sleeve of Oreos,
a hollowed-out large print dictionary, completely filled with chips and dip. Slither had never opened a book in his
life. It had always been assumed that
Slither’s snack-of-choice was vinegar.
To be continued
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