"Where to?" Ryan Howard clicked his seat belt and adjusted the rear view mirror on Todd Packer's red Corvette.
Packer didn't bother with the seat belt. He fiddled with the passenger seat adjustment, shoving himself all the way back. "You know where 'The Booty Call' is?"
Ryan blinked. "Uh. Strip club on North 40?"
"You got it. Ever been there?"
Ryan shifted into reverse and eased the big car out of the parking slot. "No." Ryan frowned and decided that on the whole, he would rather stay in the office. Too late now. Well at least he was away from those cameras.
He turned right and headed for Wyoming Avenue. Packer was a top salesman. Might pick up a few pointers from him. Otherwise, this is another colossal waste of time. Ryan was still embarrassed that after all these months, he still hadn't made a single sale at Dunder-Mifflin.
"So. Which of the chicks in your office is Michael banging?" Packer said.
Ryan frowned. "None of them."
Packer snorted. "Such a loser."
"It would be very unprofessional of him," Ryan said. Why am I defending Michael? Oh, right. Because this guy's a prick.
"Unprofessional?" Packer mocked. "So gay."
"Why are we going to a bar?"
"Got a customer meeting set up for 11:00," Packer said, leaning back in the seat to stare up at the sky. "Damn, I love a convertible."
"Yeah, Michael's got one, too."
"Little shit's always copying me," Packer said. Ryan didn't miss the note of pride in his voice. "Turn here."
"But we're not at --"
"Jeez, will you just turn in here?"
Ryan turned into the parking lot of a dilapidated strip mall. Packer opened the door before he'd brought the car to a stop. "Wait here," Packer said, and strode into a liquor store.
What the hell? They were going to be late. Ryan checked his watch twice.
Packer came out holding a brown paper bag. He dropped into the passenger seat, already uncapping the flask inside. "Want a hit?"
"I'm driving," Ryan said. God, he sounded like a prude, but still...
"Whatever."
Ryan shifted into reverse again and headed out. Packer drank steadily from the bottle in the bag as Ryan navigated back onto Wyoming, to Green River. Where they ran into a massive traffic jam that stopped them dead.
"What's the holdup?" Packer said.
"Train," Ryan said. A slow freight, of course. He was cursed.
"So do a U-turn and get back to Capouse," Packer said. "I know this town like the back of my hand."
"Then you know Capouse takes us right back to the freeway."
"Just go." Packer chugged from the bottle.
Ryan turned the car in a U-turn, thinking about the places the train was going, places he might never go. Stuck here in this dying town forever. He thought maybe he should get a hit of that flask, but then thought about Packer's mouth on the rim of the bottle and decided against it.
As Ryan turned onto Capouse Avenue and headed for the entrance to the freeway, Packer fiddled with the radio until he found the only country and western station in the Scranton area.
"Do you have to listen to that?" Ryan said through gritted teeth.
"What, not met-ro-sexual enough for ya?"
Just don't talk to him. That's the only way to get through this.
By the time they arrived at the strip club, they were fifteen minutes late for Packer's customer meeting. The club was on the back side of a run-down strip mall on the north side of Scranton, sandwiched between a chiropractor's office and a thrift shop. It had once been a small store of some kind, but the big display windows had been painted black. A neon sign over the door said "OP N 24 HRS"; a beefy man in a black T-shirt leaned against the entrance, arms crossed. The deep throb of an over-amped bass line pulsed from the half-open door.
"This is the place," Packer said.
Ryan parked the car next to a battered van. "You're meeting your customer here?"
"Hell, yes. Frank and I go way back. I buy him a couple of lap dances and he orders whatever I tell him to."
Not exactly the closing technique they taught in night school, but what the hell. If it works...
Ryan watched as Packer put the bottle under the passenger seat and climbed unsteadily out of the car.
The scowling bouncer moved to intercept Packer as he approached the door. He put a hand on his chest, shaking his head. "You know you can't come in here, Packer."
"Bullshit," Packer said loudly. "You know that little gal Mercuri can't get enough of me."
"You're blacklisted, Packer." The big man looked as solid as a brick wall, even in front of the tall, beefy Todd Packer. "Mercuri requested it special. You won't keep your hands off the girls."
"What the hell? You can't blacklist me!"
"Don't make this ugly," the bouncer said. "Just get back in the car."
Ryan hung back, watching. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Packer get beat up or not. While it would have been a pleasure to watch, he didn't want to have to explain something like that to Michael.
Packer turned to him, scowling. "Go in and get Furley to come out here," he said.
"But--"
"No buts! Just get in there."
The bouncer looked at Ryan, nodded and stepped aside.
Dim lights, stale beer, music that was too loud and tables that were too close together. Same old same old. Ryan remembered similar bars from his frat days. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the raised dais, the skinny pole dancer entwining herself around it, saw the haze of blue smoke hanging in the air. He was willing to bet that the smoke in this place was older than he was.
"Hi, honey!"
Ryan looked to his right and saw a blonde in black mascara wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoffs that looked more like a thong. "Hi. I'm, uh, looking for a guy."
She smiled and he saw that one of her side teeth was missing. "Wrong bar, baby. But I can find you a real nice girl if you like."
"No, really, I need to find a guy I'm supposed to be meeting. Name of Furley."
Her face went blank. "Oh. Okay." She turned her head and bellowed. "Randall! Guy here for you."
Ryan tried not to watch the girl gyrating around the pole. He heard a chair scrape in the darkness, heard sounds. Then a tall, gaunt looking man loomed out of the shadows like a shark emerging from the depths.
"Who are you?"
Ryan stuck out his hand. "Ryan Howard, Dunder-Mifflin? I'm here with Todd Packer." Too late, he remembered to smile.
Furley was sandy-haired, wearing a brown suit with a pink shirt that had mustard stains on it. His bony wrists protruded from his cuffs. He was holding a beer bottle in one hand. "Yeah? So where is he?"
"Out front. He, uh, he can't come in."
Furley snorted contemptuously. He stared at Ryan a moment longer (didn't this guy blink?) and then looked away. He lifted the bottle to his lips and finished it in one long draft. "Okay," he said. Without further ado he walked past Ryan. Ryan hurried after him.
"Furley, you son of a bitch! How ya doin'!" Packer crowed as Furley emerged from the bar ahead of Ryan. He slapped hands with the other man. "Gettin' any in there? Nah, I'm just kiddin' ya. Listen, I got a little problem with the management here, nothing serious. But we'll have to move the meeting."
Ryan watched as Furley pulled out a pack of cigarettes, selected one, lit it, taking his time. Finally he blew a cloud of blue smoke in Packer's face. "You still buying?"
"Hell, yes!" Packer's grin was wide, if lopsided.
"Tip Top Club, then."
"Great. Come on, temp."
"You're still blacklisted at every club in town," the bouncer growled behind Ryan.
This was a disaster. He'd have been better off washing Michael's car.
"Screw that," Packer said belligerently.
Furley chuckled softly. "Blacklisted? So we should go to Chili's? No way, Packer."
"I can meet with him," Ryan ventured. "If you want, you can sit in the..." He trailed off as he met Packer's blazing eyes. "Um. Yeah. Okay."
Furley looked from him to Packer. "Follow me. I know just the place." He tossed the cigarette away and strode off, heading for a black Lexus parked at the curb. Ryan scrambled to get Packer into the passenger seat and get himself behind the wheel before Furley took off. As it was, he barely had time to fall in behind Furley before the black Lexus took off at top speed.
Ryan was too busing concentrating on keeping up with the Lexus to pay much attention to where they were going. By the time the car ahead pulled over and slid into a parking spot, he was thoroughly lost. He parked the 'Vette and locked the steering wheel, looking around.
What the hell? Are we still in Scranton?
Warehouses and industrial buildings, most of them rusting and shuttered, lined the street. A couple of signs with missing letters or broken bulbs hung over deserted doorways. One neon sign was lit, although pale in the winter sunshine: The May Pole. Neon beer signs advertising Bud and Coors hung in the window below. May Pole? What kind of club was this? Ryan wondered. He followed Furley and Packer into the building reluctantly.
The bar was half full, even in the middle of a work day. Purple walls, a mirror ball, a dance floor, and a bar stretching the length of the room. And not one single woman in sight.
Oh my God. No. Oh, I don't believe this...
"Are you fucking kidding me, Frank?" Packer blinked as he looked around. "You brought me to a gay bar?"
Shut up shut up shut up, Ryan thought, stepping away from Packer. He saw heads swiveling in their direction: tattooed faces, pierced cheeks, leather everywhere. They're going to kick our asses. Or worse...
Furley smirked at Packer, his eyes half shut. "What's the matter, Packer? Afraid they'll out you?"
"It's a goddamn fairy palace," Packers said, still too loud.
"Yeah, but they're not picky," Furley said. "They let you in. Let's get a table."
Ryan tried to make himself inconspicuous as he trailed behind the other two. It wasn't that he was homophobic. But he'd never understood why gay men were so attracted to him. He caught a few looks sent his way and felt his cheeks growing cold. Maybe he could wait in the car.
Ryan decided that Furley was settling some obscure score with Packer when he picked a table right next to a party of several men in black leather and studs. Most of them had pierced noses and eyebrows; one had what looked like a carriage bolt through one ear. The blond next to the beefy older man stuck his tongue out at Ryan as he was pulling out his chair; the blond's tongue was pierced.
"Hey, sweetie," the blond said.
Ryan said nothing and sat down. Oh, man, why did Michael send him on this trip?
A waiter with half-closed eyes slouched over to take their order. He looked both bored and angry at their presence. Ryan ordered mineral water, Packer ordered shots for the table. Furley handed the waiter his credit card and smirked at Packer. "'Cause I know your credit card is redlined," he said.
"Hunh," said Packer. His face was red and now his eyes were starting to glaze over. His gaze shifted from Furley to the men at the next table and back. "So. You come here often?"
Furley shook his head. "Nope. Guy in the office was talking about it." He leaned forward. "So. About that coated magazine stock. You think you could cut me some slack on that?"
Ryan knew he should listen to the negotiations. After all, the only possible good that could come out of this day would be if he learned to close a sale. But Ryan listened in horror as Furley – who, he noticed, was not actually drinking -- negotiated himself a hefty twenty percent discount off wholesale on a huge paper contract.
I should step in here, Ryan thought. This guy's gonna wipe out our quarterly profit at this rate. Not that Dunder-Mifflin actually made a quarterly profit was, but still. Todd Packer would lose big time on this deal.
And on that thought, Ryan resolved to shut up and let the guy hang himself. It wasn't like he could stop this runaway freight train anyway. He sat back and drank his water and concentrated on paying no attention to the men at the next table. By the time he'd finished his water, Todd Packer had let himself be screwed out of his commission for the next six months. Ryan smiled slightly to himself.
Furley signed and initialed the (much revised) purchase order and stood up, gesturing for the waiter. "Thanks, buddy. Been good doing business with ya."
Todd blinked, his expression blank. "Yeah. Alwaysh a pleashure." He hiccuped. Ryan could smell the liquor on his breath from the other side of the table. He looked up at Furley, who winked at him.
"I'll get the bill," Furley said as the waiter came up holding the check.
"Least you could do," Ryan said solemnly.
Furley grinned, which made him resemble a ferret very much. He walked away, followed by the waiter. Ryan heard a giggle from the next table but refused to look.
Packer was tipping his shot glass to see if there was any more liquor in it. There wasn't. He craned his neck, looking for the waiter.
"Let's go," Ryan said, standing. He got a hand under Packer's elbow and tugged.
"Getcher damn hands offa me," Packer growled, and jerked away. But he got heavily to his feet and lurched in the general direction of the front door. Ryan followed, digging the car keys out of his pocket.
The day had grown overcast while they were inside, which made the day appear much later than it actually was. Ryan looked around but Furley's Lexus was already gone. He got a hand under Packer's elbow and steered him away from the dumpster and towards the Corvette. As they reached it, Packer slumped over, leaning on the passenger side door.
"Hey," he said. "I think I'm --" And then he suddenly vomited on his shoes and the side of the car. "Oh, shit."
Ryan closed his eyes. He wondered if he could drive away in the Corvette and leave Packer where he was. Would anyone notice if he showed up at the office without him? Yeah, Michael would. Ryan sighed and reached around Packer to open the car door for him.
"Get in," he said wearily. "I'll drive you home." With any luck, the son of a bitch will pass out before I reach the end of the block.
Unfortunately, the fresh air apparently revived Packer. By the time Ryan had reached a part of town he recognized, Packer was sitting up and fiddling with the radio dial again. "Hey, temp. Take a left at the next light."
Figures he knows all the shortcuts, Ryan thought. He turned left, found himself on a residential street, and frowned. "Are you sure?"
Packer was bent over, rummaging for the bottle he'd stashed under the seat. "Yeah. Hang a right at the house with the three rosebushes at the corner."
"Um. Okay."
"And then left at the second stop sign."
"Yeah." What the hell? Ryan turned, turned again, and found himself deep in suburbia. Where was the highway?
"Okay, pull over in front of that house with the sycamore tree out front. Where is that bottle?"
"Pull over?"
"Just do it!"
"Is this your house?" Ryan said, pulling up to the curb. The house was a run-down brick ranch style house with an overgrown lawn, in need of a paint job. The sycamore in front was at least fifteen feet high, its branches not yet fully leafed out. "I thought you lived in an apartment."
Packer belched. "I do. Cut the engine."
"Then whose house is this?"
"Pop the trunk." Packer opened his door and more or less spilled himself into the gutter.
"What?"
Packer hauled himself up, leaning on the open car door. He turned and stared at Ryan, bleary eyed. "Open. The. Trunk."
Ryan punched the button on the dash and heard the 'Vette's trunk release. Packer hauled himself hand-over-hand along the body of the car until he reached the open trunk. "Ah," he said.
Ryan shut off the engine and climbed out. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Whose house is this? Why are we hear?"
"Jus' a li'l pay...payback." Packer was rummaging in the trunk. He straightened, tearing at something in his arms.
"Look, I really thin we should get back to--"
"Catch!" Packer tossed him something white.
Ryan caught it by reflex. "Toilet paper?"
Packer grinned, his arms full of rolls of white toilet paper. "Yeah. Gonna have a li'l teepee party."
"Teepee?"
Packer snorted. "Damn faggot. Dint you never (belch) TP some guy's house?"
"Packer, we can't just trash some stranger's house just 'cause you--"
"Not a stranger!" Packer bellowed. He swayed, but righted himself. He turned towards the big sycamore. Rolls of toilet paper dropped to the ground, but he hung onto one. "Gotta show that li'l bastard!"
"What? What are you talking about? Stop!" Ryan stepped forward, tossing his roll of toilet paper into the open trunk of the 'Vette.
Packard reared back and flung the roll of toilet paper. It hit the tree halfway to the top, bounced off a branch, and one end of the strip of paper caught on the bark. Bouncing its way down to the ground, the paper unrolled in filmy streamers.
Packer hooted. "That'll do 'er! Gimme another." He leaned forward, slapping his hands on his knees.
"No. Come on, get in the car." Ryan picked up a roll of errant toilet paper and tossed it into the trunk. "We can't do this. Whoever lives here will call the police."
Packer giggled. "Can't. He's not home! He's at wor...work." He picked up another roll of toilet paper, tossed it at the tree. He was aiming at the top of the tree but the roll hit the lower branches. It too unfurled a long streamer as it rolled back to his feet. Packer picked it up, tore off the strip, and hurled the roll back towards the tree. This time it sailed clean through the branches and landed on the porch with a thump.
"Packer, knock it off," Ryan said desperately. "I mean it."
"Gimme 'nother roll."
"No. Get in the car."
Packer hiccuped, looked surprised, and then leaned over and vomited on the lawn.
"Oh, God," Ryan said. If I kill him now, I can stuff him in the trunk of the 'Vette. No one would miss him.
Packer heaved again, coughed, straightened, and wiped his mouth. "Dammit." He picked up the last roll of toilet paper. "Bought these shpesh ... splesh ... special today."
Ryan stepped over the vomit and grabbed Packer's arm. "Come on, let's go. Furley will call the cops when he sees this."
Packer giggled and threw the toilet paper roll. "Not Furley's house!" The toilet paper roll hit the tree high on the left side, bounced to the right, and zigzagged down to the ground, leaving a crooked ribbon of paper behind it. The sycamore now looked like the target of a high school prank.
"You're just trashing some stranger's house? Get in the car!" Ryan was getting mad now. He could see himself getting arrested, maybe fired thanks to this drunken idiot.
Packer giggled. "Not a stranger!" He wove his way back to the car and leaned on it, laughing. "Michael Snot's house!"
Ryan froze in the act of closing the trunk. "Michael...this is Michael's house!?"
"His ma...his mama's," Packer hiccuped. "Hee! Li'l snot lives with his mommy!" Packer's tone turned ugly, taunting.
"What the hell? Why did you toilet paper my boss's house?" Ryan said despairingly. "Are you trying to get me fired?"
Packer rounded on him suddenly, his face going from blearily amused to stone cold mean in the blink of an eye. "Your boss? Your boss? I'll tell you about bosses. Michael Scott ain't nobody's boss. He's a sniveling little shit is what he is, who can't sell water to a thirsty man." To Ryan's infinite relief, Packer yanked open the door and threw himself into the seat.
Ryan hastened to slide behind the wheel, glancing around again to see if any of the neighbors had decided to investigate their vandalism. "I thought Michael was your best friend," he said.
Packer sneered. "Yeah, friend. Li'l bastard done me out of my promotion, is what." As they pulled away from the curb, Packer leaned over the window of the car and flipped off the house and its festooned tree. "You hear that, you cheater! You been punked!!" he yelled.
Ryan quickly retraced his route and found himself on Wyoming. He pushed down on the gas pedal, no longer caring if he got a speeding ticket. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between that house and himself.
"Sunnovabitch took my job," Packer was mumbling. "Taught Michael Scott everything he knows, and what does he do? Kisses Ed Truck's ass until he gets promoted, while I'm out busting my humps making sales!"
"I thought Michael had the highest sales figures, that was why he got promoted to Regional Manager," Ryan said. Ah, thank God, there's the exit coming up. Five minutes, and he'll be back in the office. Who'd have thought it would ever seem like a haven?
Packer snarled. "Shoulda been my promotion! Shoulda made me Regional Merger!"
"Manager," Ryan corrected automatically.
"Shut up! And take the Stenson exit."
"But we're almost--"
"No! Got a sales meeting at a --"
Ryan suddenly felt something snap inside. "Hell, no. We're going back to the office!"
"Hey, what? You --"
"I have calls to make. I can't be driving you around all day." Ryan glanced over at Packer. "And you're in no shape to be selling."
"Don't you tell me I can't--" Packer roared.
Ryan jerked the wheel hard left, slamming Packer against the door. "Back. To. The. Office." He glared at Packer. "And if you open your mouth again, I'm telling Michael who trashed his mother's house." What the hell, I'll probably tell him anyway.
Packer glared at him but said nothing. He sat sullenly all the rest of the way.
When he pulled into the parking space at Dunder-Mifflin, Ryan jerked the keys out of the car and tossed them at Packer. Packer lunged for them, missed, and stumbled getting out of the car to pick them up. Ryan said nothing but stalked back into the building.
Complete waste of time, he thought disgustedly. He'd have been better off playing solitaire.
He heard Packer lurching along behind him but paid no attention. In the elevator, he stood on the other side of the car from Packer, not looking at him. Packer wheezed, coughed, and groped in his pockets for a breath mint. Ryan could smell it from where he stood and felt ill.
I should totally tell Michael about the toilet paper. He'll be grateful, and Packer will get a kick in the ass.
He thought about how grateful Michael would be. About how Michael would gush and giggle and tell him what beautiful eyes he had and how he was a hero. And then make an announcement to the rest of the office. Then probably try to pin some stupid medal made out of tinfoil on him. And then he'd make some joke with Packer about the toilet paper, never realizing he was the butt of Packer's venomous prank.
With a sinking feeling, Ryan realized he wasn't going to tell Michael anything. Michael would go home, or his mother would get home first (and did the man really live with his mother?), and think some kids had pranked him. Ryan wondered how many other childish tricks Packer's jealousy had led him to play on Michael.
Ryan thought about Packer shooting the finger at the house as they drove away, yelling "You been punked!" Then he thought about the purchase order in Todd Packer's pocket, the one that would demolish his sales record and erase his commission.
By the time the doors opened and he strode through the doors of Dunder-Mifflin and saw Pam's face, he was smiling to himself.
No need for me to say a word; Packer has punked himself.
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
NeverEnoughJam is the author of 24 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Punker also liked 202 other stories.
