The Good Boss

Walter Francis Tadworth was an industrious man, the cream of the crop in America. He was a large business owner, and was the proprietor of Tadworth’s Toy Factory, the most popular toy manufacturer in the United States. Every morning, he would go to work to examine the factory and make sure everything was in line. However, before that, he woke up at 5:30 pm sharp and ate a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes, cooked by his wife Nancy, who was expected to be awake an hour before him to prepare breakfast. After eating, he went to his bathroom where he brushed his teeth and took his morning poo. He spent a good ten minutes on the bidet, feeling the warm water bubble against his anus. He let out a slight moan before washing off in the shower. He looked at himself in the mirror; he had fair skin, blue eyes, blond hair that was cut short and professional, and a chiseled jawline that showed his true noblesse and gentility. After all, he was descended from Zebadiah Whitcomb Tadworth, a Puritan preacher who came to America on the Mayflower. Walter smiled with pride, knowing he was born to rule. He was, in fact, considering entering the public sector, first as Governor of Virginia, then as President. However, today was just another day as a good businessman and capitalist.

Walter stood outside the front door of his estate, waiting for his chauffeur. A black limousine arrived, and Walter waved slightly nervously at his chauffeur, a strong, tall, athletic, and slightly threatening African American gentleman named Earl Clinton. As he sat in the back seat, Earl made conversation.

“How are you today, sir?” Earl asked.

“Oh, fine,” Walter sighed. “Just another day of suffering of success.”

“Good one,” Earl laughed. “Sure is a struggle, ain’t it?”

“I imagine you’re a bit jealous of my wealth,” Walter sneered. “I won’t be offended if you are, most people are.”

“I mean, hey,” Earl began. “It’d be nice to have more cash, but I just value spending time with my wife and kids. Speaking of which, how’s your family?”

“Oh, they’re fine.” Walter rolled his eyes and looked out the window. He knew little of his children, as his wife was the one who mostly raised them. Perhaps it was cruel, but it was the tradition of his line of work. His eldest daughter, Alyssa, was away at a dreadful liberal arts school in California. He preferred not to think of all the degeneracy she may witness over there; homosexuality, race mixing with the blacks and Latinos that were endemic to the state, and worst of all, exposure to communist ideas, such as raising the corporate tax rate from the already steep 21%...to a calamitous 22%! His son, George, the second eldest child, was currently attending a prestigious private school in Virginia, which was the only natural choice; while Walter valued the conservative values of the South, he was afraid of the boorish rural class that the region was known for. His youngest daughter and child, Phyllis, was at the same private school, and he knew the least of her. If his children were to be independent, industrious individuals, he would have to be distant from them, lest they get accustomed to his affections and become socialist leeches who suckle off the teat of the bloated nanny state.

For the rest of the trip, Walter sat in silence as Earl drove him from the mansion to the factory. Tadworth’s Toy Factory employed around 1,000 workers, who were all loyal and diligent to Walter’s authority. Tadworth and his company owned three other locations: one in Dayton, Ohio, one in Stockton, California, and one in Xiamen, China, though Tadworth gave his board of directors sole responsibility over the China location, for though it was a smart business move, he could not stand to deal with the communist Chinese. While they produced their own original toys, Walter had recently procured a lucrative deal with the Walt Disney Company to manufacture licensed toys. Walter was a big fan of Disney, the movies, the theme parks, and the business model, so this was basically his wet dream. He giggled a bit thinking about how much money the deal would land him.

As the limousine arrived at the factory, Walter noticed that things were not normal. The smokestacks of the factory, a large building situated on the side of the Shenandoah River, were not giving off smoke, and the parking lot, which should normally only be occupied by the low quality cars, the lemons and jalopies of his lowly employees, was filled to the brim with workers in yellow vests, chanting and holding signs. Walter angrily exited the limo and looked on, realizing what was happening. The workers were striking. He couldn’t imagine why: he paid them the ludicrous federal minimum wage of $7.25, rewarded them a single luxurious vacation day out of the year, and allowed them to contribute to a successful and exceptional business.

“Sir!” a burly man with brown hair and a flustered pink face yelled as he ran towards Walter. This was John Houser, the on-site manager of the toy factory. He was extremely loyal to Walter, who considered him a brutish but effective right-hand man.

“What is it, Houser?” Walter barked. “You couldn’t keep them under control?”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” John cried. “I tried my best, but no one would listen. They…unionized!”

“Impossible!” Walter gasped. His heart sank fast in his chest, like the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror at Walt Disney World’s Hollywood Studios. “Houser, tell me, who’s leading this union?”

“Who do you think?” John squealed. “Salvador Lopez!”

“I knew it!” Walter hissed. Salvador Lopez was, without a doubt, the worst employee in the world. An arrogant and rebellious Mexican man, he had been a thorn in Walter’s side for fifteen years. When he was originally hired, he was the same as any normal worker, however, he soon began giving Walter suggestions on how to improve the company. This truly irked Walter, especially the suggestion that “workers might be more productive if you pay them more than minimum wage.” While Walter was utterly disgusted at such a notion that would rob the company of about 5% of its revenue, he feared firing Salvador over potential accusations of racism. However, today, he did not care.

“We want better wages!” Salvador chanted through a megaphone. “We want paid sick leave! We want a seat at the table! We want a fighting chance in this market!” Walter peered over and saw the scoundrel at the front of the crowd. He was five years Walter’s junior, and had jarring bronze skin, horrendous curly black hair, and a terrifyingly barbaric figure, similar to an Aztec warrior who would have killed and torn the heart out of a noble Spanish conquistador and job creator.

“What will you do, sir?” John asked. “Salvador said he just wanted to talk civilly. Have some negotiations.”

“I will do no such thing!” Walter whined.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” John sobbed. He dropped to his knees and began kissing Walter’s shoes. Walter nudged him away and looked on at the total anarchy in the parking lot. A smirk spread across his face as he got an idea. He pulled out his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

“Hello, 911, what’s your emergency?” the operator inquired.

“THIS IS WALTER TADSWORTH!” he screamed nervously. “I NEED HELP. THERE IS TERRORIST ACTIVITY OUTSIDE MY FACTORY! SEND POLICE! SEND THE NATIONAL GUARD!”

Once the call was finished, Walter sat back and watched as armed men came in jeeps and tanks and began firing on the crowd. It was a glorious bloodbath, as the little communist shits were mowed down lawfully by the bullets of the brave and honorable police and soldiers. He knew once the righteous slaughter was over, he would simply pin the suspected terrorist activity on Imran Ghani, a Pakistani immigrant who worked at the factory.