Dave's Fiction Warehouse

C ynthia from HR brought around the Christmas card. By the time it reached Henderson’s desk, it was already bulging with bills. Henderson sighed and reached for his wallet. He wasn’t crazy about diminishing his meager supply of cash, but it was Christmas and he supposed he should do his part to help the less fortunate. Probably a coworker had suffered some medical emergency, some unforeseen household disaster. He slipped a fiver into the card and then noticed the name on the envelope. “Mr. Ryan? Who’s that? The only Ryan at this company is the boss.” Cynthia smiled and took the envelope. “Yes, Donald J. Ryan. The Third. He’s a wonderful boss, isn’t he?” Henderson frowned. “Depends what you mean by ‘wonderful.’ I haven’t gotten a raise in five years, while the company’s profits have about tripled. But I suppose he’s nice enough. What happened? Is he all right?” Cynthia looked at him blankly. “Oh yes. He’s fine. Never better. Why do you ask?” “If he’s fine, why are we giving him money? I...

All I want for Christmas is not this guy. T his is what it’s come to: Watching the results of an Alabama senatorial election likes it’s the freaking AFC playoffs. Does scrappy underdog Doug Jones come from behind to knock off crappy horndog Roy Moore? It’s anybody’s game! Who’s ready for some football? My prediction just before the polls close: Roy Moore will win it handily. Not even close. Two touchdowns and a field goal. Why? Because (a) I have a history of backing lost causes, and (b) we now live in the time of Donald Trump, from whom guys like Roy Moore derive their mojo. Oh, and (c): it’s Alabama. Any other place, dating 14-year-old girls as a grown man might be a deal-breaker. Not so in the state of George Wallace, country of Trumpistan. Thanks, Don! That’s another one we owe you. OK, enough with the negative energy. What I’m doing here is an old trick of mine: Predicting an outcome so the opposite will occur. If I say Moore will win, my personal history would indicate that he wi...