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The Incomplete Worlds Of Billy Shakespeare | BillyShakespeare.com: It's like Shakespeare...only in English.

Who’s Gonna Read This, B.S.?

short short stories

"The Typist"
a story by Billy Shakespeare

Her hands reached across the desktop, into a smoked-Plexiglas tray and grabbed a new, clean sheet of #24 Fox River Bond. Her fingers ran smoothly across its soft stippled surface, dancing almost to the paper’s edge. She lifted the snowy sheet and deftly-shifted her delicate form until she faced her office typewriter.

In a flash, her skilled and practiced hands had the paper tightly held in the typewriter’s unyielding rubber grip. With a quick flick the machine hummed to life. Everything was in readiness. It was up to her now. There would be no excuses given or accepted.

The time was at hand.

She raised her lovely hands until they were poised above the keyboard, ready to play their own sonata. And down they went, each key striking methodically a driving rhythm, a downpour of mechanical sound. The typewriter’s hammers were striking swiftly, scarring the paper’s surface with its ink and filling the office with its staccato rhythm.

Faster and faster her fingers flew, a blur of motion that not even the most discerning eye could follow. An absolute and total concentration held her, a trance that could not be broken, not even by the sudden entrance of her employer, a short-tempered, short-statured tyrant.

He stomped across the thin office carpet towards her desk. “File this,” he barked around huge clouds of cigar smoke, then tossed a manila folder towards her, missing an opportunity to permanently scar her lovely facial features by millimeters. Yet even dodging the projectile did not interrupt her concentration. The steady pounding of keys was completely drowning out the noise her employer now made at the office coffee pot.

He was grabbed the pot and poured the coffee carelessly into a large, personalized drinking mug. Coffee splashed on the counter surface, into a box of danishes, to the floor and the employer’s pants leg.

“Gaw-dammit,” he bellowed. He then pulled the cigar from his drool-soaked lips and swallowed the mug’s content in a single motion. “Gaw-dammit,” he hollered again. “Whaddaya tryin’ ta do? Poison me? What kinda coffee is this? I told you I want you to buy regular goddamn coffee. This decaffeinated shit tastes like piss!”

He strode as purposefully as he could with his short, meaty legs to where his secretary was just finishing with her typing. Just as he reached her desk, she pulled the paper from the typewriter and handed him the results of her skilled labor. As he read silently from the page, she reached under her desk for her purse, pulled her coat from around her office chair and made her way towards the office door.

He read:

Dear Sir:

I would like to say that I have enjoyed the many years I have served with you. I’d like to say that, but I have never been an effective liar.

Consider this paper and the many photos of you and your mistress I’ve sent under separate cover to your wife yesterday as my resignation.

Crawl back under your rock and die.

Sincerely,

He glanced upward from her signature and saw his now former-secretary waiting in the doorway. She gracefully put her arms through her coat sleeves, adjusted her outfit and then, just as he was about to speak, she purposefully extended the middle finger of her left hand and showed herself out of the office forever with her right.

As the door slammed behind her, he read the last sentence on the paper she had typed for him.

P.S. I pissed in the coffee.