I knew it was going to be a bad meeting the minute I saw the donuts: six boxes of the gourmet kind: the bacon-topped, maple-filled; the creme brulee-filled; and the chocolate-topped with peanut butter. Comfort food. They always bring comfort food on these days. 

I quickly glanced toward the one-way glass panel at the front of the conference room, behind which I knew Brian, our district manager, was watching us. Watching…in safety.

 “It looks like everyone is here now,” Brian’s voice boomed over the intercom, just a moment later. “I hope you had a good weekend and spent some quality time with your families.”

It was silent for a moment, but then someone piped up; I think it was Bruce. Bruce or Pete. “Aww, come on, Brian. You don’t really care about us. Just cut to the chase. We all saw the reports.” There was a murmur of assent from the several-dozen gathered employees.

“No, that’s fine. Understandable,” Brian replied. “I’ll give it to you straight: your quarterly numbers…well, quite frankly…ehhh…they sucked.” He waited a moment for the discontented rumblings to die down. “Unfortunately, you don’t have any one person you can pin this on.”

A voice screeched from the back of the room. Nancy. Nancy was in her fifties but looked in her eighties. “It was the marketing department! That ad campaign was awful!”

“No, it wasn’t!” returned Dale, the marketing supervisor. “This was entirely on Quality Control!”

Things began to get heated, but then a loud voice near the front boomed out, “How much?”

The room filled with a pregnant silence, as we awaited Brian’s answer.

“One hundred.” 

One hundred what? Pints? Digits? Pounds?

There was a rattle of small wheels approaching from the hallway. A second later, Dr. Brownhouse was pushing a cart containing the all-too-familiar silver scales and a large box.

Brian clarified. “Corporate demands one hundred pounds of flesh.”

The doctor opened the box, revealing the means of meeting that demand: a myriad of saws, scalpels, knives, and other such utensils. As much as I enjoyed the legendary pay and benefits of this job, one fact held true: Corporate sucks.

“As usual, Dr. Brownhouse is available to advise and assist with all—” 

Brian’s voice was drowned out by the stampede of employees descending upon the cart, as each jockeyed to get the most effective sharp object. Dr. Brownhouse, per usual, beat a hurried retreat from the stabbing, slicing, gutting, and blood-drenching gorefest that overtook Conference Room 2B. 

Then, slowly but surely, amidst the whining of bone-saws and blood-curdling screams of pain and agony, the scales began to fill, as each extracted the price from their coworkers. 

Hands. 

Feet. 

Tongues.

Ears. 

A leg.    

A bell sounded. The requirement had been met. One hundred pounds of dripping meat lay stacked upon the scales. Arms bathed in blood up to my elbows, I was astoundingly unscathed.

“See you next quarter,” Brian said, addressing what remained of our workforce straggling out of the conference room. “Get those numbers up!”