A Family Business

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Epilogue

Prologue

I COULD FIRE YOUR ASS RIGHT HERE AND NOW . . . I OWN THIS GOD-DAMN COMPANY . . . you’d be out of here and collecting unemployment right along with all the other ass-wipes. You’re supposed to be my CFO . . . that’s Chief Financial Officer, so start acting like it, or are you too much of a pussy? Dan Senior raged, his head turning red, veins bulging and salt and pepper hair bristling.

Now get off your lazy ass and take care of this fucked up mess before it gets too far along.

Dan Collins Senior had learned that one of his company’s female employees had been talking about a sexual harassment law suit; he had immediately had a brief discussion with his new CFO.

Dan Senior had gone through this many times and as he walked into the front lobby of his newly built office building, he set himself for the oncoming storm.

The new office and distribution center was off of a rural highway, sunken into a square lot with the office facing the main road leading into the parking lot. Dan’s large executive office was on the corner of the ‘L’ shaped one story building, with large windows on two sides and an excellent view of the beautiful park-like landscape, as well as the office parking lot.

Anyone watching Dan Senior as he stormed from his car, would have seen from the intensity of his gait, his forward posture and angry bulging eyes that it was time to exit through the back door and take a break . . . have a cigarette or two . . . or four, until the heat died down.

Dan was angry, but his mien was also part of the show . . . he was being watched and to maintain a certain level of fear was a necessary factor in being an effective leader; plus he really enjoyed it.

As he stormed into the lobby, and past the reception desk, he saw the terror and wide eyes of Caroline, his new receptionist, and smirked to himself. She actually sank a little bit behind the counter . . . they knew he was coming.

I work so damned hard to maintain order and be fair, but regardless of how beneficent I try to be, my employees are always looking for ways to screw me over and take advantage of my good nature . . . but now it’s time for some serious ass-kicking. Jesus, all I did was to give her some up close and personal help . . . some training.

She had been working on one of his many ‘brilliant’ memos, which once perfected, would be sent to the stores. Senior had kneeled down beside her chair, leaning in to see the computer screen . . . just working alongside her . . . coaching her . . . helping her.

A couple of times my forearm might have brushed up or maybe pressed against her boobs . . . I might have put my hand on her forearm as I explained things to her . . . just for emphasis, but nothing sexual.

When Dan had felt that she had made progress, he stood up, put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed, hugging her into him; her shoulder and breasts pressing into his lower extremities . . . which did make him a little hard.

I could tell she liked it; she was always flirting with me . . . like most women, she’s a prick tease.

I want her ass out of my company and if you can’t do it, I’ll hire a real executive . . . and if I see this kind of bullshit again, your ass is outta here right along with this bitch! Dumb-ass ‘goat fuckers’ . . . too stupid to live, he continued his tirade from the day before.

Maybe I’ll kick your ass before I fire it . . . what da ya think of that, YOU PECKER-HEAD! He screamed.

I WANT HER OUT OF MY COMPANY NOW, GODDAMN IT! Dan screamed with protruding red eyes and spittle flying across the desk into the CFO’s face. Senior’s face contorted and the pupils of his eyes were constricted into pin-pricks even though the light level was rather dim.

His fists were clenched and pressed down on the desk, his upper body leaned aggressively into the executive’s face.

The victim was leaning back in his chair, eyes wide with terror; his face red and sweating profusely. He had heard that Dan could be rather assertive, but this was his first experience . . . this was beyond assertive; this guy’s insane.

It was his eyes, which appeared to sink into his skull with darkening eye sockets; the blue becoming iridescent with tiny black pupils, which gave Dan a ghoulish look . . . the look was not of this world.

As Dan Senior spewed his venom, this newly hired CFO understood that this man was capable of anything and as he quaked behind his desk, could only think of . . . imagine . . . that Dan Senior was going to start throwing punches.

Being 6 foot 2 inches tall without his cowboy boots, Dan was formidable, even when he was not out of control; now, being in full rage, the man was terrifying.

The rant continued until he felt that he had gotten a complete surrender to his way of thinking, receiving multiple desperate and sincere apologies and a promise to take care of things immediately.

The woman was fired that day with her breaking into tears and a pledging to sue their collective asses off.

This isn’t over by a long shot! she growled, staring into the once more frightened eyes of the CFO.

When my husband gets done with this sad excuse for a business, I’ll own this company, she said intensely, red faced and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Dan watched the parking lot from his office window with a knowing smirk, waiting for her sorry ass as she was escorted out the door . . . being kicked the hell out of HIS company.

This made Dan smile . . . he watched her blubbering, as she scurried across the parking lot toward her car. She stumbled once and went down to one knee . . . this made him laugh out loud. Her hair was standing up from the breeze, with the sun almost straight above, giving her beautiful tits nice definition through her tight sweater. He then felt some remorse that such a fine piece of ass was not going to be coming back. As he watched her go, he heard a timid tapping on his door . . . it would be that pitiful excuse for a man he had hired as a CFO, quivering and whining.

Come in, he said in a pleasant voice.

The door opened and sure enough . . .

This is going to be a good day, he decided as he settled behind his large mahogany desk.

A good day indeed . . .

Chapter 1

Collins Men’s Clothier had just finished its first full year of operations. The store was looking great and had a center court location within a very strong regional mall. Unfortunately, in spite of its perfection, the store had finished the year with only moderate sales.

Dan Collins Senior has risked everything to open this store. It was more than just a men’s clothing store; it was the beginning of his ascension to greatness . . . his dream.

The store’s gross margin was also not up to what Dan had expected, and this left him with a personal and business shortfall in cash flow that put tremendous stress on his home life, as well as his struggling business.

Nancy Collins was continually referring to his new business venture as a stupid idea and ridiculous; stating resolutely that Dan should start sending out résumés and get a real job.

You took your shot and it didn’t work out, so now it’s time to get real and take care of your responsibilities . . . you’ve got a family to think about, she would tell him at least once a week.

Dan was not so quick to give up his dream, especially with the thought of the next 20 years of ‘I told you so’s’ that would be streaming from that bovine bitch he called his wife. He would never live it down and be reminded of what a failure he was with relentless constancy.

Dan would think of something; he had to think of something. He would double his efforts; he would not yield. This business will work regardless of what had to be done . . . regardless of what sacrifice had to be made.

During a number of buying trips into New York City, Dan had noticed several street vendors and small shops along Canal Street; a person could buy Rolex watches, Nike sweat suits, Polo sweat shirts, and a great many other branded items at ridiculously low prices.

Dan had purchased several watches and a variety of merchandise for himself, just for shits and giggles, and was amazed at how good they looked. As he wandered from one street vendor to another, he wondered if this knock off merchandise, called ‘gray goods’, could be purchased at even lower prices if he were buying in bulk. The merchandise consisted of cheap imitations but carried very exclusive logos and designs . . . and most importantly, it was really inexpensive.

A Rolex watch for 20 bucks, a Nike sweat suit for 24 dollars, and a whole lot of other merchandise that was equally desirable and easy on the pocketbook. The merchandise was right out on the streets . . . being sold in little hole-in-the-wall stores and in tiny kiosks on the street corners in both New York and Philadelphia.

Dan had not seen this type of merchandise in the Midwest or on the West Coast.

Hey you, how much for that Rolex? Dan asked.

Twenty five dolla . . . but for you I make it twenty, the petite Asian man said with a grin.

What if I buy two?

Give ya two of your choice for thirty-five, he said flashing his gnarly black and brown teeth once again.

Tell you what . . . I would really like to buy 25 watches . . . I’ll give ya eight bucks apiece . . . I pick the ones I want.

Fuck off . . . ain’t no way, the young Asian man scoffed.

Hey look, I bought a whole bunch of exactly the same shit down the street for ten bucks . . . just thought you might want some of my cash.

No way, he repeated, but looking a little unsure of himself.

Okay . . . no problem, I’ll take my business to the next guy. There are plenty of other guys to choose from, Dan said, as he turned around.

Dan walked about 15 yards down Canal Street when the street vendor caught up to him.

Can’t do it for no eight dollas, man. Do the same as that other guy . . . I’ll give ’em to ya for ten bucks. I pick out half, and you pick out half, the small man said.

Okay, give ya ten bucks, but no way that you pick. I pick the ones I want.

You got the cash on ya?

Sure do, Dan said with a smile of victory spreading across his face.

You lookin’ to do more . . . this kind of thing . . . you want some Gucci handbags . . . got some Air Jordan T’s . . . what da ya think?

Let’s take a look.

In one day on the street, Dan bought eight thousand dollars worth of great counterfeit merchandise.

He boxed the new goods and was able to get some of it on his plane coming back to California by slipping the sky cap $100, sending the rest via UPS directly to his store.

In one week he had sold every piece, turning his eight grand into more than twenty-two thousand dollars. Not bad for his first trip.

On the second trek into the city, he took twenty thousand dollars and again, within ten days turned it into almost fifty grand . . . and on it went. Dan was making a ‘shit-pot of money’, week after week; his ‘gray goods’ business seemed endless. He had established a strong relationship with several of the Asian gentleman that he was now doing business with, but wanted more variety and an easier way to buy the stuff. It was costly coming into New York on a weekly basis, having to hand-pick each item, and then ship the merchandise himself. There had to be an easier way.

Talking with one of his biggest New York street vendors, Dan learned that he could get some real fresh product from one of the vendor’s friends in ‘Jew Town’ in Chicago. After more conversation, Dan had a name, address and telephone number of this guy’s associate in Chicago, and a reference for doing business. The vendor said he would contact his friend and let him know to expect a call from Dan; this could be his big break and if it proved out, was going to be a major step up the food chain.

Dan was a little concerned that the guy in New York would so easily give up a name for someone that potentially would take money out of his own pocket, but Dan had to follow it up.

It had too much potential.

Dan landed at Midway Airport in Chicago at noon, rented an extended van and took off for the address given to him by his business associate in New York.

As he was renting the van, he asked directions to the address. The young man at the counter responded with a peculiar expression and a suggestion that he might want to reconsider. Dan smiled, thanked the young man for his concern, but said that yes he still had to go to that address; after all, it was called ‘Jew Town’ . . .

After receiving directions, Dan was on his way.

Approaching the area, Dan drove into what appeared to be what he had seen on television or movies scenes, depicted a post nuclear war setting. The few buildings that were still standing looked like bombed out shells, with grungy people that looked to be the extras from the movie ‘Mad Max’, wandering aimlessly. The only difference being, nine out of ten of them were black.

What the . . . Jew Town?

There were many 55-gallon drums along the streets with fires burning in them and small swarms of people collected around them warming their hands. In one less dilapidated area, stood a few more respectable relics that passed for retail stores and warehouses. Dan turned toward them, and sure enough, found his address.

Nervously, Dan parked the van, walked into the adjacent retail store, and asked a hefty middle-aged black man to direct him to Ram.

A few minutes later, a well-dressed middle-eastern gentleman approached him, introduced himself as the owner of the store and asked him why he wanted to speak with Ram. Dan explained and the gentleman disappeared for 10 minutes returning with a young lady.

You will please follow her, he said without expression.

Sure, no problem.

Dan trailed her from the stores back door and across an alley to a warehouse covered with graffiti and razor wire. Two very large, ugly, mean looking black guys were hanging around the doorway.

Scary shit . . . maybe this wasn’t such a good idea . . . Jew Town??

Dan walked into this apparent dump, and was immediately surprised as he moved through the door, having been transported into a semi formal office and warehouse . . . he felt like Alice must have felt going through the looking glass.

Dan was escorted into a reasonably nice office and was asked if he wanted anything to drink; coffee, a Coke, some fruit juice . . . maybe some ice water. Dan thought ice water would be fine . . . no wait let’s make it a Coke instead.

A few minutes later and a different gentleman entered the room. He was short and skinny, dressed in black . . . the silk shirt having padded shoulders. His dark skin, pony tail, and gold jewelry gave him the look of a ‘B’ movie gangster . . . a Middle Eastern gangster. This thought almost made Dan chuckle, but with some effort he restrained himself.

Hello Dan, I am Ram, said the small Middle Eastern man in perfect English.

Hi . . . um, I’m not sure, ya know, if you can help . . . Dan stuttered.

It sounds like you are doing some serious business with some of my people in New York City. I thought you might want to buy direct and make some extra margin. This will depend on the size of the order, of course, Ram said, getting right to business.

Yeah, I can spend a lot more . . . if you have some additional items to pick from. How do I see what you have?

In some cases we can make items in bulk . . . a lot of the things that you are currently purchasing, for example. We can also screen print whatever you want . . . for example . . . you want Polo, Nike; whatever . . . we can make it for you and cut a better deal than you’re getting on the street. Some of our other products like the watches I bring in from overseas or Mexico. These items, you pick what you want, and just order them from our warehouse when they come in. Then, on certain very special items, we get one-time shots . . . like tonight; I have some leather jackets coming in from one of my . . . special sources. Give you a great deal on ’um. If you’re interested, come back at nine tonight and we’ll see if we can’t make some money together. (Ram paused) Wanna take a look at the warehouse and buy some merchandise?

Fuckin’A, Dan said excitedly.

Dan spent the better part of the afternoon going through everything he could find. It was like Christmas had coming early.

It was like printing money.

After ‘shopping’ he left the front of the store, realizing he had skipped lunch and was starving. Hopping into his van, he went in search of food . . . obviously he had to get out of the area to find a decent place . . . a place where he felt a little less conspicuous . . . and a little safer. He would eat at a nice sit down restaurant, check into his room, and then return at nine as Ram had suggested.

So where’s the new stuff? Dan asked, trying not to sound too anxious.

Actually, we need to go out to the alley. The two vans are what you’re going to look through. Why don’t you go out and sit in the passenger side of the blue van and I’ll be out in a minute . . . we will take a little drive . . . and then you can go through the merchandise.

Okay, no problem, Dan said, getting a little nervous.

What the hell is this . . .

Dan left the back door of the warehouse, entering a narrow alley and passing one of the two vans, which had a couple of black guys . . . angry looking . . . gang-bangers maybe, sitting and waiting.

He climbed into the second van as instructed with another black guy behind the wheel.

Hey, how ya doin? Dan asked.

No response.

If I live through this, I swear I’ll start goin’ to church.

Moments later and the two vans took off; driving about a half a mile, they stopped in another alley very similar to the one they had just left. Stopping mid-alley, they scrambled out of the vans, opened the back of both, and two of the guys moved to each end of the alley as if to keep watch.

Inside the first van were boxes of great looking men’s and ladies leather jackets and coats. The merchandise was obviously very high quality product . . . not the knock offs and fakes he had bought off the streets.

Whoa! They even have some leather basketball warm-up suits. Great stuff!

Pick out wha ya want . . . din we can talk price, said one of the bangers.

Dan spent the better part of an hour looking through the cartons of jackets and coats and was almost giddy with what he was looking at. It was fantastic. The items that Dan picked stayed in one van, and the leftovers went in the other . . . then quickly, they all piled back into the vans and took off.

After cutting the deal of a lifetime, Dan was returned to Ram’s warehouse, where his merchandise was boxed and loaded into his rented van. The extended van was stuffed . . . even the front passenger seat was filled up to above the dash.

Dan paid in cash . . . a lot of cash.

Interestingly, all of the leather coats and jackets he didn’t pick stayed in the van and drove away. None of the leathers were left at the warehouse and his merchandise was boxed and in his van in minutes.

Things are definitely lookin’ up.

Chapter 2

In Southeastern Iowa, along the Mississippi River was the town of Daly City, widely accepted by most of its inhabitants and visitors as the armpit of the Midwest. Daly City was made up of a variety of races and religions, like most other Midwestern cities of this size, but had the particular quality of being an exclusively blue collar, industrial city. The community consisted of an uneducated, unskilled population, which, for the most part, stayed close to home and kept to themselves.

Ferguson’s Sheet Metal Plant, Farm Equipment Manufacturing Company (FEMCo), Barns Tannery, Illinois Beef Packers, and Anderson’s Experimental Farm, gave Daly City its flavor. Not a good flavor, mind you, but a flavor none-the-less. The sticky summer air was continually corrupted by the smell of packing plants or the tannery, and on good days, when the winds were just right, a combination of both.

The smelly, yellow brown haze would cling desperately to its host city, but on occasion would break free and drift down into the Mississippi Valley stretching its toxic tentacles like a lifeless yellow fog looking for fresh victims.

Inhabitants wandered the streets of Daly City looking like pasty-faced ghouls, complaining about the stench in the air and about their various ailments, but never associated one with the other.

The few unfortunate fish able to exist in the Raccoon River, which flowed directly through the center of the downtown, had a steady diet of factory run off and farm pesticides from the surrounding community. Occasionally, a person could find some delicious fish filets just a floatin’ on the surface.

All ya have to do is just scoop ’um up with a net, filet ’um and cook ’um up.

Tasted a bit funny, but that was okay.

Daniel Allen Collins had been named after his great grandfather, the only man that Daniel’s mother, Debra Allen, would say she actually loved. Her grandfather, she would also say, was the only man that had treated her decently and with respect . . . and had actually loved her back.

In fact, it was the only man’s name that didn’t trigger fear or loathing in Debra.

By the time her son Daniel came along, Debbie was still a young woman in years, but looked and felt ancient and worn out with all of life’s experiences and disappointments.

She was married at eighteen and had given birth to Daniel four months later.

Debbie had spent her life at the lowest end of what would be considered white trash, with both parents being lazy drunks that could barely hoist themselves from their broken down living room sofa for something as critically important as a can of beer or a shot of cheap booze.

At least they weren’t physically abusive . . . being abusive would have taken too much energy . . . too much effort. They just screamed at each other and their one and only daughter from their respective perches . . . just enough to remind her of her place in their wretched existence.

Debbie knew what she was, and hated it . . . she knew what she would become and she hated that even more.

Then suddenly, out of the blue, she met this great guy, Bob Collins.

Bob seemed to have a plan, he had ambition, and most importantly, he had said that he loved her. Debbie had been suddenly swept up in an emotional hurricane, and just as suddenly, felt there was, just maybe, a light at the end of the tunnel.

Maybe life would not have to be just a re-run of her mother and fathers non-existence. Maybe she had a chance at a real life . . . a decent life.

That light, unfortunately, turned out to be a freight train.

Her husband Bob, as it turned out, was meaner than a snake and found great joy in using her as a punching bag. One minute he could be bubbly and happy, the next he would be wild with rage and kickin’ the hell out of her, or worse yet, out of their son, Danny.

He was nothing at all like when they were dating, when Bob was sweet and caring and always making her laugh. He had been manly and macho, with a toughness about him that made her feel safe and secure, but never threatening. Bob had been a big, muscular, good looking guy that seemed to be smiling all the time, and clearly destined for great things.

He was 6 foot 3 inches tall with a pale ruddy complexion, piercing grey eyes, with pure black hair that always looked oily, hanging down like large fangs over his forehead and ears.

Debbie knew that he drank a fair bit and occasionally got into bar fights, but to her, he was her white knight taking her away from a terrible life, living with her vulgar and disgusting parents.

Bob had been her hero . . . he had been perfect.

After a short time being married, Bob Collins realized that Debbie was an anchor that he was forced to drag behind him while he fought against all the ‘goat-fuckers’ in the world who were trying their best to keep him from making something of himself.

Debbie had gained a fair amount of weight since they had gotten married and had become dumber than a ‘bag of hammers’ . . . to him it was like magic . . . it was like ‘Invasion of the Body Snatchers.’

When he married her, she had been alive; she had been fun. Then suddenly, she began dragging her fat ass around the trailer, eating constantly and complaining about his lack of drive . . . his lack of ambition. He could see behind her eyes, and saw her contempt mixed with pity when she looked at him . . . Jesus, he hated that.

He wanted to punch her lights out . . . and so he did.

He had always considered women to be (he had overheard his father say this once) nothing more than a ‘life-support system for a pussy’. His ‘piece-of-shit’ wife Debbie didn’t even fulfill that role.

She seemed to actively avoid having sex and certainly did not do the fun things she did for him before they got married. She had gone from a hot, over-sexed nympho to a prudish sweat-hog.

God, he hated that bitch.

In the long run it didn’t matter; he just continued to buy his stuff off the street, like he knew most other married guys did.

Bob Collins had been a high school dropout who became just another one of the many unhappy workers on the thirty-five-line at Titus Manufacturing. He had always been a loner and had left Jackson High School barely finishing the tenth grade.

In high school he was constantly finding himself in trouble (no fault of his own, of course) and was continually being kicked out of school for fighting, vandalism, and theft. After too many suspensions to remember, Bob decided that he was wasting his time in school and didn’t bother to return.

He had found it thoroughly entertaining that his parents were too stupid to notice this fact until one sorry day when the truant officer showed up at their front door and all hell had broken loose.

His father had beaten him so badly that he had lingered on the verge of unconsciousness for three days . . . occasionally drifting into blackness (that being the high point during this period of time) and then back again. Bob had long since developed a malevolent hatred for his father that was given the opportunity to grow and fester during his recuperation; this was a hatred that spawned wonderful homicidal dreams of torture and death for his dad . . . dreams of getting even.

Two weeks later, after he was fully recovered and able to get around, he packed his bag, snuck out his bedroom window and took off into town.

For several nights he found a home sleeping in the alley between a Henry’s Hamburgers and a scrawny hedge, planted low beside the shop’s dumpster. Hungry and broken, he called his crazy brother Michael, the black sheep of the family and asked if he could come over and stay for awhile.

Michael had gone though a similar experience with their father and had moved out several years before. Talk in the streets of Daly City had already informed Michael about what had happened to Bobby and he was furious. He took his brother in and told him that he could stay with him . . . at least for a while.

Mike cleaned him up and the two of them swore an oath of vengeance and retribution on their evil, crazy fucking dad. Someday, somehow they would mess him up . . . they would make him pay.

A few weeks after Bobby moved in, Mike was able to find him a janitor’s job cleaning up beer, piss, and vomit at the ‘Music Box Lounge’, a sleazy strip joint that Mike frequented. It was a simple job, but Bobby got a regular paycheck. For Bobby this was very cool . . . no more bullshit about school, no more pressure about his future, just mindless repetitive work.

This was the start of Bob’s early morning custodial career and he couldn’t have been happier.

He and Mike enjoyed living together and the two of them got along well. They split living expenses and hung out together during most of their free time. Although they both believed that life was ‘stinking pile of shit’ and totally unfair in every respect, they had each other. Bobby felt they could face all the bullshit with their combined energy . . . their combined hatred.

Later, with his brother’s help, Bob was able to get a custodial job with Titus Manufacturing and then six months later was moved on to the assembly line . . . a significant move up in pay and prestige.

During their nights, both Mike and Bob were lovers of alcohol and street fighting, and were quite practiced and proficient at both. Street fighting, perhaps their favorite pastime, always started with some poor son-of-bitch having the audacity to be staring at one of them, which of course would result in a stare down (the challenge), followed quickly by the ass-kickin’ (the competition).

When the two of them were not brawling in bars or back alleys they would get drunk and try to beat the hell out of one another. The two street gladiators would be fighting for . . . nothing. In the instances where they were fighting one another, Mike almost always won, which continually added to the anger and frustration that Bob felt; even though he’d gotten away from his dad and was on his third job, one being a promotion, he couldn’t help feeling that he couldn’t do anything right.

During this same year, their father was beaten to death in an apparent mugging in one of the back alleys near his regular evening hangout . . . tragic.

The bartender at the Yardarm Lounge had noticed their dad leaving through the back door, leading into a long dark alley behind the place. He told the police he had thought nothing of it because a lot of the regulars prefer to piss in the alley rather than in their shitter . . . it doesn’t smell as bad out there.

It wasn’t until much later, when the bartender was taking some trash out that he noticed the body lying out in the middle of the alley about halfway between the back door and the streetlight. The bartender had calmly walked back into the bar and went back to work and later went out for another peek. This time he came back into the bar and reluctantly called the cops.

The murder was particularly brutal and violent and it had appeared that the assailants had used something like a baseball bat to turn his head into pulp.

The killer or killers were never found.

A year after his father’s death, Bob had met and then married that awful excuse for a wife, which seemed like such a good idea at the time. Things definitely did not pan out the way he thought they would.

Over time, Bob Collins became more and more distraught . . . it felt like he was forever angry. Life and everybody in it, was looking to screw him over and Bob’s answer to this was simple; get drunk and kick some ass. Anybody’s ass would do.

All of his life he had wanted respect and if given a chance was destined for greatness; if it wasn’t for all the ‘goat fuckers’ holding him back and continually screwing him over, he could have done great things.

His wife was one of those . . . getting knocked up and causing him to take it in the ass once again.

Even at work, they’re always on my ass . . . just looking for shit to give me a hard time about; The assholes forcing me to see the company shrink . . . bi-polar . . . boarder line schitzo . . . what a crock of shit.

Well, you can lead a Bob to his meds, but you can’t make him take ’um . . . so fuck it . . . fuck them.

If anybody in this house was nuts, Bob was sure that it was that porker of a wife Debbie . . . sitting around all day getting fat and even more stupid . . . all day long, whining and spoiling that worthless brat of a kid.

Daniel . . . Daniel Collins . . .

She had named the kid after some worthless old bastard that was her grandfather.

Thank God, I’m around to take care of showing that useless piece of shit kid a little bit of discipline and structure, he would state with some frequency Spare the rod and spoil the brat . . . something like that. Occasional whuppin’s and intermittent all day stays in the hall closet keeps the kid straight. He sure as hell doesn’t cry all the time after the closet training . . . that’s for damn sure, he would brag.

The brat’ is well disciplined and keeps his damned crying and whining to a big zero just the way a kid is s’posed to be.

Chapter 3

Gary Williams had done very well in the Cities. He had found that not only could he run a great retail store, but was also quite capable when it came to corporate politics. Within a year and a half of becoming a Store Manager, Gary had taken over the District Manager position covering Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Iowa.

His predecessor had moved on to a different company and Gary moved into the position with virtually no opposition.

As the new District Manager, he immediately went to work on the issues within the stores that he knew the senior execs at the Corporate Office would be the most concerned about. Some of the stores had theft problems, some had customer service problems, some had maintenance issues, and some were running pretty well. Gary just needed to prioritize . . . then go to work.

His new boss, Jerome Anderson, was a bearded, balding thirty-five year old man that was excessive, intense and way too serious about life. Jerome had not been able to smile much in his life, and in a short time, Gary realized that the poor fellow had been born without a sense of humor.

Jerome was so extreme, that every issue . . . every nuance would throw him. Everything in his life had to have order and be in a state of perfection or Jerome would become seriously stressed and then try too hard to make every detail faultless. Unfortunately, with his frantic, animated inertia, he would usually blow things up.

Jerome walked around with a dark cloud over his head and it seemed like everything he touched turned to shit.

When Gary was promoted to District Manager, Jerome had accompanied him through each of Gary’s stores and talked about specific concerns that he and others in the Home Office had.

Jerome would scurry into a store, pursued by Gary and immediately go to work on minutia, fretting that this, that, or the other thing was not exactly right and become red faced and sweaty while running frantically to get everything done. Inevitably, the store would be worse off after the visit than before the visit.

After his first tour with Jerome, Gary returned to all of his stores and did his own evaluation of each store and their respective people; calmly . . . methodically.

As the new guy, he needed to find out what was really going on in his stores. Along with his store visits, he would spend time observing the stores from across the malls in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings during his ‘off’ hours . . . watching and learning.

Later, he took each one of his store employees out to coffee to just shoot the breeze, and again, learned what was really happening.

Then he went to work to fix the problems.

Within months, he was forced to terminate two Store Managers, which quickly got the other Manager’s attention and in a relatively short time, all of his stores, were running well.

As the new District Manager, Gary also visited the corporate office, to work in his own small office which was tucked into a dark corner in the back of the retail store, or doing what he had heard others call MBWA (Management by Wandering Around). This was important; getting to know not only the formal power structure within the company, but the informal power structure . . . who had whose ear and who could help him with his career.

Managing the stores was only part of being successful. In fact, he recognized early on that he must manage his peers and his superiors within the company with the same energy and adroitness that went into the stores.

In watching the interactions of the various people that he came into contact with, Gary carefully and deliberately learned the power of self-control. People who responded emotionally never won their points and many times received emotional responses in return, turning the whole debate away from the real business issues and into a pissing contest. It was completely unproductive and stultified many careers . . . emotional responses were generally stupid responses.

People with cool rational heads would prevail, and those same people moved up the proverbial corporate ladder, and in Gary’s mind, rightly so. Not that people could not display passion over their points of view . . . just never make it personal and stay on the point. It was business.

He noted, as he observed, that being passionate and displaying a powerful personality could win the day even if the point of fact in the argument was flawed. He had met several people that did quite well in their careers and had rolled over weaker peers and subordinates with pure unadulterated bullshit. These people were generally dumb as a box of rocks, but still prevailed because they could make more noise than their fellow debater.

The key, as Gary saw it, was that it had to be controlled passion and was like playing a role in a play, while at the same time, playing a good game of chess. It actually became fun after he had some practice, and within the stores . . . his little controlled universe, he found a great stage to act out his strategies and get the education he needed to become a better player. Gary watched and measure responses to his arguments and his power displays with virtual impunity . . . after all, they worked for him. He also gained a following as his developing skills earned him respect from his employees. They, too, were learning and growing in their own rights.

After two years as District Manager, Gary was again promoted . . . this time to Regional Director. With this new position he had responsibility for four Districts in the mid-west.

The company had grown to 58 stores. Jerome now covered two Districts in the East, as well as managing the administrative side of the stores, and while Gary still reported to him, Gary took the larger direct role in running the stores.

A year later, Eagle’s Nest had grown to 67 stores and Nathan Jacobs, the CEO had decided it was time to bring in an outsider as Vice President of Stores making Jerome and Gary peers. Jerome was still the Director of Stores, and Gary still the Regional Director, but now they both reported to Chuck Ryan.

Needless to say, this did not set well with Jerome.

Chuck Ryan was Gary’s first experience with a truly inept asshole.

Chuck had an MBA from Harvard and had been an Executive Vice President with a well known high-end department store chain on the west coast. He also had an ego the size of Texas; was arrogant, aggressive, and amazingly stupid . . . but he was the boss.

Chuck could walk into a room and through force of personality be the center of attention . . . sometimes charming, and sometimes a raging jerk, but always a powerful force.

Being the Vice President of Stores, Chuck toured the stores from time to time, displaying the same aggressive personality and unfortunately, the customers were not as impressed with Chuck as he was with himself. Chuck would walk into a store having his chest puffed out to where it actually appeared larger than his belly, would introduce himself in a loud booming voice (he didn’t want anyone not to know who and what he was) and then start barking instructions to the staff on what they should be doing . . . invariably it was wrong. In a loud boisterous voice he would begin talking about his background and some of his past experiences, hoping that everyone including the customers would hear just how important he was. He came across as an obnoxious, immature bully and everyone took an immediate dislike to the poor schmuck.

As horrible a manager as Chuck was, Gary was still able to learn many valuable lessons from him and also able to manage him quite easily.

First, Gary learned how not to be, and how it affected everyone in the rank and file of the stores . . . how counter-productive Chuck’s behavior was.

Second, it validated for Gary the importance of a strong personality . . . how even stupid people were propelled to the top, armed with nothing more than an unstoppable and aggressive persona.

Third, and most important, it taught him to deal with, then manage and manipulate a superior with this type of personality.

It was actually quite easy.

All Gary had to do was to play to Chuck’s ego and sense of power (being clearly based in Chuck’s insecurity) and in no time, Chuck became Gary’s biggest fan.

Jerome on the other hand, was absolutely beside himself. He continually vented his frustrations to the District Managers, Store Managers, and people he considered, wrongly so, his friends and allies within the Home Office. He persisted in his rebellion against Chuck’s wishes whether stupid or, on rare occasions correct, until it became obvious that Jerome or Chuck was not going to survive at Eagle’s Nest.

Gary, of course, covered his bases with both, but knew what the outcome would inevitably be.

What Jerome failed to realize was that even though he had been there for many years and was in fact, more competent, Chuck had been hired by the CEO and owner Mr. Nathan Jacobs. This meant that if Jerome was proven correct about Chuck, it also meant that Mr. Jacobs was ‘wrong’ and had made a mistake in hiring this incompetent jerk.

Now . . . the question was, would Mr. Jacobs support his own decision and Chuck as the new Vice President of Stores, or would he see the error of his ways, and realize his terrible mistake . . . yeah, right.

Jerome was clearly taking a one-way ticket to a new career.

Chapter 4

Cedar Creek, Northeastern Iowa . . . it was the land of corn; an area that had some of the richest farmland in the world. The topography was flat, though broken by occasional rolling hills that produced a rich green color in the summer time, then fading to a beautiful pallet of fall colors in September and October. Winter could be brutally cold with significant snowfall, and was followed by a muddy, uninspiring spring of grays and browns.

The inhabitants of Cedar Creek measured their lives and their successes as to how well one could do in holding on to the same job until retirement.

Life consisted of being consistent.

During the week, you woke up, went to work, home to have a ‘sit down’ dinner (which eventually evolved from the dinning table to TV trays), you watched some TV, and then went to bed. On weekends you would work around the house, go bowling or to a movie, and if you were a real ‘jet setter’ you might go to one of the local lounges to have a drink and maybe even dance a little.

The annual high point for the testosterone set occurred during the fall, when they could walk the corn fields or along the many railroad tracks with a shotgun in hand, looking to bring home a couple pheasants or cottontails for the dinner table.

All in all, it was a slow and easy life, where everyone knew everyone else and everyone else’s business.

Gary Williams grew up in this small blue-collar hamlet.

At the age of 10, he had not an inkling that there was a world outside of Cedar Creek . . . nor did he care. The news on their new black and white television was boring and stupid, and life outside of his immediate protected world was also boring and