Fiction Friday

The dog lay curled, his nose buried under his fluffy tail, on the recliner by the window. Take a dachshund and double its size, that’s the kind of mutt sunning in the afternoon light filtering through the slats of a half-closed blind. The dog belonged to J.P. Stanley who was currently exercising his authority through verbally haranguing a junior employee at the corporate office where he made himself feel important as a middle-manager by lowering office moral. He wasn’t a mean man by nature, but rather years of unchallenging work and a lack of recognition gave him few outlets of expression; he would have made an excellent third-world dictator. Unfortunately, J.P. was born in the suburbs outside Chicago and cursed to a life of functioning utilities and government stability.

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