Head Count

A Short Story

Editor’s Note:

This story first appeared in the

Soaring Twenties

Journal on March 2023 and is included in the now published collection Grind: And Other Strange Stories.

Enjoy.

- Frank Theodat

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Pushing through the glass revolving doors of Bronson, Stanley, Graf & Company, twenty-five year old Jeffrey Morenz struggled to carry his gym bag. 

Three days had passed. His rain coat was caked in bile, blood, and the filth of the city.

His work boots left muddy foot prints on the otherwise pristine floors of the corporate high rise. 

The young woman at reception began to gag as Jeffrey approached. 

He slammed the gym bag on the desk. “I’m here to see Mr. Bronson,” Jeffrey said, trying to keep himself from collapsing due to his exhaustion.

The poor woman belched and expelled bits of her lunch in the waste basket next to her. Soon the lobby became flooded with the reek of the bag.

“Name?” she squeaked

“Jeff Morenz. I’m here for my interview.”

She picked up the phone, keeping a hand over her nose and mouth.

She muttered in an uneasy tone of voice, “Jeff Morenz is here to see you, sir.” She listened. “Yes sir, his third interview.” She put down the phone. “Go on up,” she said, then coughed. “Level 12. Executive Boardroom.”

Jeffrey threw the bag over his shoulder and trekked to the elevator.

Inside, he turned and watched the city lights through the glass as he ascended to the top floor. Normally he’d be home, walking with Tia, his fiance, in the cold, wet night.

But things were different now.

The economy had gone south. He lost his income, his apartment, and whatever moral virtue he had left in him. Everything he once owned was sold at auction, though it made no difference. Work opportunities were drying up, and only a few of the larger firms were open to hiring. Eight months of rejections and failed interviews were enough to make any penniless man desperate.

He needed something, anything, to bring him back to his normal life. As the chimes rang with each passing floor, Jeffrey took a deep, long breath and stared at the gym bag. Funny, he had always considered himself a pacifist, one who would speak out against violence and thought himself above such vile behavior. But when times are tough, when food, housing, and jobs are scarce, a man’s thoughts center only on his own survival.

Level 12.

The doors opened. Jeffrey took his bag and marched forward, walking through the opulent hallway in the Southern Gothic tradition complete with decorative displays of animal heads encased in gold.

He stopped at the mahogany double doors, knocked three times, and waited. The seconds felt like a lifetime, but soon the doors opened. Walking into the darkly lit room, Jeffrey was met by the partners, Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf. They were seated in plush leather chairs at the far end of a conference table. In the back near a bar, an older man, maybe in his late 60s and dressed in a sharkskin gray vest and trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a regal magenta tie poured himself another glass of bourbon.

Jeffrey nearly collapsed at the end of the table.

The old man in gray turned and looked. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He smiled. He carried a Southern gentlemanly air about him.

“I’m here for the interview, Mr. Bronson”

“Take a seat, my boy! Seems like you’ve earned it.” Bronson’s voice was baked in Tennessee sunshine.

Jeffrey sat in the leather chair by his side and pulled the gym bag up on the table.

The old man said, “Drink?”

“Water. Please.”

A quick snap of the old man’s fingers, and a large glass pitcher of water appeared at the near end of the table. Jeffrey grabbed the pitcher with both hands and drank as much as he could.

“Something to eat?”

Jeffrey wanted to say “Yes sir,” but he only nodded.

Mr. Bronson whistled and a half-rack of pork ribs, warm, smoky and dripping in barbecue sauce materialized before Jeffrey. 

He was hungry. He couldn't stuff his face fast enough.

The older men laughed as they watched this sad display. 

Mr. Stanley leaned forward and smiled. “Well fellas—” the portly partner’s voice was thick and guttural. “What do we think young Jeffrey has brought us in the bag?” He rubbed his pudgy, sweaty hands together in such delight.

“Smells ripe to me,” Mr. Graf said. He sat back in his chair with a nasally voice and rat-like face and took in the foul aroma with great pleasure. His eyes were hidden behind dark oval glasses. He smiled, showing off his set of golden teeth.

“Well Jeff,” Mr. Bronson said, “what's in the bag?”

With his sauce-covered fingers, Jeffrey pulled down the bag’s zipper. He turned the bag up and emptied it.

Four heads rolled onto the conference table.

The eyes fell out of their orbital sockets: four rotting green faces, three men and one former blonde. 

Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf rose to their feet with a roaring cheer and applause.

“My my,” Mr. Bronson said. “You actually delivered. Well done, Jeffrey! I admit I'm surprised. The others candidates shied away from such a task.”

Mr. Graf laughed. “Not afraid of a little blood sport, eh?” He caressed one of the decomposed heads.

Jeffrey stood up, still a bit unsteady. “I did what you asked. Do I get the job?”

Bronson smiled. “Well Jeffrey, this does make for a marvelous offering. Bringing us the heads of the other candidates is quite creative. Quite creative indeed.

“Well?” Jeffrey clutched at the empty, soiled bag.

An obscure whisper in a strange tongue trembled through the room. 

Mr. Bronson nodded in agreement.

“Unfortunately, the firm is also going through cuts. Bad times, I’m afraid. But good luck in your job hunt.”

Jeffrey was close to tears. This is not how it was supposed to end for him. The blood wouldn’t leave his hands now. 

“Please, sir! I’ve done everything you asked. You said this was a good offering for the Chairman. I’ll even scrub toilets. Please.”

Bronson sighed. 

The foreign whispering voice echoed again through the room.

“It seems our generous Chairman has a soft spot for you.”

Jeffrey teared-up with gratitude.

“He wishes to meet with you in person”

Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf grabbed Jeffrey by the arms and stood him up, holding him steady. 

Mr. Bronson spoke an unrecognizable language, then whistled.

The conference table split in two and separated, revealing a massive pit spitting flames and gas. A choir of cries shrieked in agony and pleas for mercy.

The partners dragged Jeffrey towards the pit. He resisted as best he could.

As he struggled to break free, Jeffrey cried, “What are you doing?”

“Making the proper introductions to our Chairman.”

The partners cried out in unison, “Hail, Mammon! Hail the Prince of Riches!” And they threw Jeffrey into the pit and watched the flames embrace him. 

The conference table rejoined and the partners took their seats.

Mr. Stanley said, “If that doesn’t satisfy our Lord, I don’t know what will.” 

“Agreed,” said Mr. Graf. “I do enjoy a good show, but six sacrifices is far too much. What does this mean?”

Mr. Bronson gulped down his bourbon. “It means, gentlemen, that we must continue to make our head count until we’ve reached the satisfactory quota. Our Lord has always taken care of us. Every recession, depression, and correction, he has delivered for us. Until we reach the quote, it’s business as usual.”

The conference phone buzzed, and Mr. Graf hit the speaker button. A young voice squeaked, “I have Ms. Victoria Carrol in the lobby for you sir. Her second interview.”

Mr. Stanley and Mr. Graf snickered and cackled.

Mr. Bronson walked over to the bar to refill his glass. He took a slow sip and smiled. “Send her up”