The Annoyance of Parker Dusk (Part Two)
"You shouldn't underminds me in front of the emploo . . . employs . . . empanada?" Ron asked, trying to pinpoint the right word in his drunken haze. Eventually, he landed on, "Underlingsh." The word slurred out of his mouth. He had another point to make to his older brother but was distracted by the fact the he was now hungry for Spanish take-away.
"Dammit, Ron! Dusk almost quit this time," George fired back.
"Good!" Ron yelled and then threw up in his mouth. Gulping, he winced. "Fuck. I think his ass is out of business. Out of line," he corrected, noticing that George was probably well aware that he'd been drinking on the job now. He smacked his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth as he thought, That's weird. I haven't had sausages in a fortnight.
"Eventually, Ron, his Slytherin pride is gonna kick in, and he'll realise we pay him less than the competition would. A raise for him will come out of your pay. Outside of your alimony, you won't have two Knuts to rub together in a sack."
The divorce had been highly publicised and, despite Hermione—who made exponentially more than Ron did—insisting that alimony was on a long list of unnecessary addendums that the solicitor had requested, the Ministry had decided to rule with tradition versus progression.
Ron's eyes watered. "She took the kids, mate. Hermione!" he yelled dramatically and tore at his shirt. "Hermione says . . . she says . . . she'll obliterate me right outta their wee heads! Poof! Alohamora!" he shouted, wand hung loosely in his hand. He had long since forgotten the spell Gilderoy Lockhart almost wiped his fragile mind with at thirteen. Instead of making the point he wanted to—or accidentally Obliviating anyone—the Unlocking Charm unzipped his trousers without him noticing.
"Gone. Gone, gone, fucking gone. Bollocks. House-elf shit." Spiraling, Ron had nothing left but looked like he wanted to say more.
"Scabber bellends?" George suggested raising an eyebrow. "How much have you drink, brother mi—?"
Ron giggled and interjected, "Rat dick." To answer George's unfinished question, he held up all ten fingers and then subsequently pissed himself with a shiver.
xxxxx
The gambit paid off, thought Parker Dusk. So far, every time George Weasley had reprimanded him, Parker had either started to slowly gather his things or outright said he would, and then the lone Weasley twin would lose his resolve and nearly demand that the Slytherin put his things back and get to work.
Nineteen times, he counted, seventeen of which had been—one way or another—involving Ronald Weasley. Seventeen too fucking many. Soon, George would stop making excuses to keep him, despite his inept brother. Sad really; Parker really liked his job. He didn't personally understand why George kept Ronald around. Perhaps he was using one brother to fill the empty space of his missing ear.
"Earhole," he mumbled to himself and made a note on a scrap of parchment, thinking that a good prank could come of that thought.
He didn't understand emotions very well, especially love and sadness—both so messy, so intertwined. He was far too logical to get caught up in such nonsense. That was an issue for plebeians. Parker Dusk was above such things. Crying, the crushing agony that was love, or anything that interrupted work, was beneath him. Some called that outlook myopic; Parker considered it pragmatic. Self-preservation was not only a Slytherin trait; it was something he'd honed at a young age.
"Fuck it," he said out loud to his unadorned desktop, physically shaking the thoughts from his head.
He picked up the paperwork in his "In" box. As head of R&D, his responsibilities were few; there were only nine employees—"Wackyness Advisors" (gods damned Ronald)—of which exactly two reported to Parker. The first two forms were approving the same employee's time sheets for the week. The third was a paper; written in red ink, in the centre of the parchment—in Ronald's childlike scrawl—read:
BEETLE BUMS?
That was all.
On a strip of parchment, Parker cast a Sticking Charm, attaching it to the original and read aloud as he wrote: "Is this a charm that makes someone have a beetle's bum? Is it a small envelope containing beetle bums? Is it an addition to Bertie Bott's flavours as Beetle Bums? Please . . ." He paused, hand aching, not wanting to write the last three words. He sighed, resigned to get back in good graces. "Tell me more."
Parker whistled for the office owl. An overweight barn owl named Zeus swung in low, landing next to his desk with a heavy thud. The owl gave a deep, guttural retching sound, then squawked and vomited a mouse carcass pellet onto Parker's desk into the "Out" box.
He handed over the letters and snatched up the paper Snitch. "This too," he added and handed it to the bird. "He pulled an additional envelope from his desk, glanced around the office to make sure he was still alone, and slipped it to Zeus. "This one goes . . . elsewhere," he said, tapping the name on the front and giving the bird a sly wink. As the corpulent bird adjusted for takeoff, Parker looked down at the pellet and, lifting up the tray in disgust, he asked, "Is it true what they say, you fat shit? Better out than in?"
