The Working Man by Ryan Martino

The Working Man was just a man. Each day he hugged his child, waved goodbye to his wife, and left out of the door to the little workshop in the village. The Working Man loved his boss, despite his strict nature, for his boss was the one to grant him his paycheck each week. And he couldn’t live without it.

One morning, as the sun gleaned high in the sky and the clouds sat in vast clumps, the Working Man hugged his child, waved goodbye to his wife, and walked out the door and to the little workshop in the village. The Working Man grabbed his tools and promptly went to work, making all sorts of items in his little workshop in the village. Once the day was up, the Working Man picked up his things and left towards home.

The next day, as the sun gleaned high in the sky, and the clouds sat in thin blankets among the blue horizon, the Working Man hugged his child, waved goodbye to his wife, and walked out the door and to the little workshop in the village. The Working Man grabbed his tools but fumbled with his saw, slicing a fraction of his left hand and spilling dots of blood onto his workspace. Noticing the modest flecks of blood in the Working Man’s space, his boss grabbed his collar and dragged him into his office.
“What is this, a farm? I expect your space to be spotless for I run this workshop and I run it flawlessly!” The boss, fuming with rage, cut off the left arm of the Working Man and swiftly bandaged it up. “There,” the boss exclaimed, “now you will never dirty my workshop again!” and the Working Man left the office, picked up his things, and left towards home. The Working Man loved his boss, despite his strict nature, for his boss was the one to grant him his paycheck each week. And he couldn’t live without it.

The next day, as the sun showed, the Working Man waved goodbye to his wife and walked out the door and to the little workshop in the village. The Working Man shuffled towards his workspace but tripped and fell on a loose floorboard. His boss, hearing the loud THUMP, stomped out of his office, grabbed the Working Man by his collar, and dragged him into his office.
“You idiot!” the boss declared, “how can I focus while you cause a ruckus in my workshop!” Then, the boss cut off the Working Man’s legs and bandaged them up. “There,” the boss declared, “now you will never cause a disturbance in my workshop again for I run this workshop and I run it flawlessly!” And the Working Man left the office, picked up his things, and left towards home. The Working Man loved his boss, despite his strict nature, for his boss was the one to grant him his paycheck each week. And he couldn’t live without it.

The next day, as the clouds sat broadly over-head, the Working Man waved goodbye to his wife and crawled out the door and to the little workshop in the village. The Working Man arrived at his workspace late. His boss was waiting, perched in front of the man’s workspace at his arrival.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t hear the roosters crow?” And the boss grabbed the man, cut his ears off, and bandaged them up. “You’ve lost that privilege now. You show up on time to this place for I run this workshop and I run it flawlessly!” The Working Man, feeling dispirited, picked up his things and left towards home.

The next day, it rained. The working man crawled out the door and to the little workshop in the village. However, the working man did not arrive at his workspace, nor did he pass the loose floorboard, nor did he pick up his saw. Instead, the working man lit the matchbox clenched in his right hand and flung it into the little workshop in the village. He watched as the flame grew, and grew. Engulfing his workspace, engulfing the loose floorboard, engulfing his saw, still bearing specks of blood from what used to be the working man’s left hand. The working man awed as the swelling flame consumed the boss and his office until all that had remained from the little workshop in the village were ebony ashes gracing the once-wooden ground.

The next morning, as the sun gleamed high in the sky, the sky was clear and the working man awoke to the crowning of the roosters. He sat up, stretched his arms, and walked downstairs to see his wife and kid. The working man hugged his child, waved his wife goodbye, and walked out the door. The man did not go to the little workshop in the village, but to the pub in the center of town, for he did not like his boss anyways.

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