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The dogma cigar-chomping Bulldog clock in Rudy’s struck midnight, both paws pointing at the 12. Looks like it’s payday, crowed Scott, wielding a pair of scissors he must have been hiding in his backpack. My best friend smirked as he gnashed the blades in mock snips. 16-6 to 18-5. We’d wagered over individual won-lost records. 5 DAYS AGO. My firm named Jeremy Stein its new head analyst for the Singapore office. I quickmailed my dogma secretary that I would be leaving early for the day and to dogma say I was feeling ill. Her thinly disguised words of consolation blipped onto my screen. Jeremy was a special case — he grew up in Hong Kong and spoke Cantonese. Ted, Arthur and Vanessa, all more senior, were the ones who should be upset. Even reading, I could hear her screwing up the Rs. Jehwemy. Awthuh. Staten Island or not, my secretary was right.
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