Sitting at the oak table, staring down at his spotted red tie with his knees pressed together and his hands slippery. There's muttering around the room, the whispering of chair wheels and the creaking of stiff joints, a synthesis of old men, money and expensive suits.
Profits glisten on charts under the subtle expensive lighting, flattering, soothing and stroking the voracious appetites of giants.
He stands nervously, his hands clammy, his throat jammed, and his stomach simply not to be relied on.
Predatory eyes watch him around the room, this greenhorn, this virgin sacrifice.
He clears his throat.
Men who wish to survive shouldn't report losses.
This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were greenhorn, relied, sythesis, profit, and flatter.
Image courtesy of Freddie H..