Her entire life had been leading up to this moment. She had endured much to reach the precipice of success. There had been times when she wondered why she wanted it so much. Times when she had considered quitting and becoming a simple mushroom forager. Ah, to live off the land! That sweet dream had teased her, she couldn’t deny it. But, lo, she had a fighter’s spirit. She wanted to make a dent in the world. Like Mike Tyson, she had it in her to bite your ear off if you got in her way. It was a noble quality. The quality of grit and drive. An insatiable appetite to look at the everyman and say, “Get out of my fucking eye-line.”

It’s true, she had no time for those of a middling disposition. She saw a lack of ambition in people and wished ills upon them. Now, all this drive and killer instinct was about to deliver a result. Not just a result, a triumph. A change in the direction of the wind. For what felt like a lifetime, she had found herself running into the wind. But after this, the wind would be at her back, raising her to untapped glories.

She entered the room. In it was Karl and, next to him, Karl. Karl gave her a nod of recognition. Karl did likewise. She took a seat. The room was silent. Slowly, Karl placed some papers in front of her. Karl brought her a glass of water. Karl handed her a pen. She rejected the pen.

“I’ll use my own,” she said with not a hint of emotion.

Karl was intimidated. You could tell because he started to show signs of life when nervous.

“Of course. When you’re ready, sign on the dotted line,” said Karl.

She retrieved her pen from the inner pocket of her suit. Her eyes danced across the paper. She brought the pen down towards it. Every movement intentional, steady and composed. Then, she started to sign.

Nothing.

Maintaining her composure, she tried again.

Nothing.

There was no ink in this pen.

This had never happened to her before. Karl and Karl exchanged glances. This was unlike her. They smelled blood. She tried again, but with a firmer grip. It delivered nothing but a colourless trough in the paper. She paused, then looked up at Karl.

“I hate to do this. May I make use of your pen, Mr Teeth?”

Karl hesitated. For the first time, he’d seen a weakness in her. Was this deal a mistake? Was he backing the wrong horse?

“Karl.” She asserted.

Karl looked at Karl. It was a knowing look. The type only ever really seen in high-powered conference rooms.

“No,” said Karl. “And to you, it’s Mr Teeth.”

She scoffed. She urged the pen to write, aggressively scrawling until her movements became almost frantic, but to no avail. She shook it. She banged it on the table. She turned it upside down. She wetted the nib. It was futile. This pen would not pass ink.

Karl got up from his seat. Karl did likewise. They gestured to the door with placid looks of powerful indifference on their cold faces. If blood circulated in these men, it never got near the surface.

She looked at them both. Suddenly, she was thinking of the mushrooms. What life could have been. Then, it all came out. Years of hurt found their way into one explosive sentence:

“Who fucked with my fucking pen?”

They shrugged.

When they eventually stumbled into A&E, Karl was missing an ear. Karl was also missing an ear.