The office overlooking a Portland Southwest neighborhood had always been too sleek, too modernist for Gus Bennet's taste.
He'd seen himself more as a lumberjack type, but following in his father's footsteps he'd covered his muscles with bespoke -- though as a concession his suits tended to be tight fitting.
Maybe for the best. Being half-Chinese on his mother's side, he couldn't have grown a beard if his life had depended on it and a stereotypical affinity for numbers ran in the family. The neck-long Tarzan-mane he had grown in his rebellious youth was tamed into a short ponytail.
Gus sat at his too-modernist desk, ruling over the empire of the Bennet Timber Logistics Company, when Corry entered with a brown package the size of a pint.
Some days, Gus wanted to bend Corry's over his desk and rail the slim assistant's hole, maybe with the blinds to the office space closed, maybe not. Other days, he'd rather have sat Corry on his desk, pulled the pants off the confused guy and swallowed his dick down to the pubes that were probably as nearly trimmed as the eyebrows.
Nearly all of Gus' fantasies lately involved his desk and most involved Corry. He didn't get out of his office much.
"Someone left this for you, boss," Corry said. "Doesn't say who."
"Not ominous at all, huh? Thanks, Corry."
The assistant tossed the package into the air a few times. "Not heavy enough to be a bomb, haha. Do I open it for you?"
Gus looked up at him and patted the space next to his keyboard. "If it blows up, I'd rather it not mess up your, uh, face."
Wow, he had almost said '*pretty* face'. If he stayed this overworked he was going to sexually assault Corry out of stress eventually.
"Boss? Anything the matter?"
"Ugh. Nothing new. Just, oof," Gus leaned back with a grimace, "a bit tense from sitting all day."
Corry stepped around him. "Would a massage help?"
"I... yes?"
Was this really happening? Corry was kneading his shoulders, slipping his small hands under the suit. It hurt too good. Gus barely suppressed a moan.
To stay focused, he opened the package. The sturdy, gold painted paper box inside contained three beautiful stained glass pens, glinting in the harsh office light.
Gus extracted one from the wrapping. The sun broken through the clouds above the city and streamed into the windows. Light danced in swirls off the pen and the deep black ink contained within, casting a kaleidoscope shadow into the room.
"Gorgeous," Corry said. "Any idea who from?"
"Nah," Gus said slowly. He truly didn't know, which bothered him. But they were too beautiful not to keep. In thought, he forgot to hold back with the grunts of pleasure as Corry's hands wandered further into the suit, to Gus' pecs.
He grabbed a sheet and set the pen down to write 'Bennet'.
The pen attacked. Ink seeped from it like tentacles and latched onto his hand. Burning pain speared his writing arm as the ink sank into his skin.
Too stunned to scream, Gus gasped with a whimper as Corry freaked out behind him, stumbling backward. Gus clutched his burning arm and grit his teeth. He couldn't loosen his grip on the implement as much as he tried.
As the ink was halfway drained from the pen and moved as pain into his veins, pulsing black from the inside, some unseen force tore the pen free. It smacked against the computer monitor.
Gus collapsed into his chair, huffing incoherently. He dropped the aching, black-veined arm onto the desk, holding it down with the free hand as if this could stop the spread of the poison.
"Am-ambulance?" Corry asked, dumbly. Then he fumbled with his pocket, shaking too much to get his phone free.
The pen dragged itself toward Gus' arm again. Except... No, it wanted to move onto the paper.
Gus shoved the sheet under the pen and it stood up, frantically writing diagonally in large letters:
(and without a leader, they'll be begging for acquisition. When Bennet Timber is mine, I'll be impossible to dislodge.)
Gus' eyes widened in comprehension. These were the words of his would-be murderer. Someone from the competition wanted him dead and the pen was the weapon -- and a snitch.
But who?
The pen changed handwriting in the next line, as if to indicate a different speaker.
(Murder. You're speaking of murder. For money.)
Back to the first, larger handwriting.
(As if you got your slice of the pie by playing nice. No? Thought so.)
(So what? Because I evade taxes you can hire a sniper?)
(Haha, nothing so crude. My means are... let's say I've found a way to have it done as if by magic. You could call it poison. Acting within hours. No antidote. No one can trace it to me.)
Gus laughed bitterly through the pulsing pain. "No one except the murder weapon itself. Come on, pen, give me a name."
(Seriously, I don't like this, Os.)
Os? He didn't know an 'Os'. How did you find someone by his first name? How could he narrow it down?
(But you'll like my owning Bennet, hehe. Now get this package sent.)
(I... I guess so. The things I do for you, Os.)
Gus tore his suit jacket off and began to roll up his button up's sleeve. The black blood was less prominent, having distributed itself all the way into his biceps.
The pen slid off the paper's edge, writing on the desk. It assumed yet another style, indicating a third speaker.
(Excuse me, can I interrupt this meeting. The men from finance are here, sir.)
(Great,) Os 'said'. (We're done anyway.)
(Gentlemen, Mister Fisher will see you now.)
"Fisher!" Gus yelled out. "Corry, find out where-" he grunted through a pulse of pain. "-where the FTT guy is. Fisher Timber Transport. *Oswald* Fisher. Fuck."
Corry had freed his phone by now and followed orders instead of calling an ambulance.
Gus rose and the pen skid toward him, now empty. "You want to come along, huh?"
Gus pocketed the pen and rushed from the office, hiding his hurt arm and the pack of two remaining pens under his jacket.
Corry followed, on the phone with Fisher's company. He hung up after just a few words. "Boss, Mister Fisher is not in his office today. Vacation. Where are you going, sir? You're in no condition to drive. Gus!"
"You're right," Gus said and tossed his keys at Corry as they entered the elevator. "*You're* driving."
He didn't want to involve his assistant in all this but he truly wasn't in a condition to do things alone -- and he had hours left to live. No time to nobly protect people who were willing to lend him a hand.
Whatever it took, he was going to kill Oswald Fisher with his final breath.
