Maggie carried herself like the model professional—pressed blazer, polished nod, expression set to neutral. Her pen sketched blood. On the legal pad half hidden by her keyboard tray, she wrote in small script, Sixteen Ways to Kill Your Managers.
Number one: staple gun to jugular. Efficient. No mess. No evidence trail.
Number two: office chair ejector seat, fifth-floor window. Add parachute? Optional.
Ken’s voice cut across the room, booming through his story. Maggie angled her ear, catching the punchline just in time to watch him slap Willy—his loyal shadow—on the back. The laughter rolled, and with it came the announcement. The promotion Maggie deserved landed in the lap of a man who still needed a GPS to find the copy room. His chief qualification: he’d married Ken’s daughter.
Willy clapped like a seal promised fish. Maggie’s pen kept moving.
Number three: drown Willy in a pumpkin spice latte—seasonal, extra whip.
Number four: Ken, strapped to a podium to read his own performance reviews until his heart taps out. Death by irony.
Number five: paper cuts, thousands; each signed in blue ink and triplicate.
Maggie lifted her coffee cup, ignoring the inked carnage inches from her fingers. She leaned in, nodding on cue. Inside, she pictured toner poisoning and PowerPoint waterboarding.
Number six: drown in a vat of burnt office coffee, slow, bitter, company blend.
Number seven: death by paperclips, swallowed one by one until Willy’s smug throat clogs.
Number eight: Lock Willy and Ken in the conference room with a malfunctioning speakerphone; feedback shrieking, brains scrambled, meeting finally useful.
Story continues; here’s the link: https://lynnecurryauthor.com/2025/12/13/16-ways-to-kill-your-managers/
