Corporate Rhino

“Corporate Rhino” by Johnny Ostentatious

Ever hate your fucking job so much you question almost daily why you took it in the first place? I do.

I’m an editor for an ophthalmology trade magazine. I took this job two years ago because at the age of 30 my body could no longer handle the physical demands of construction work. So I scoured the want ads and got this gig. (It wasn’t that hard because I’ve always been an avid reader, and since high school, I’ve been regularly published as a book and music critic in the pro bono world of zines and indie newspapers.)

I hate working for this trade rag because it’s the most unethical environment I’ve ever been in, and that includes the six months during my sophomore year in high school when I was a gopher for the neighborhood mob boss.

Now, I knew coming in to this maggot of a magazine that there was no such thing as editorial integrity, but I didn’t realize how bad it would be. Frequently, the publisher orders the editor-in-chief to forward drafts of articles to the sales force so they can let advertisers review them. Nine times out of ten, an advertiser will demand all references to their products be nauseatingly positive.

Whatever. It was late, I was the last worker bee here, and I was tired. I just wanted to go home and spend what little time I could with my wife and six-year-old daughter.

I went to shut down my computer, but the network was freezing up again. I didn’t want to leave without shutting down properly, otherwise, tomorrow the computer wouldn’t boot up at all. So I decided to go to the bathroom. Hopefully, by the time I got back, everything would be cool.

But I never made it to the bathroom. To get there, I had to pass the executive area, which constantly smelled of Colombian coffee grinds.

I froze. A bassy voice said: “Hurry, I can’t wait to get out of this skin.”

It was Bruce Bogart, the CEO. What was he doing here so late? He rarely came into the office, and when he did, it was during early business hours—he usually stayed no later than 10 A.M.

“These damn clothes!”

That was the raspy voice of Charles Furneaux, the company’s vice-president.

I tiptoed to where the voices came from: the conference room. I peeked through the crack of the closed, mahogany double doors. Bogart and Furneaux were naked. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The 60-year-old Bogart had sagging breasts and varicose veins not only on his legs but around the base of his neck. And the 45-year-old Furneaux was so overweight, his bolder-size gut drooped over his genitals, obscuring them.

There was a third person in the conference room—also naked. I couldn’t see who it was. Their back was to me. They had blond, crimped hair that reached down to their mid-back, and their freckled skin was more ashen than post-apocalyptic Pompeii. I knew who it was now. Nikki Lébon, the head of human resources.

I stopped looking inside the conference room. Bogart, Furneaux and Lébon were the three executives who made up the board of directors. Why were they in the conference room, naked, at eight o’clock on a Wednesday night?

I looked inside the conference room again. What the. . . ?

All three of them were kneeling on the cherry-wood table; they formed a circle around the table’s built-in speakerphone. They were passing around a bottle of wine in a green flask. As one drank from it, the other two groped each other lustfully and French-kissed. Whoever drank from the flask tilted their head back, wine sluicing across their cheeks, into their hair. And those who French-kissed did it in an exhibitive fashion, their tongues wagging outside of their mouths.

I felt like I was in an underground carnival, and I had stumbled into the circus-freak tent. This was so bizarre. It was so . . . wrong. But I couldn’t look away.

Bogart, growling almost inaudibly, grabbed the wine flask from Furneaux. Before the vice-president could object, Bogart poured the wine over all three of them. The wine ran down their bodies and hit the conference table with a plop, plop, plop. When the flask was empty, Bogart tossed it against the unopenable, bulletproof, plastic window. The flask ricocheted off the window and smashed against the white dry-erase board. Bogart, Furneaux and Lébon didn’t seem fazed by the clamorous sound of the flask breaking. They were too busy caressing or licking one another. I placed a hand over my mouth in puzzlement. They did everything in a familiar manner, as if this type of orgy was routine to them.

“Yes,” Furneaux said in his raspy voice.

“Oh God,” Lébon said, moaning and raking her hands through her hair extensions.

Bogart gnarled.

I pressed my nose against the door crack. Holy. . . .

All three of them stood up. They no longer licked each other but did continue to caress one another. They pressed their bodies together, hard.

I blinked and shook my head. I wasn’t seeing what I thought I was seeing, was I? Just to make sure, I turned away from the door crack and counted to ten. I returned my attention back to what was happening inside the conference room. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. It couldn’t be. This was something straight out of a Clive Barker story.

The bodies of the three board of directors were gluing together. As their skins stuck to one another, it turned a greenish-grey. Slowly, their bodies began to take on a uniform shape. It was nothing recognizable, but it appeared to be halfway to its result. Right now, it was nothing but a huge mass of greenish-grey.

This was too off-the-wall; I had to get out of here. I stood up and was about to walk towards the exit, but I paused. One last peek couldn’t hurt, could it? I squeezed my right eye shut and pressed my left eyelash against the door crack.

The bulky mass was no longer on the conference table. In its place was a humongous rhinoceros. The rhino had no eyes, but it did have pug nostrils and a phallic-shaped horn. Its skin was grey-green.

The rhino hopped off the table. The floor shook. I fell over with an “oof.”

Attempting to get to my feet, I heard sniffing alternating with snorting. Must have been the rhino. But before I could investigate, I heard the board of directors conversing.

Bogart: “I smell something.”

Lébon: “Me too.”

Furneaux: “Smells . . . human.”

I crawled away from the conference-room doorway as quickly as possible without making too much noise. I passed the executive-area bathroom; it smelled of ammonia and potpourri. Upon reaching the wood door that led to the lobby, I quit crawling and jumped up. My back cracked, loudly.

Behind me, the mahogany doors to the conference room crashed open. The rhino barreled in my direction, a large splinter of mahogany hanging from one of its pug nostrils.

My palm on the handle of the door that led to the lobby, I halted and gawked at something I missed before. How could I have missed it? It was so glaringly apparent, a low-vision sufferer would have noted it.

On top of the rhino sat Bogart. But he didn’t ride the rhino like how a cowboy straddles a horse. Bogart’s legs were MIA. His human form was visible only from the waist up. His legs either were inside the rhino, or they had disappeared from morphing with the board of directors. Bogart’s body was the same color as the rhino: grey-green.

Bogart boomed, “Where do you think you’re going, Miller?” His voice was so deep, it vibrated my collarbone.

I turned my back to Bogart and his corporate rhino. I tried to open the door by slapping the handle down, but my timing was off. I pushed my shoulder against the door a second too late, after the latch caught.

“Fuck,” I said through clenched teeth.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, I grabbed the handle and pushed down on it again. The door opened. I didn’t bother to close it behind me. The corporate rhino was too close.

Moving at the speed of fright, I glanced over my shoulder. The door hadn’t closed all the way. The rhino thwacked the door with its horn. The door banged against the wall-door stop and bounced back, but the rhino was moving fast—the door merely patted the side of its buttocks.

I took three quick strides. I was now in the lobby. Overhead, a fluorescent bulb flickered, sounding like a bug zapper.

I skidded at the elevator doors and slammed the heel of my palm on the call button. We were on the top floor. I looked up at the floor numbers. The elevator was all the way down on the ground floor.

Shit, that’s right! The cleaning people are probably here, holding up the elevator.

“Miller!”

The corporate rhino was racing down the short corridor to the lobby. The corridor had low lighting. All I saw was a bulky silhouette: Bogart riding the rhino.

I turned and jumped the receptionist desk. She, obviously, wasn’t there.

My plan was to dash down the hallway to where the sea of cubicles lay, but I wasn’t one foot away from the receptionist desk when Bogart’s hands clutched my shoulders. I froze. The rhino’s hot nasal breath reached my lower back, paralyzing me with its snorting exhale.

“Got you,” Bogart said, “you nosy mor—”

I broke free of Bogart’s clutch, although not due to courage on my part. The rhino’s nose had tapped my back, causing me to jerk.

Taking advantage of my freedom, I snapped into a sprint. Cubicle land lay ahead. Salvation. . . .

* * *

I booked down the center aisle of the cubicles. Halfway down, I cut left, eventually ducking into a cubicle packed with office supplies and furniture. I squeezed between a file cabinet and a stack of banker boxes. Hiding under the cubicle’s desk, I sat on my butt and pulled my legs in; I placed my chin on my knees.

I attempted to regulate my breathing. Sweat dripped off my nose and down my chest. I tried listening for Bogart and his corporate rhino, but my head was pounding with fear and adrenaline.

A minute passed. The pounding in my head ceased long enough for an idea to pop through.

Staying under the desk, I rose my hand and felt around for the cubicle’s phone. Hopefully it still had one. Yep, there it was. I dragged it down to my lap and dialed a cell-phone number. A man on the other end answered. In a whisper, I identified myself and told him why I was calling.

“Aye,” the man said in a thick Irish accent, “sounds like you’ve stumbled across a demon collective of the highest order.”

“Huh?”

“Believe it or not, Michael, there really is a Hell, but it’s not what you’ve been led to believe. There’s no fire and pitchforks with souls being tormented for all of eternity. Hell is actually a complex society of ghettoes that make America’s badlands look like Utopia.

“When a mortal dies after living a immoral or amoral life, they go to Hell. Once there, they aren’t tortured—rather, they’re promoted. They’re allowed re-entry into this world, as long as they make humans feel like there’s no hope. Because when a good person begins to feel utterly hopeless, nine times out of ten, he becomes tempted by the evil side of humanity, whether that be booze, drugs, sexual addiction, fondness for violence or antisocial behavior.”

“I don’t understand,” I whispered into the receiver. “What’s this have to do with Bogart and the corporate rhino?”

“Aye, when someone dies and goes to Hell, they immediately become a demon, which isn’t too much of a transition of the life on Earth they were leading. After the demon goes through the bureaucracy of Hell, they’re allowed to return to Earth, but they aren’t permitted to go alone. They are forced to return with at least two other demons. The demonic group enter our world as a beast.”

I didn’t ask the man with the Irish accent any more questions. I hung up the phone quietly and looked through the crack of the cubicle wall at what caused me to cut my phone call short.

* * *

Strolling up the aisle was the corporate rhino. Despite its leisurely pace, the floor shook. My legs, stretched out in front of me under the desk, absorbed the vibrations. I wondered if the housecleaning crew were downstairs, and if they were, how were they reacting to the ceiling shaking like 30th Street Station.

The corporate rhino stopped. Through the crack in the cubicle wall, I saw the rhino’s rear-left leg. A gasp tried to exit my mouth, but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It wasn’t possible, was it?

Above the rhino’s rear-left leg was Furneaux’s face. Like Bogart and the rest of the rhino, Furneaux’s face was grey-green. Despite being part of the rhino, Furneaux was fatter than ever, his jowls hanging like sacs of Pillsbury dough.

Furneaux frowned, his face whipping back and forth, up and down; the movement stretched the rhino skin. He was obviously looking for me.

“Where is he?” Furneaux whined.

“Shhhh,” Bogart said. “He’s close. I can practically taste him.”

The corporate rhino stopped. Through the crack in the cubicle wall, I watched its tail whisk around counterclockwise.

“I see him!” Furneaux said.

“Where?” Bogart said.

“Fuck.” I kicked the stack of banker boxes into the aisle. The top box flipped over, caroming off the top of a cubicle wall. Papers and folders flittered through the air. It distracted the corporate rhino enough to give me a running start.

I darted down the aisle and at the second intersection cut left. Ahead was a chair with wheels. I jumped on it, using it as a springboard.

Flying through the air over a couple rows of cubicles, I brought my knees into my chest, but just as I did so, I began to descend.

Uh-oh.

I stretched my legs out and flailed my arms, hoping to postpone the inevitable. It didn’t. I hit the top of a cubicle wall, where it crossed with three other partitions.

Falling into a cubicle, I prayed for the absence of sharp objects. The base of my back whacked the edge of a computer monitor. Me and the monitor crashed to the floor. The monitor’s screen cracked. A swirl of vapor hissed through the crack.

Rumbling.

The corporate rhino was scampering up and down aisles, trying to find me. I was surprised it wasn’t knocking over cubicle walls. Then again, it had already created enough property damage by crashing through the conference-room doors. How were they going to explain that?

I limped out of the cubicle, massaging my lower back. Hugging the wall, I kept an eye out for the corporate rhino. I turned at the first corner I came to. Several feet down lay my escape. The stairwell.

* * *

The trek down the stairwell was a long one, or at least it felt that way in my mind, even though I took three steps at a time. The corporate rhino didn’t trail me. Nonetheless, my hands were so sweaty, they made streaking sounds on the hollow steel railing.

Exiting the stairwell, I heard a ding but thought nothing of it. I should have.

In the building lobby, the corporate rhino sauntered out of the elevator.

I weighed my options. Run around the rhino, or spin around and retreat for the stairwell. But I didn’t have time to decide. In a flash, the rhino leaped towards me. It landed in front of me and used its horn to knock my knees together. My legs were so weak, I fell down quicker than a novice ice skater.

I looked up. Bogart still rode the rhino. He sneered at me.

From the side of the rhino, Furneaux said, “Hurry, let’s kill him before anybody sees us.”

“Don’t worry,” Bogart said, “we’ll smell anybody approaching.”

“Oh, that’s right.”

The corporate rhino lumbered closer. I was lying on my back. The rhino’s underside was above me. It drooled purple saliva on my hair. Hot.

“You gave us quite a chase, Mr. Miller,” said Nikki Lébon.

I did a double take. The human-resource manager’s face was on the underside of the rhino. Although her face was grey-green, her freckles were still present. And unlike Furneaux, who had no hair in this form, Lébon’s crimped do hung from her scalp—it was grey-green.

“You know,” Lébon said, “I believe it’s time for a performance evaluation.”

She spit in my eye. I blinked it away.

“You employees are all the same,” Lébon said, “a waste of space . . . a necessary evil . . . a costly expense. Stealing money from stockholders and company owners for what little purpose you serve. I can’t wait for the day when androids are created. That way, we won’t have to pay exorbitant salaries and benef—”

I interrupted her with a sucker punch to the kisser. I threw so much shoulder into it, the corporate rhino reared up on its hind legs, like an irascible Black Stallion.

I rolled to the right until I hit the lobby’s marble wall. I hopped to my feet and dashed out the front door.

The corporate rhino chased me into the empty parking lot. I pushed my exhausted body to the limit, my arms swinging, crossing my chest.

The rhino was on my heels. It was wheezing, nasal spittles landing on my back. Any other time, I would have minded. But not now. I was only 100 yards from my destination.

* * *

I burst into the doors of the All Saints church and shelter. The corporate rhino followed me. We were in the dining hall. Folding chairs were stacked on rectangular tables.

In front of me stood the man I spoke with on the phone. Father O’Halloran.

“Duck!” Father O’Halloran said in his Irish accent.

I did and—for safe measure—scooted under a table.

Father O’Halloran held a fire hose. He turned the nozzle. Holy water gushed out.

“No!” Bogart said.

The corporate rhino tried to do a 180, but the pressure from the hose was so high, it knocked the rhino down. Some of the water sprayed my head and hands, even though I was still under the table. I didn’t mind. Felt nice.

The water depleted in 30 seconds, but the damage was done. The rhino writhed around on the black-and-tan tiled floor, kicking its legs, knocking over a few tables, including mine. Uninjured, I shrugged and stood up.

Father O’Halloran dropped the fire hose. It hit the floor with a clang.

Father and I stood over the corporate rhino. In seconds, the body of the rhino disintegrated, leaving only the naked human forms of Bogart, Furneaux and Lébon. Their skin color remained grey-green.

“I still don’t understand,” I said.

“Ninety percent of all corporations are run by demons,” Father O’Halloran said. “Remember how I said when they return to Earth they come back as a collective beast? A rhino was the form these three took.”

“Why the orgy they had going on in the conference room?”

“It’s a ritual. Once a year, all demons must return to their collective form, then report to the Devil of their progress. He’ll be waiting for them. Let’s get them nice and warm for their return trip.”

We dragged Bogart, Furneaux and Lébon down to the basement. The furnace burned hot and bright. Father O’Halloran and I burned the unconscious board of directors. I smiled into the heat, thinking of the future. Time for employee-owned companies?

[[END]]

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