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Description
From time to time our office is blessed by upper management with a new lesser manager, someone on his way through a career in which he hoped to become upper management himself one day. Mr Hoarecross was one such hopeful and he established himself in our relaxed and unproductive shambles of an office by adopting the role of new broom with an enthusiasm which made him instantly unpopular.  

Officious and pedantic he failed to win any friends and soon picked up the disparaging tag of Mr Whorecrotch, inevitably. No one felt even slightly guilty about that and before long he was never referred to as anything else, but not to his face of course! Unfortunately disrespectful familiarity like that meant sooner or later, someone would suffer the momentary lapse of concentration we all feared and deliver the casual but fatal insult! We joked long and hard about who that would be.

  Poor Simon the junior office bitch never really could keep up with the frantic pace of staying awake all day. Constantly precarious he only remained employed because he was easy to take advantage of and in spite of a hundred final warnings, each one for something different that time, the only thing he ever really learnt was spectacular, obsequious contrition. He was nauseatingly pathetic.  

One day emperor and lowly scum crashed together in an accident for which neither was to blame. The managerial coffee was knocked skywards before splashing, carpet bound all over Mr Hoarecross as well as his other handful of vital correspondence and Simon the scapegoat who'd lost his footing in the impact. If either of them had been looking where they were going it wouldn't have been entirely Simon's fault, but they hadn't, so it was, that was his job.  

In a moment of mindless panic, slow witted Simon sought to save his hide before rage and retribution made his excuses impossible. "Sorry Mr Whorecrotch." he said. For the briefest of moments the whole office fell deathly quiet in the space between the deed and the disaster itself.   I burst out laughing first. I tried not to. Oh fuck did I try not to but we all had coffee, not just Mr Whorecrotch, sorry, Hoarecross, and my mouth was full of it.  It sprayed across my desk as I clapped my hand over my face, attempting to stifle the reaction which would implicate me in the now blatantly obvious office wide conspiracy.   Horrified I saw our oppressor turn to me. Worthless Simon could stay on the floor for all Mr Hoarecross cared. There was no point wasting further blame on him, not for this other thing, this deeper, criminal impertinence.

Our eyes met as I looked up, unable to resist the temptation to ignore my peril. "My office, NOW!" he barked.   My mostly male colleagues turned away as Mr Hoarecross stormed past dripping coffee in his wake. He was furious. Not one of my so called friends stepped up to the breach to help me. They sat smug and safe, grinning into their monitors as if they were suddenly absorbed in their work, knowing it wasn't them that Mr Hoarecross wanted to castigate, tear apart or reduce to tears in the ritual humiliation I'd just been sacrificed to endure. It could have been, anyone would do, but this time it was me. "Bastards!" I thought.  

The throne room, the inquisition chamber, was a glass box at the end of our cavernous office floor and to be summoned was to stand in full view of one's colleagues, exposed, alone and accused. Mr Hoarecross sat behind his desk. "Well!" he bellowed. I acted ignorance, dealing with authority tactic No 1. "What did that little toe rag call me?" Mr Hoarecross snarled. Of course he knew. "Mr Hoarecross?" I offered.   "Do you think i'm stupid?" He shouted. "No, of course not!" I lied. "Do you call me that? Do they all?" he raged and I kept answering "No, no, no." to each stupid question as he fired them at me, so fast I almost failed to keep up. "You bunch of lightweight wasters don't have any respect for me at all do you?" he complained bitterly. "No." I said and had to change it quickly to "Yes!" He looked at me with contempt bordering on hatred.   "You think you're so fuckin' clever don't you?" he growled and stood up. I don't and wondered what on earth he meant. "You come in here, straight from school thinking you know it all!" he said as if we dared to think that was a good thing, whoever "we" were. "The education system in this country's fucked!" he cursed, obviously very angry about it. "Respect!" he said, still shouting, "Do you know what that is?"

He was advancing round his desk by now and I couldn't think of the dictionary definition fast enough because I was thinking "Bloody hell, calm down, please!" "Well do you!" he snapped, taking a step closer. My reticence surely was an insight into my unbridled upbringing and that made him hate me more. "You know what your problem is?" he said in a low, serious tone, right at me. "Problem, what problem?" I thought, beginning to get scared. Did he want yes or no? "DISCIPLINE!" he roared and reached out as I tried to step back.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me forward again. "I'd have taught you a bloody good lesson over my knee!" he shouted.   He was still pulling me and I really did think he was going to throw me over his desk and do goodness knows what to me. "No! Please they'll see me!" I screamed. I meant don't do it at all and I wanted him to know the humiliation of a disgrace like that in front of the whole office was reason enough not to, never mind the physical assault necessary.

The pulling stopped and he looked at me stunned. I realised then that he thought I meant don't do it here.   We stared at each other for the moment in which I'd just given him the impression I might accept punishment. I'm not sure if it was a subconscious slip or a genuine mistake but the look on his face made me feel as wicked as hell. It felt like flicking a switch, something inside me turned to "on" and we were both as shocked as each other.

  He let go of my arm and stepped wordlessly away, letting me twist my shirt back straight feeling seriously rattled. As I walked back out onto the office floor a round of applause rippled round the desks and I thought "You wankers!" I resumed my place at my desk, mopped up the coffee yet to dry and tried to concentrate on work but all I could think of was "What the fuck happened there!"

Description
From time to time our office is blessed by upper management with a new lesser manager, someone on his way through a career in which he hoped to become upper management himself one day. Mr Hoarecross was one such hopeful and he established himself in our relaxed and unproductive shambles of an office by adopting the role of new broom with an enthusiasm which made him instantly unpopular.  

Officious and pedantic he failed to win any friends and soon picked up the disparaging tag of Mr Whorecrotch, inevitably. No one felt even slightly guilty about that and before long he was never referred to as anything else, but not to his face of course! Unfortunately disrespectful familiarity like that meant sooner or later, someone would suffer the momentary lapse of concentration we all feared and deliver the casual but fatal insult! We joked long and hard about who that would be.

  Poor Simon the junior office bitch never really could keep up with the frantic pace of staying awake all day. Constantly precarious he only remained employed because he was easy to take advantage of and in spite of a hundred final warnings, each one for something different that time, the only thing he ever really learnt was spectacular, obsequious contrition. He was nauseatingly pathetic.  

One day emperor and lowly scum crashed together in an accident for which neither was to blame. The managerial coffee was knocked skywards before splashing, carpet bound all over Mr Hoarecross as well as his other handful of vital correspondence and Simon the scapegoat who'd lost his footing in the impact. If either of them had been looking where they were going it wouldn't have been entirely Simon's fault, but they hadn't, so it was, that was his job.  

In a moment of mindless panic, slow witted Simon sought to save his hide before rage and retribution made his excuses impossible. "Sorry Mr Whorecrotch." he said. For the briefest of moments the whole office fell deathly quiet in the space between the deed and the disaster itself.   I burst out laughing first. I tried not to. Oh fuck did I try not to but we all had coffee, not just Mr Whorecrotch, sorry, Hoarecross, and my mouth was full of it.  It sprayed across my desk as I clapped my hand over my face, attempting to stifle the reaction which would implicate me in the now blatantly obvious office wide conspiracy.   Horrified I saw our oppressor turn to me. Worthless Simon could stay on the floor for all Mr Hoarecross cared. There was no point wasting further blame on him, not for this other thing, this deeper, criminal impertinence.

Our eyes met as I looked up, unable to resist the temptation to ignore my peril. "My office, NOW!" he barked.   My mostly male colleagues turned away as Mr Hoarecross stormed past dripping coffee in his wake. He was furious. Not one of my so called friends stepped up to the breach to help me. They sat smug and safe, grinning into their monitors as if they were suddenly absorbed in their work, knowing it wasn't them that Mr Hoarecross wanted to castigate, tear apart or reduce to tears in the ritual humiliation I'd just been sacrificed to endure. It could have been, anyone would do, but this time it was me. "Bastards!" I thought.  

The throne room, the inquisition chamber, was a glass box at the end of our cavernous office floor and to be summoned was to stand in full view of one's colleagues, exposed, alone and accused. Mr Hoarecross sat behind his desk. "Well!" he bellowed. I acted ignorance, dealing with authority tactic No 1. "What did that little toe rag call me?" Mr Hoarecross snarled. Of course he knew. "Mr Hoarecross?" I offered.   "Do you think i'm stupid?" He shouted. "No, of course not!" I lied. "Do you call me that? Do they all?" he raged and I kept answering "No, no, no." to each stupid question as he fired them at me, so fast I almost failed to keep up. "You bunch of lightweight wasters don't have any respect for me at all do you?" he complained bitterly. "No." I said and had to change it quickly to "Yes!" He looked at me with contempt bordering on hatred.   "You think you're so fuckin' clever don't you?" he growled and stood up. I don't and wondered what on earth he meant. "You come in here, straight from school thinking you know it all!" he said as if we dared to think that was a good thing, whoever "we" were. "The education system in this country's fucked!" he cursed, obviously very angry about it. "Respect!" he said, still shouting, "Do you know what that is?"

He was advancing round his desk by now and I couldn't think of the dictionary definition fast enough because I was thinking "Bloody hell, calm down, please!" "Well do you!" he snapped, taking a step closer. My reticence surely was an insight into my unbridled upbringing and that made him hate me more. "You know what your problem is?" he said in a low, serious tone, right at me. "Problem, what problem?" I thought, beginning to get scared. Did he want yes or no? "DISCIPLINE!" he roared and reached out as I tried to step back.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me forward again. "I'd have taught you a bloody good lesson over my knee!" he shouted.   He was still pulling me and I really did think he was going to throw me over his desk and do goodness knows what to me. "No! Please they'll see me!" I screamed. I meant don't do it at all and I wanted him to know the humiliation of a disgrace like that in front of the whole office was reason enough not to, never mind the physical assault necessary.

The pulling stopped and he looked at me stunned. I realised then that he thought I meant don't do it here.   We stared at each other for the moment in which I'd just given him the impression I might accept punishment. I'm not sure if it was a subconscious slip or a genuine mistake but the look on his face made me feel as wicked as hell. It felt like flicking a switch, something inside me turned to "on" and we were both as shocked as each other.

  He let go of my arm and stepped wordlessly away, letting me twist my shirt back straight feeling seriously rattled. As I walked back out onto the office floor a round of applause rippled round the desks and I thought "You wankers!" I resumed my place at my desk, mopped up the coffee yet to dry and tried to concentrate on work but all I could think of was "What the fuck happened there!"