The Accountant
In the accountant’s office is an old rusty flat-iron. The accountant, who works without end and sleeps on a cot in the corner of his office, is a fat man. The fat man’s name is Bruce Hempel.
The flat-iron in the fat accountant’s cotted office is a mystery. He has no hair—anywhere. In the morning, when the junior accountant, a thin, hairy man—older than Mr. Hempel but younger, I surmise, than the big man in the bright, windowed office with the perky plants, Mr. Perrintost—when he comes in, he picks up the flat-iron.
Mr. Hempel closes the door and they whisper like children. Hempel has a deep chuckle and the junior accountant has a laugh like a whimper. They make these sounds like clockwork.
I surmise that they must be up to some sort of nonsense.
