Congratulations On the Mess You Made Of Things

The clouds twisted over themselves, as the the wind ripped them into dark contorted shapes. People should be running for cover, battening down the hatches, stocking up on food; but not the people in this ruddy little town. Leon Van Damme stood in the field behind Castle Apartments and glared at this little dirty man wearing glasses with no lenses. The wind blew his shaggy gray hair over Leo's craggy features, he didn't move. He locked eyes with this grubby hipster, his useless glasses started to slip down his short upturned nose, his eyes began to dart about. All the other filthy little protesters we're taking cover in their shabby tents. The wind intensified, as did Leo's stare.

Tall and lanky, Leo stood a good head above the pig-man with the stupid glasses. The little man swallowed, and shifted his gut uncomfortably in his absurdly small argyle vest. Leo took a step forward with a well thought out statement poised on the tip of his tongue; He was cut off by the little man instinctively throwing his megaphone up to is mouth, squeezing the trigger and blasting a screech right into Leo's face. He reeled backwards, and collapsed against a tree a few feet back.

"Motherfucker! Ya little bitch..." Leo screamed into the wind, but it was lost in the howl, and never made it to the little pig-man squealing back to his tent. He slid the rest of the way down the tree and slid his hands through his hair. "Goddamn Protesters" he mumbled to himself. "All they do is complain." He didn't mind it when they first set up, brought something different when he walked to work, when he was late for the bus. He actually liked walking, the bus was too noisy, hard to concentrate. All week had Leo put up with the nagging little graduate school bitches, but today he snapped. He'd pay for it too, he was late for work.

However, it wouldn't be the unbearable Brit: Mr. Devon Tresp, who would rip Leo a new one. it would be the owner of WTF 100.4, a Mr. Lancaster, who would have that honor. Mr. William Lancaster probably owns about half of the small town radio stations this side of the Mississippi. He was in town deciding whether or not to keep this station.

***

After Mr. Lancaster sorted out the bureaucratic mess of the station's office, it turned out that Devon Tresp isn't Leo's boss at all. Both DJ's work under Mr. Lancaster as equals.

Despite his actual boss being present, Leo couldn't help but laugh in the face of the stoic Tresp, who just sat in his chair and shrugged.

"Nothing changes Van Damme. I'm still more important. Understand?" Tresp said, pivoting in his spinning chair. Leo glanced over his shoulder at Mr. Lancaster - consumed in his smart phone.

"Right," Leo said referencing Lancaster. "I'll believe that, sure Devon."

Lancaster looked up, "One more comment like that Mr. Van Damme, and you'll be fired. I don't tolerate insubordination at any of my stations. That includes in this piece of shit building, in this piece of shit town."

Leo was caught off guard, and confused. He looked at Tresp, his cold British hands, clasped together over his cold British heart. He just nodded and said, "Me and Willie been mates for years. He married my cousin. Good ol' chap he is."

Leo slumped against the console. Crushed.

***

As Leo walked though the park, away from the pig-man in his little tent, the wind bringing tears to his eyes, he dreaded what awaited him at WTF today. Yesterday Lancaster and Tresp had walked all over him, and Leo had the feeling that he might be walking in to the booth for the last time tonight. "As always ladies and gentlemen," Leo said in his best radio voice. "Keep it tuned into 100.4." He swung open the doors to the studio, the tears in his eyes having nothing to the with the weather outside.