GRUMPY ORC BOSS

  ZORA BLACK

  GRUMPY ORC BOSS

  By Zora Black

  Copyright © 2023 by Zora Black

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  CONTENTS

  1. Leia

  2. Deiderich

  3. Leia

  4. Deiderich

  5. Leia

  6. Deiderich

  7. Leia

  8. Diederich

  9. Leia

  10. Deiderich

  11. Leia

  12. Deiderich

  13. Leia

  14. Deiderich

  15. Leia

  16. Deiderich

  17. Leia

  18. Deiderich

  19. Leia

  20. Deiderich

  1

  LEIA

  Somewhere outside, beyond my immediate realm, there is a glorious, mid-morning sun streaking across the Chicago skyline. I imagine it’s the kind of sun that would inspire me to take an early lunch back when I had my office in Vancouver.

  However I can’t be bothered with sprawling vistas at the moment, not in the middle of this conference call with my client. It’s bad enough I already have to multitask, divide my time between checking coding scripts, and take on a Zoom meeting in order to appease said client. A quick glance at the corner of my computer relates the time and reminds me that I have a deadline to meet, in more ways than one.

  But it’s their deadline I’m working to meet, and professionalism demands that I at least hear them out. Now I wish I hadn’t.

  “Yes, a sky-blue theme would be wonderful, Mrs. Abernathy, but that would require re-editing entire blocks of code. However the current theme works perfectly fine, considering you want the website to launch essentially today.”

  “Exactly! I want it to go live at midnight, so that should give you plenty of time to change it!” Mrs. Abernathy counters.

  In hindsight, I realize that I should have seen this coming. Internally I grumble, even as I type in another command, keys clacking away. This project has been nothing but a complete disaster from the beginning- from the unreasonable timetable to Mrs. Abernathy’s changeable ‘ideas.’

  “Mrs. Abernathy, I still need to run diagnostics, ensure the shopping cart is de-bugged, check the numbers on the social media accounts, and make sure the authentication for your online coupons takes effect all before midnight. There is simply not enough time to write up code for an entire new theme and test it before launch.”

  Please, no more changes, my mind tiredly begs. It would be different if I had a team of people under me like I did back home. I left behind an entire support system back in Vancouver, but right now it’s just me trying to scratch out a name for myself here in Chicago. Do it all, in order to have it all. That’s my motto.

  “It’s just a few colors and a few boxes, what’s the problem? Seriously, how long can that really take?” Mrs. Abernathy’s rebuttal isn’t anything I haven’t heard before, unfortunately.

  “You’re saying it will take time and effort, sure,” Mr. Abernathy interjects, with his piece to add. “But isn’t that what we are paying you for? Your time and effort.”

  It’s Mr. Abernathy who actually holds the purse-strings over his wife’s fledgling business and the one controlling the Zoom call. He knows that ultimately I’ll sing and dance their tune because he’s the one paying me. I’m just the freelance lackey that pulled the short straw when I stumbled across Abernathy’s posting for a web campaign builder.

  Turns out, they just wanted someone to build the website for their side venture, the ‘Poodle Pavilion,’ and make sure that website reached the top of the charts in dog grooming for the greater Chicago area. As an MBA grad, I had run multiple campaigns for the various firms that constructed the corporation I had previously worked for, so I thought this project would be well within my abilities.

  “Of course I’ll do my best to help realize your vision, but with the projected deadline, I really am limited in what I can accomplish in the time-frame.” Freelance work is always a risk for both parties, I have to remind myself. But it burns having them think I’m another scam artist when all I want to do is produce good work and experience the pride that comes with being able to help a business grow.

  Sure, I can create a viable website, and generate a successful marketing promotion complete with social media generation within three months. But not in three weeks, and not while dealing with Mrs. Abernathy’s shifting standards. I’m not a miracle worker, and I still have to operate within the constructs of linear time.

  “Tch. We would’ve never had these kinds of problems if we had just stuck with GoDaddy,” Mrs. Abernathy mutters. “Cheaper too,” she adds snidely.

  Underneath my drop-down desk, my hands curl into fists. I want to rage at their ignorance and pull my hair out at their asinine demands, but I remember in time that I’m in a live call with my clients, and my Zoom background will only hide so much.

  “I understand there have been issues, Mrs. Abernathy, but don’t worry. I’m fully capable of carrying out this project. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure there are no problems at launch. You have my guarantee.”

  Please let that be enough, I silently pray, even if I’d rather resort to rude hand gestures for communication. But my reassurances seem to do the trick again, and soon enough I’m off the Zoom meeting, and back on track.

  Back home in Vancouver, I didn’t have to deal with these kinds of problems. Nasty clients, unreasonable timetables, and constant adjustments. I’ve been settled in Chicago for a few months now, but with dwindling savings and an over-saturated resume, I have little to show for it.

  In short order, I need this. I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet, but dealing with clients like Mrs. Abernathy and her husband could test anyone’s patience.

  One of my greatest assets is my ability to multitask and it is a skill I employ to the fullest success. A few more hours of checks and verification, and the website is ready for launch. I go to publish the code, check another glance at the time, and spring up, in order to start getting ready for my other job.

  When I’m not taking on contract work for starters, I moonlight at a local dive that is only a few blocks up from my inner-city apartment. Right now, being a bartender is sadly my most steady gig and the flexible hours really help with the career hunt.

  The bar is a little off the beaten path on the more beaten side of downtown Chicago. It’s a tavern-style kind of place- all dark wood and low lights, with darts and a few scattered billiards.

  As a general stop-over for the commuting suburban crowd, we get all kinds of clientele, even the more unsavory kind on occasion. Even a lowlife creep can afford a nice suit, and as my mother always said, not every stranger is a friend. This is a big city and that’s a part of life.

  So as a precaution, I’ve taken the alias of ‘Elle’ while slinging drinks because I don’t need every barfly tagging me on social media. Especially when my online footprint is tailored more to my career, as opposed to my actual social life.

  Not that I really have had time for any kind of personal, or social life. University studies, and then work kept me pretty busy back home and I’ve spent my time in the Windy City juggling two jobs.

  But here at the bar I can shake off the stress of the job hunt for a few hours. The worst I have to deal with is a busy night and maybe the sporadic, handsy riffraff that tries to get the wrong idea. It’s not ideal, working a job where I have to fend off cat-callers and presumptuous perverts every week, but at least the lights stay on in my apartment, and the water stays warm.

  Besides, the clientele isn’t all bad. Chicago is a diverse city with people from all walks of life. We serve everyone we legally can: young and old, human and non-human alike.

  Bartending can be good for networking and conversing weekly with the locals has helped me get the lay of the land a little faster. Tonight I managed to strike up a conversation with a couple of orcs ordering rounds of martinis, who are jockeying to be the next junior partners at a local law firm.

  “Thanks, boys!” I call out, sending them a big smile as they raise their overfilling pints of alcohol in my direction.

  Now I have another fancy business card to my collection, someone to dial if I ever get arrested and an extra thirty dollars in my wallet. Although I could have done without the smaller one trying to get me to go back to his place. Guys who try too hard don’t really do it for me, regardless of whether he has teeth or tusks.

  Days like today are long though and have me feeling slightly homesick. To be able to meet up with friends for drinks or stop by my favorite bistro for a cup of coffee. Saying goodnight to the remaining bartenders at the end of my shift, the universe, in her twisted sense of humor, decides to send me a taste of home.

  Catching the late-night bus, I see my phone light up, then groan in recognition at the familiar caller. “Hey Mom, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, I’m doing wonderful, sweetie!” My mom’s cheerful tones are crisp and endearing. “How are you liking your fancy job?”

  “Well you know, work is work after all,” I retur n, somewhat lamely. “It keeps me busy, but it’s good.”

  “Ooh, I bet your new office has a big window with a view, even better than your old one!”

  “It sure does,” I reply, trying to inject more sincerity than I feel. Since I’ve lied to her for a few months now, about landing a position that was even better than my last job, I figure I might as well embellish it with a little fantasy. After all, I’ve always wanted an office with a view.

  “What’s all that noise, Leia? Is there construction around your apartment?” she questions, and I have to bite back another groan as the bus squeals to a halt.

  “I’m coming back from a late night at the office, so I’m outside right now,” I hurriedly explain. Never mind lying about landing some swank corporate gig, Mom would kill me if she found out I was riding the night bus in a strange city.

  I’ve been living in Chicago for almost a year now, and attending monthly self-defense classes, but I suppose it's my mom’s prerogative to worry. As I climb the steps to my loft, I take a moment to bask in it. She’s someone who does care about me, even if she doesn’t have the first clue about my life.

  It’s all the more reason not to worry her with bitter reality. Besides, if I can land a decent, full-time position, then my little white lie will turn a little honest.

  After all, crappy clients are just another stepping stone on the road to success, I remind myself, as I enter my apartment. Going through my evening ritual, I let Mom prattle on about the cruise she’s planning with Pop, and dodge another question about holiday visits.

  Eventually I let her go though, needing to check the status of the Abernathy account. I hope there weren't any problems after the launch and go through a mental checklist for a follow-up tomorrow morning as I grab a spoon and a yogurt for a late-night snack.

  There’s the code for the website, sitting right where I left it, waiting to be published.

  Wait, what?

  I remember getting ready to publish the code for launch and checking the time. Surreptitiously I do the same now, an old habit borne of timetables and deadlines. Like the one I should have met, hours ago.

  My spoon clatters to the floor as panic drops like a weight into the bottom of my stomach. Fingers fly over mouse and keyboard as I work to engage damage control, only to find too little, too late.

  Already, the social media accounts are tinged with sour notes. People complain about broken links and invite coupons that are now invalidated, all because there was nothing to access. It’s a disaster, right from the word go, and the email from the Abernathys is just the nail in the coffin.

  Services terminated, due to failure to uphold contract stipulations, including deadline. Product rendered unacceptable, and not in line with Abernathy vision. Therefore, payment will not be rendered.

  There’s more, but it has become hard to read behind angry, salty tears. I can’t even be mad at Mrs. Abernathy at this point- no, I have no one to rage at but myself. Frustrated beyond belief, I spend the rest of the night at the computer, freshening up my resume and cover letter.

  Transcripts, recommendations, and a working portfolio that is definitively absent from one Poodle Pavilion campaign are now all included. I work through job postings as well, fueled by the adrenaline of desperation. I’m done with the stress of freelance. I am going to get a full-time job as a marketing specialist, or I am going home, but either way, I’m done.

  2

  DEIDERICH

  “No, no no, that’s not what I wanted.”

  “You said you needed a shipment of axes and swords, Mr. Valdez,” I remind him, as I pinch off the tension headache forming at the bridge of my nose. “An order of melee weapons to round out your security, if I recall.”

  Not that I should have to be the one to recall, I groan internally. I do another pacing lap around my desk. Where the hell is Zouk, my operations manager, anyway? Shouldn’t he be the one dealing with this nonsense?

  “It’s my ‘army motif,’ Señor Deiderich. The theme for my ancient weapons collection,” Valdez impatiently clarifies.

  Pressure displacement tricks are not going to help me with this guy. “Salzarro, we are a private arms manufacturing company. That means we specialize in modern melee-style or close-range combat-ready weapons. We produce fully viable and workable arms, fully accessible and ready to distribute in order to handle a variety of needs.”

  “Yes, and you have some of the best smiths in the industry. It’s all a wonderful pitch.” Salzarro dismisses the effort of my forgers, impatient to have his way. “I really don’t need a whole crate of weapons. Seriously, you think I want a bunch of armed peasants tearing up my countryside?” He scoffs into the mic, disdain apparent.

  It’s enough to get under my skin, but years of conforming to human standards have conditioned me to reign in my temper. Rich men are usually ignorant fools, who pride themselves on their wealth and resources rather than understand the responsibility that comes with wielding a finely honed weapon.

  Nevertheless, my olive-colored hands ball into quiet fists and I’m glad my Zoom isn’t working properly on my computer. Otherwise, Salzarro would be able to see the mounting aggravation on my face. I doubt that would bode well for impressing a potential client.

  “No, I need a set of swords and axes to round out my weapon assemblage. I’ve collected old-style arms from all over the world. I have a whole room devoted to them, it’s wonderful,” he reiterates.

  By the gods I don’t care, I just want to close this deal. “Very well, Mr. Valdez. Valdor is happy to take care of all your arms needs, for any occasion. If you’re not intending to use the order for utility, then I can set up a custom order for private use. Just give me a day or two, and I can whip up some specs-”

  “I don’t need crates and crates of arms. Just an ax and a sword. Take it off one of your trucks for all I care,” he replies shortly. “Surely you orcs must still fight amongst yourselves? Can’t you just kill one of your kind and claim his ax?”

  “See?” I say. “It’s this kind of stereotypes that makes humans afraid of orcs.”

  “What? You guys aren’t big green monsters?” he asks.

  “Well, yes, we are big green monsters,” I reply.

  “And you orcs move around in clans?” he asks. “And where did you come from again?”

  “New Zealand,” I sigh. “And yeah, we’ve moved into human lands with our clans. We may still be warriors, but we’re not evil.”

  “Hey hey, I never said you were evil,” Mr. Valez says. “My gandson loves Shrek. That’s why I wasn’t sure about buying weapons from you.”

  I sigh. I hate Shrek. Ever since he sold out to Hollywood and became the friendly fucking orc it’s been hard to sell weapons.

  This ‘deal’ is starting to feel like a bust. There is a tight, constricting feeling around my neck, despite my open collar and it has nothing to do with the press of my suit. But Valdor needs this deal more than I want to admit, which is why I am taking the time out of my busy schedule in order to listen to the fail-son of a tequila mogul ramble on.

  I continue to reign in my temper, despite how tempting it would be to just send them for free, as a gift to Salzarro’s workers. I doubt the entitled plantation owner could even hold a sword properly, much less fight off a sudden uprising. But his privileged attitude isn’t my problem right now- closing this deal is.

  “You just want an excuse to charge me an arm and a leg, yeah? I know your kind, Señor Deiderich. Any excuse to sweeten the deal. At the end of the day, a sword is a sword, an ax is an ax.”

  My fists clench so hard, my wrist strains the fabric of my cuff, and one of the links goes flying into a corner. It’s at that moment that Zouk bursts in, finally gracing me with his presence. I glower at him before returning to my conference call.

 

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