Psamurai #8


Professor Falstaff stood at the microphone, as if it was just recently invented. His dress did nothing to dispel the old school magician vibe. His comely assistant, Tracy Sullivan, led the proceedings. He pinched the mic a few times, like he was tenderizing it. After he was done he leaned like the mic was going to poison him. Most of the audience presumed the tenderizing was an attempt to remove the mic from the stand. 

“Good evening,” he said in a vague Eastern European accent, doing further damage to the possibility of him not being a magician. “Tonight, we are here to learn about teamwork. Let me tell you something about teamwork. There is no ‘I’ in team.” He punctuated each word with his index finger, bobbing up and down like he was taking his first drum lesson.

“There's no we either, asshole,” Cheryl whispered, arms and legs crossed on a folding plastic chair. Hundreds of such chairs were arrayed in rows and columns, filling the ballroom. The chairs were then filled with smiling, staring faces locking their attention on Falstaff. Cheryl twiddled her phone. 

“Shh,” Sophie snickered.

“He said that like he made it up.”

“Shh,” Sophie said trending toward a laugh, then leaned forward clasping her hands over her head and convulsed.

“Don’t tell me to shush when you’re having library giggles.”

“Shh,” came a chorus from the rows behind them.

Cheryl waved them off. Sophie, red faced and grimacing, gave the best penitent hand gesture she could perform under the conditions.

“And now I’d like to introduce my assistant, Tracy Sullivan, who will be available after this presentation for free massage, reiki, acupuncture and all those things your demographic loves.”