hundred studies diplomatic

Vince reached into his sock and pulled out Jackie's pay.
Vince eyed Jackie warily.
"Boss?" she said.
"YOU'RE DOING A GREAT JOB JACKIE." said Vince.
Vince smoked 2 packs a day and drank 10 espressos a day and everything he said sounded like the bottom of a stainless steel beer barrel being hammered by maniacal monkeys on pharmaceutical-grade amphetamines. Jackie, when she first started at the office, thought the other employees were exaggerating when they warned her about 'The Beast,' managing to pronounce the capitals and everything.
As Vince vibrated away on his black patent leather high heeled elevator shoes she fought to get a grip on herself. She wouldn't let herself panic again, not after last week's embarassing episode where she'd locked herself in the staff lounge and refused to come out.
Even the CEO crossed himself at the mention of Vince.
A short swarthy Sicilian with wiry black hair, a set of arms like steel bridge cables and pupils like pinpoints of blackness and a vicious enthusiasm for his job.
Jackie kept her pay at arm's length until she could put it in a plastic ziplock. Her bank hated her.
Why he kept her pay in his socks was a mystery, why he wore his underarm sweat stains so proudly was another.
Jackie fought the urge to run out of the building. Just a few more paydays, she told herself. Just a few more dollars in the bank and she'd be free forever...