Swinging!

>Big meeting today.

>Your boss fingered you to liaison with a potential out-of-town client and take them out to lunch before the sales presentation.

>You're expected to be at the top of your game.

>You shower, lather up with your power-lunch shower gel, wash your hair, and condition.

>You trim and style your goatee and comb your hair, then apply a dash of cologne.

>Lastly, you put on your best semi-formal suit.

>Checking yourself out in the mirror, you look sharper than Mephistopheles.

>You slip on your dress shoes at the door.

>One last thing.

>From your umbrella-stand by the coat tree, you pull out your hockey stick.

>It's an old wooden stick you've had since school days, when you used to play for junior varsity.

>The handle's been sawed down to roughly two-thirds of its original length.

>Though you make sure to keep new tape and a good polish on it, the blade's a bit warped with age.

>Time to go.

 

>You pull your company car into the parking garage and head inside the building.

>As you step inside, you deposit your stick into the umbrella bin by the door, among all manner of umbrellas, golf clubs, bats, and other implements.

>You busy yourself with looking over a bit of trivial paperwork as you await your summons.

>At about 10AM you get a call on your desk phone from your boss's secretary, requesting your presence in the lobby reception area.

>You step into, then out of the elevator and head over to the leather couches; your boss is there, with a woman.

>You examine them as you walk over.

>They're both dressed as sharp as you are.

>In a few quick words and gestures, he introduces the two of you.

>"Pleased to meet you," you announce courteously, giving a wide smile.

>"He'll be the one to attend to you during your stay here; feel free to address any questions or comments to him as freely as you would myself," your boss says.

>The woman gives a smile of her own. "Of course."

>"Shall we commence a tour?" he asks, gesturing back toward the elevators.

 

>As your boss shows the client around, you sneak covert glances at her, checking out her body language... and body, while you're at it.

>Not bad; probable mid-thirties, slim, nice bust, good figure for her age.

>Likely works out judging by the easy grace with which she moves under her blouse and dress skirt.

>Cute nose, wavy dark-brown hair, lips a bit thin but smiles often, brown eyes behind a pair of narrow glasses.

>Not bad at all...

>Your boss has finished describing the facilities; he clears his throat politely to get your attention and looks pointedly at his watch.

>"A quarter after noon... if you'd care to have a late lunch before this afternoon's presentation?" he inquires.

>"That sounds lovely," the client responds.

>Sensing the mood, you step in. "Then, would you come with me? I have a table reserved for the occasion at one of our local eateries. "

>This wins you another smile from your prospective client.

 

>As you head out to the parking garage, you stop briefly to retrieve your hockey stick from the umbrella bin.

>Your companion raises an eyebrow at the length of plywood.

>"Bit of an antique, don't you think?" she asks.

>"Sentimental value." You give her a smirk. "Do you carry anything?"

>"Yes, actually." She fishes in her handbag and hauls out a small cylinder with a hook on the end.

>"Collapsible?" you ask, examining it in her hands.

>"Ladies' model," she says, nodding. "Carbon fiber and kevlar. Lightweight and strong. "

>With a twist of the handle she frees the spring, and the cylinder extends into a two-foot baton.

>"Very nice," you respond, admiringly.

 

>You drive a bit further downtown to the upscale corner cafe you've selected.

>Pulling open your companion's door, you graciously offer her your hand as she steps out of the sedan.

>A valet in a red vest approaches, carrying a baton of his own; it's stenciled with the restaurant's name.

>You hand him your keys, receive a ticket, and lead your companion inside.

>The two of you make pleasant small talk over Long Island iced tea and sandwiches for an hour, and then you call for the check.

>"The attached lounge makes a lovely cocktail as well, if you find yourself in need of a relaxer later," you impart, while tucking your company credit card into the server's book. "But sadly we don't have time for one at the moment."

>Your companion grins.

>After marking the tip, you stand up and lead your companion back outside.

>The valet notices you and takes your ticket, then heads off to retrieve your car.

 

>At that moment, you hear a small, squeaking voice coming from around the edge of the building.

>"Fwuffy hung'y... foodies pwease? No smeww pwit'y, hewp fwuffy?"

>A very dirty green fluffy pony is turning the corner, begging and whimpering.

>A mixture of half-wet city grit and excrement covers the fur of her hooves, belly and flanks; greys and blacks mixed with clumps of brown.

>"Fwuffy smeww foodies... pwease give? Wan' nummies, wan hugs!"

>The patrons still in line studiously ignore the filthy pony, as do the two of you.

>Too late, though; your companion is standing closest to the corner.

>It locks eyes onto her.

>"Mumma, give foodies? Fwuffy give hugs! Wuv mumma!" it announces, waddling toward her with a smile.

>She digs in her handbag, producing the baton, and begins to try to work it open.

>Not quickly enough... the grimy pony is almost to her.

>"Hugs, mumma? Fwuffy wan wuv, wan foodies!" the fluffy proclaims, reaching a shit-caked hoof toward her leg.

>You see a look of alarm flash on her face as she continues to fumble with the baton's release, but you're already stepping in front of her with your stick raised.

 

>"Swinging!" you say loudly.

>Your companion and several other people nearby step back reflexively as you give the legally-required warning.

>The blade of your stick flashes down, catching the fluffy between her shoulderblades; she hits the pavement with a soft whump.

>"OWWW! Why huwt fwuffy?! Onwy wan give mumma hug!" she yelps.

>Her stubby neck jerks as she tries to pull herself to her feet, but her legs lie there limply.

>"Weggies no wowk! WHY WEGGIES NO WOWK?!" she howls in a panic.

>Looks like you severed the vertebrae where you struck her spine.

>Several people around you clap.

>"Didn't even make a mess," one fellow says. "Well done!"

>"Excuse me a moment," you say to your companion. "Civic duty calls."

>"S-sure," she answers, still a bit flustered.

>Using the flat of the blade, you scoot the crying fluffy over to a nearby crosswalk signal, then press a button below a sign depicting a spread-eagled fluffy pony.

>In a little while, a city sanitation worker will be over to collect and dispose of the pony.

>The valet pulls up in your car and takes in the scene before you can rejoin your companion.

>"I'm terribly sorry, sir," he says, bowing, as you approach. "Please, let me clean that for you."

>You hand him the stick and he quickly takes a large wet-wipe from a package in his vest and begins removing the dirt and fluffy scat, his own baton tucked under his arm.

>"It's quite alright. No harm done," you reply as he hands it back.

>Your companion, mastering herself once more, looks at you appraisingly.

>"That WAS pretty skilled," she says, in a low voice.

>"Just one of the benefits of a long working relationship," you reply, fingering your old hockey stick with a grin.

 

>The afternoon presentation goes quite well.

>She and your boss haggle over the preliminaries of the deal for some time; it's nearly seven o'clock when you wrap up for the day.

>Handshakes abound in the lobby as he says goodbye to the two of you for the night, clearly pleased with the progress.

>"That was quite a bit longer than I'd expected," she confides in you. "Your boss is a shrewd businessman."

>"Indeed," you reply. "Where are you staying? I can drop you off at your hotel if you'd like to retire."

>"Actually, I was thinking of having a few of those relaxers you mentioned, at the lounge..." She hesitates for a moment. "... care to join me?"

>You smile widely.

>"Certainly. I'll call us a cab, in that case."