The path to success

"Outrageous!" thundered Sergey Andreyevich. "Utterly outrageous. What did you scoundrels do at yesterday's corporate party?"

The "scoundrels" sat as quiet as mice, cradling their aching heads. The birthday of the "Path to Success" company had been a real blast.

"Who plucked the parrot?" the director continued. "Whose bright idea was that?"

Manager Alexeyev perked up. He carefully raised his head, which felt like an empty kettle, and looked at the boss plaintively.

"Just as I thought," the boss said with satisfaction, "who else but the smartest guy in our company? Where are the feathers, you bastard? Maybe we can still glue them back on."

The manager

shook his head negatively. His mouth opened, but no sounds came out. His parched throat refused to speak.

"Won't work," his colleague Skripkin came to his aid, "we, uh... well, you know..."

"I see," the director guessed. "Roasted it on a spit. Didn't break your teeth? That was a gift souvenir from our Spanish partners, you idiots."

"But it was... ," Skripkin continued to justify himself, "screaming, the damn thing."

"Ooooh," Sergey Andreyevich howled like a wolf. "It was yelling 'pieces of eight, pieces of eight,' you morons. It had a speaker built inside. You touch it, it talks."

The managers exchanged doomed glances. Their heads ached more and more, the director shouted louder and louder. Everything was promised: from reprimands and loss of bonuses to several years of continuous execution. Unexpectedly, the boss calmed down and scanned the assembled team with an intent gaze.

"Where is she?" he asked the employees in a suddenly softened voice.

They shrugged their shoulders in bewilderment, Alexeyev even risked spreading his hands. Like, me no understand, boss.

"Where is the star of my company?" the director continued. "Where is that clever girl who knows three languages and has a red diploma?"

Seeing that his hungover employees were somewhat sluggish and completely refused to understand who he was talking about, the director flew into a rage again:

"Where is that beauty—long braid, I'm asking you? Where is that sex bomb without a bomb shelter?"

Finally, it dawned on the smartest, Alexeyev:

"Sveta, you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"Finally," the boss exhaled with relief.

"She, uh... ," Alexeyev hesitated.

"She 'uh' what?"

The manager fearfully rolled his eyes, indicating somewhere down. Sergey Andreyevich raised his eyebrows uncomprehendingly. Alexeyev continued his mimed pantomime. Soon Skripkin and Chikin joined him. They diligently crossed their eyes and made the Roman patrician "kill" gesture with their thumbs. The director watched this shadow theater for a few seconds, then crouched down, then straightened up and took a napkin from the table. He wiped his sweaty forehead and quietly asked:

"Who had the bright idea to put her under my desk? And cover her with a carpet?"

Chikin guiltily lowered his head.

"And how long is she going to sleep there?" the boss asked with threatening gentleness.

"We, uh... ," Skripkin chimed in. "We were calming her down like that. She got a bit rowdy."

The director spread his hands. He didn't know what to do with these scoundrels. Not only did they eat the foreign parrot souvenir; not only did they roll the secretary up in a carpet and shove her under the conference table; not only did they drink all his liquor supplies from the bar. They managed to sell a batch of stale canned goods with an expiring shelf life to the guys from Haifa during the night. The preliminary agreement was on his desk in the morning. If they hustled before the Israelis came to their senses, they could make a nice profit.

But Sergey Andreyevich hadn't told them the most important thing yet. Each of them was carefully hiding what happened at the very end of that wild party. Finally, the director mustered his courage and asked:

"Who screwed the cleaning lady?"

The managers slumped their shoulders. They diligently averted their eyes and sniffled strangely.

"Don't try to weasel out," the director threatened. "I have her statement on my desk."

"For rape?" asked Alexeyev.

"No," the boss answered mockingly. "A request. To facilitate marriage. Who here is supposed to be the most 'honest' one?"

The guys perked up, giggled, and the youngest, Shcheglov, rose from his chair.

The director put on his glasses and read solemnly:

"And this scoundrel, he kept shoving his greedy hands right up under the official skirt, the brazen one. And I kept thinking, maybe he lost something in there, so I spread my legs to make it easier to search. But he searched for a long time. At first he was rummaging around with his fingers, couldn't find it, and then he went in with his dick. Must have been more convenient that way. But I'm not offended, Comrade Director. Ever since my Vasya passed 18 years ago, I've been a widow. And the lad's body has needs, I understand. But you understand me too. How am I supposed to look people in the eye now? Let him, as an honest man, take me and marry me now. After all, I'm a respectable woman."

Shcheglov covered his face with his hands and quietly sobbed from hopelessness. Sergey Andreyevich laughed ominously and wagged his finger at the scoundrel.

"You'll know better next time."

And then a disheveled Sveta crawled out from under the table. She squinted at the gathered people with smeared eyes and swallowed saliva.

"What happened yesterday?" she asked everyone.

She noticed the director and frantically began to straighten herself up.

"Go wash up," Sergey Andreyevich hissed at her.

The red-diploma graduate briskly jumped up and rushed to the toilet to tidy herself up.

"Well, now," the director scanned everyone with a look that made the managers completely despondent, "the final question. Who ate the snake?"

The guys pointed fingers at each other, shifting the blame. But the director's keen gaze didn't leave their faces. The remains of the unfortunate amphibian, preserved in alcohol by Chinese partners somewhere near Beijing and presented to him as a gift, which he discovered today, had given the businessman a persistent toothache.

"Sveta said it was a very beneficial tincture," Chikin confessed guiltily. "We only wanted to take a little sip, but then it somehow started going down on its own..."

"Fools," the director sighed unexpectedly softly, "that's a tincture of golden root ginseng. For boosting potency. I don't need it, but it looked nice."

The managers exchanged glances and suddenly became embarrassed.

"But Sveta translated the inscription and said it was for general muscle tone," Alexeyev explained, diligently averting his eyes. "No wonder we later..."

Sergey Andreyevich waved his hand in resignation and dismissed everyone. What can you do with these fools besides giving everyone reprimands?

A tearful Sveta came out of the toilet. The director had already stepped away, loosened his tie, and was now looking at her through his glasses.

"Why did you translate it wrong for them?"

The office polyglot sniffled:

"They always call me a humanities major. And laugh at me. And scratched my car."

"Go on, you fool," he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

The fool left. Sergey Andreyevich fell into deep thought. Time was inexorably moving towards lunch when the office phone erupted with an insinuating trill.

"Shalom," the businessman heard a voice with a hint of biblical melancholy in the receiver, "we have, what should I tell you."

Andreyevich silently grunted to himself and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Greetings," he uttered with a strained voice. "Any questions?"

"Well, yes," continued the relentless Mosaic voice. "One little question. Little, but worth many thousands of dollars, as they say in our Haifa. Just don't think I'm being picky, but I'd like to know: where, indeed, does that bright mind reside who sold us that stale goods?"

"Uh, oops, pfft,..."

"Well, I understand you," the receiver continued, "when I myself came to the rabbi with the question of why my Sarah doesn't listen to me, the rabbi advised getting a goat. To which my Sarah said: Abram, a goat is good, of course, but fish with peas is still better. I thought and thought... and agreed. Fish is indeed better, we are terminating the contract."

Sergey Andreyevich performed a pantomime dance in front of the receiver. This stupid contract, concluded while drunk, could have allowed his firm to live comfortably for the next quarter.

And then... enlightenment came. Sergey Andreyevich remembered the wild 90s.

"Listen, you hedgehog, I can't be bothered explaining everything to you right now, just take note. We're not messing around here. We're doing business, got it, sucker? If you want to back out, then back out, my torpedoes will arrive tomorrow, right on schedule."

"Shalom?" the receiver answered, perplexed.

"What kind of shalom-malom?" the director ranted further. "I couldn't care less about your shalom. And if you're a real tough guy, then bring real accusations. What's this shakedown? The contract's a fake, you want to say? Then file in Strasbourg. I'll get off there too, if need be."

The receiver quietly grunted and fell silent. The descendant of Moses couldn't take it.

Two days later, a notification came from the transport company that they were ready to accept the planned cargo for transportation across three seas to Haifa.

"Sveta!!!" roared Sergey Andreyevich.

The red-diploma graduate flew into the office and stood at attention.

"Write the order," the director hissed through his teeth, "Shcheglov to marry the cleaning lady. Chikin to finish eating the snake. Everyone gets a bonus equal to their salary. And you," the director narrowed his eyes, "under the desk. And on your knees."

The global crisis of the Russian economy successfully bypassed the "Path to Success" company.!