The chairman’s office rested atop a three-hundred-story mega-scraper in the Western hemisphere of Mars. Stim squirmed rather noticeably in the black leather guest chair as he recited this year’s inauspicious audit findings.

“In conclusion, this year’s audit has shown that the mortality rate in all five megacomplexes has exceeded the allowable 20% cap for this year and–”

 “Jesus, Stim! I told you to bring me good news!” interrupted the chairman, his toddler-sized feet (they were actually the size of a small toddler) making a loud thud as they plopped onto the desk directly in front of Stim’s head. Stim watched as the chairman puffed on his cigar, bracing himself in case the leisurely delight was converted into a torpedo and aimed at his fragile head.
The chairman took another puff, it was Stim’s turn to respond.

“Well,” Stim began hesitantly, leaning over the armrest in a fashion that made him resemble a wobbly question mark, “I’m—I’m sorry sir—but—”

 “Oh for the love of Mercury Stim! Spit. It. Out.” said the chairman, noting that his cigar would never make it through this meeting at the rate Stim circled around the point.

“Yes, sir, well, as you know…if the mortality rate exceeds 20% percent for a given complex, the…erm…HOA has the right to start levying the property to recoup lost earnings.” Stim guided the statement out into the ocean of airwaves that existed between him and the chairman, then promptly jumped ship.

The chairman directed an inquiring glance to Ovalin who, at the moment, was intently focused on blending in with the office’s lush furnishings; he nodded in the affirmative. The chairman stood up from his plush leather chair, for which the manufacturing alone employed a small city, and walked over to the expansive aluminum-glazed windows that lined his office. 

“How much?” 

Stim normally would have answered this question immediately, however, in the seemingly interminable moments between the delivery of the news and the chairman’s pacing, his brain was hard at work disassociating from the situation. And, was reminding Stim that he’d heard sector X-93B was lovely this time of year, with miraculous crystalline clouds that shimmered and gleamed for miles. We like clouds, don’t we? cooed his hippocampus.

“Stim!”

 “I’m sorry sir?”

“Stim! Get your head out of your ass and tell me how much its going to cost to fix this problem?”

“Oh–yes–of course–sorry, sir..um..Ovalin and I have calculated that it will cost at least 3.1 dectillions to repair—”

           The sound barrier broke as the chairman whipped around. “Repair?” he repeated, disdainfully. 

 “Yes, that’s the cost of repai—fixing, excuse me, the complexes with the highest mortality—”

The chairman raised a large and fleshy hand, “Stop. Just stop. The Hauser family,” he said with self-referential reverence, “does not repair anything. Our complexes are the highest-quality low-income housing on this side of Mars. Are you implying that our complexes are anything less than superior quality?”

Stim began aggressively shaking his head like an off-kilter bobblehead, “No, no, of course not sir I—”

“I know you aren’t, Stim. You wouldn’t be sitting in that chair if you implied such things. Our competitors to the East are looking for any opportunity to slander the Hauser name– do you want to be the one that gives them the ammunition to slander my name, Stim?”

“Never, sir, never.”

“That’s precisely what I thought, Stim. Now, how much money did you offer the HOA to look past the levying clause?” The chairman enunciated each word inserting silent condescension with every pause. 

“Um…Well, I hadn’t thought to bribe—”

Ovalin, who up until this point had resembled a shag carpet, seized upon Stim’s blubbering, “I offered them 4.5 dectillions, sir.” he said in all smugness.

Stim’s turned to Ovalin, stunned, betrayal prickling the small hairs that still clung to his otherwise barren scalp. The smoke from the chairman’s cigar enshrouded the two employees as though a tremendous heated mass was cooling and they were stuck in its steaming vapors.

The chairman’s eyes narrowed. “Pay it,” he said.

Stim’s spluttered, partly from inhaling smoke and partly from his own incredulity, “But, sir, that is more than it cost to make the repairs–”

Another raised hand. This time Stim’s mouth ceased all movement, freezing in place like a possum hoping to evade its prey.

“The last thing I need right now,” began the chairman impatiently, “is the Borg brother’s seizing an opportunity to call the quality of our domiciles into question. Wire the money, Stim.”

Stim sat motionless in the musty cloud of cigar smoke, hoping that the haze obscured the moral quagmire that now rocked his shriveling conscience.

“That will be all” said the chairman.

Stim planted two tiny feet on the ground as firmly as his body would allow, an action that resembled a three-legged table mid-fall, and began making his way toward the exit.

“Stim?” called the chairman.

“Yes, sir?”

“Are we agreed that you’ll never bring mention of repairs into this office again?”

“Of course, sir. Complete agreement, sir.”