Hell of a Boss

It was odd how much Mindy smoked. Five packs a day, and not even a wrinkle under her eye.

She was the flawless corporate type, only seen in chic business suits, except for a string of copper thimbles on a leather cord around her neck. That’s where she kept the souls, and if you crossed her, you'd join them.

Every day, her cigarette cloud clogged my lungs. Even though the two assistants before me were terminated for speaking out of turn, I finally asked her about it.

“There’s something about the tar and rat poison,” she said. “Tastes like home.”