Interfacing with your Boss

Ventig sat in his chair, waiting for his queue to enter. The chair was small and could ill-afford any leisure on Ventig's part. It was but one in a row of similarly shabby chairs, helping to ensure that those waiting for an audience with Kufginn were far from comfortable. With such a selection available to him, Ventig had opted for the one closest to the door; an onlooker may consider this a subtle sign of his eagerness for a meeting with the boss, but it would be more accurate to suggest instead that Ventig was simply terrified of projecting any aura of reluctance.
After what felt like no more than three small eternities, the farther of the paired double doors to Ventig's left creaked open just enough for Spelk to be seen in its opening. "He's ready to see you now", Spelk intoned. he then re-closed the door, providing Ventig with the distinct pleasure of being able to produce his own debut. Licking his hands and furiously giving his hair a slapdash combing, Ventig righted himself from the chair and marched stolidly towards the door. He gripped the handle of the right-side door and pulled it open with the most precise force possible. He wanted to exude confidence while simultaneously giving no impression of an attitude. His initial triumph was quickly unmade by what he saw inside.
Kufginn sat behind his desk in an idle position. Spelk flanked Kufginn in a relaxed posture of his own: leaning against the wall, eyes half closed in either a drowsy stare or a suspicious squint. A third individual with them was locked into Kufginn's desk stockade. Their body stuffed beneath the tabletop, with neck and head poking out of a hole in the desk's center. The head was facing toward Ventig, the face's expression a perfect mixture of resignation and desperation. Several bruises, punctures, and cuts had already been made to the desk's prisoner. Their hair was matted and caked with dried blood bits and the ears and nose had been removed. The table surface around the head's port hole was already long ruined by the stains left from previous desk inhabitants, though this newest occupant certainly was doing their darndest to make their own unique contribution to the gory mosaic. Though Ventig did not know the name belonging to the mutilated head he saw before him, he still vaguely recognized him. That alone made Ventig stumble and lapse in focus as he completed his entrance into his boss's office.
"Ah good, Ventig. Just the lad I was hoping to see right about now," Kufginn began, "Don't bother with a chair; I reckon it won't take long for me to say my piece." Ventig nodded and stepped closer to the desk in time with Kufginn's beckoning wave. Ventig knew that he was being assessed through a rather peculiar game of chicken right now. The closer he got to the head that rested on the desk, the less disappointed Kufginn and Spelk would be for the meeting's duration. Ventig played this game well enough, stopping just short of the desk so that his outstretched arm could brush the hair of the desk head if he so wanted. He did not. Even during his approach, he had made the miscalculation of meeting eyes with desk head; the gaze given to him was one begging for a mercy that Ventig could provide. He could not.
Ignoring the head, Ventig regathered his attention on Kufginn and Spelk. Neither said anything. They looked on, each with their own flavour of bemused stare, as they continued to assess what Ventig would do next; Assuming it was on him to start this discussion, Ventig tried his hand at an opening line. "Sir, if this is about the boxes that have gone missing from the stash house this week," Ventig guessed, "then I can explain. You see -". "Stash house?" Kufginn interrupted, "No I had no idea anything untoward was happening in one of my stash houses." Kufginn then leaned back and looked behind his shoulder at the non-chalant Spelk. "Had you known anything about this, Spelk?" Kufginn asked in a sardonically animated tone. A simple shrug was all that Spelk offered in response. "How about you, Bruiz?" Kufginn bellowed, slapping hard against the back of desk head, who was evidently named Bruiz. All Bruiz gave in response was a whimper that may have sounded like a no. Damn, his intial worries about this meeting compounded as Ventig had said but one thing and already confessed to an as-of-yet undiscovered incompetence. If only they were able to find out after he had found the missing crates then it could at least reflect well on him. Instead, he now had the expectation of making up for his own failure, lest he follow shortly after Bruiz's footsteps. "We'll revisit this stash house business at a later time," Kufginn assured with a tone that could not be called reassuring, "for now, I have a more pressing matter for you to deal with. Tell me Ventig, do you enjoy the theatre?" "Th-theatre, sir?" Ventig stammered. "Yes, son. The theatre, you know people up on a stage telling fanciful lies. Sometime in a musical tone or with rhythmic steps." Kufginn explained "You know about theatre right Spelk?" Spelk again responded, but this time with a rapid, showy gesture where he quickly rotated his wrists to and fro while holding his palms upwards and extending his fingers outward. This unexpected display paired nicely with the blank, vacant stare that felt far more familiar with one such as Spelk. "I've - I mean - I know of the theatre, sir. Haven't been to anything bigger than a street-side pantomime. Never really kept an eye out for the stuff. I -", Ventig spewed, unable to stop the explanation that he felt was only just getting started. "Nevermind, that!" Kufginn thankfully blurted, "Clearly, you are still qualified enough for this simple a task. There is a show tonight playing at the Fennmont. I need you to go to it. More importantly, I need you to keep careful eye out for who the players are in the performance that night and who is in the audience. Bring a plus one if you feel it necessary to split the work." An untrained Ventig would then ask why he was to do this work, but the Ventig standing before Kufginn now perfectly understood his place in the job explained to him. "Right away, sir!" Ventig promised, "I'll acquire a ticket to the show, keep a careful eye out, and have a report ready for Spelk by tomorrow." "Aye, good lad!" Kufginn beamed, "I admire your drive, but know that you are already set on the ticket. Have it right here." Kufginn reached into his jacket pocket and removed a small bill of paper. Reaching out toward Ventig, he placed the ticket right atop Bruiz's head. As Ventig went to collect the ticket, a nervous twitch from Bruiz's caused the paper to fall off of his crown and into the puddle of blood gathered around his neck. A slight irritated sigh from Kufginn was brusquely followed by him rising quickly from his desk, arm fully raised. "Worthless Welp!" Kufginn shouted, slamming his fist into the side of Bruiz's head. On impact, Ventig heard a snapping noise. Bruiz's lolled to the side of the desk opposite where the ticket had landed. Ignoring this display, Ventig collected the ticket, putting it in his own jacket pocket and stepping away from the desk. "Will there be anything else, sir?" Ventig asked, immediately regretting the question as he voiced it. "Hmm, ah yes. Do come back tomorrow, Ventig. So that we may discuss more intimately this issue regarding the stash house." Kufginn said while rubbing the knuckles of his bloodied hand. Ventig nodded and made a beeline for the door. "Oh and Spelk, be a dear and make sure that this mess here is cleaned up for tomorrow, would you?" Kufginn murmured. Closing the door behind him, the quickly formed connection between Kufginn's last two sentences froze Ventig's blood. He took the feeling and stuffed it deep into the pit of his stomach. He couldn't linger on such worries right now. He had a play to go to after all.