Ted had enough of Arnold’s inflated sense of importance. The director exploded, using language that would embarrass a rap singer.
“You don’t have shit for brains, Arnold. You’re running an extra-legal vigilante posse, and if a court found out what you’re up to, your ass would be in jail. There’s not a judge in the country who will give you shit, even if he’s one of the dumb-asses on your payroll.”
“You can’t talk to me like that.”
“I just did, and I’ll tell you something else you punk-ass. Why don’t you walk down the street and I’ll tell you what an asshole you are to your face. It’s just a few blocks, you motherfucker. Come on, just come on. I’ll meet you on the sidewalk and clean up Pennsylvania Avenue with your ass. You’ve fucked with the wrong man, you chicken shit son-of-a-bitch.”
Ted’s desk telephone cracked when he slammed down the receiver. He didn’t realize he was screaming. When he looked up, his office staff stood outside his door. They applauded. A staffer said, “Ten-to-one the boss kicks Arnold’s ass.”
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