TMF manages a deal team on christmas eve in moscow
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Date: December 8th, 2010 1:56 PM Author: Henna fear-inspiring school pervert
"I need those documents, NOW!" Fish barked at a trembling junior associate who quickly scurried away, clumsily dropping the hefty stack of copies on his way out the door. Fish slumped down in his high-backed executive chair at the head of a conference table swarming with his busy underlings. The cacophony of ringing telephones, buzzing copiers, and shouting paralegals blended together and faded to a dull hum in the back of his mind as he began to recall those quiet few months - or was it...years? - that he was out of the game, seemingly shunned forever from biglaw. So much had changed since then. The jet. The custom tailored suits. The multiple properties - to use and to rent out, of course. Those sad, dark, unemployed days now seemed but a faint and hollow memory, as though they were someone else's memories - a copy of a copy of a copy; fuzzy; unfamiliar.
He snapped back to reality as his Blackberry buzzed loudly on the table. He glanced at the caller ID, which read "V. Alekperov."
"Well I'll be damned," thought Fish, "I guess I might have landed myself a whale..."
Fish stole a glance at the gold Baume & Mercier that Mandy had given him for Christmas just one year before. It read 12:03 a.m.
"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Fish smirked as he snatched the phone off the table and lifted it to his ear.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1502836&forum_id=2,#16757844) |
Date: January 27th, 2011 8:28 AM Author: electric forum queen of the night
"I don't have all night, Vladimir," Fish repeated into his Blackberry, nearly growling as his patience waned. When he ground his thumb through the glowing red "End" button, he paused once again for reflection, surveying the well-rehearsed symphony before him, his fingers splayed over the polished oak table. These final, frenetic moments of a deal - just as his team began to grow weary - were as vital to Fish as the blood that coursed through his veins. And it had all been so close to never happening, Fish thought; but now, his dream had arrived - and he with it.
The music jarred him; it was too soon; he hadn't enough time to gather himself. The finale of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture seeped through a crack in the window nearest Fish and slowly, insidiously, enveloped him. He ran to the window, eyes wide. They were coming. A flock of senior partners waded through the foot-deep snow toward the door only a floor beneath Fish, AK-47s in tow.
His Baume & Mercier had six hands, each the same length and jutting out through the glass at wild angles. He tore it off and fell the short distance to his knees, weakened by the realization that this was, of course, a dream.
His thoughts skittered across visions of his apartment on E 70th near the park, of his small Tuscan villa, of his dear, dear Maserati GranCabrio; of Mandy.
Not this time, he vowed, teeth clenched. This time, he would fight to keep it all from evaporating before his tear-swollen eyes.
(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=1502836&forum_id=2,#17148691) |
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