Flash

A bright flash made me look up from the ever-so-important conditional formatting I was doing in Excel to show a series of pretty colours on my screen.

What in the blue fucks was that!?

I said in my big-man stern voice.

Everyone nearby was looking around in confusion for the source of the flash.

Was it a sign from the Thunder God that he was finally returning from his long slumber??

Was it a Flash-Bang? Should we expect a torrent of bikini-clad mercenary ninja-chicks to rappel in through the windows in a blizzard of broken glass and hoagy-juice?

I hoped it was the latter so that my fevered foreskin-washing in this morning's shower wasn't for nothing.

Should I have worn cologne just in case of sexy lady-ninja attack?

These are the hard choices I face each and every day.

My gaze fell upon a foppishly spectacled, young man. I looked him up and down sternly. To my disgust he was wearing brown slip-on shoes. They looked a little like moccasins.

You, Moccasin-Man, what are you up to?

My voice boomed loudly and authoratively as if it were a strong, dark, beefy stew.

He looked a little taken aback to be challenged so. I noticed in his hand was a little digital camera, it's stubby little lens poking out like a pathetic mechanical penis.

Are you taking photos of us? Whilst we work? What type of man does such a thing?

I looked around for support. My colleagues looked to be on my side. This Moccasin-Man was an interloper. His face unknown, therefore he was an enemy.

Perhaps I should club him to the ground and we could feed him to the great fire before feasting on his charred flesh?

Um, I, I... I've been sent by f..f..facilities...

He stammered out.

I twisted my face as if I had drifted too far south in a tongue-tobogganing.

To do what precisely? Take photos of people unawares?

Moccasin-Man gestured weakly with the camera toward a bag which was sitting under my desk.

I've been told to take photos of health and safety breaches. Like that bag there. It's a tripping hazard.

We both looked to the bag in question. It was my bag, safely tucked under my desk with beer in it.

I whistled softly under my breath.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. J-Bomb?

My colleague J-Bomb looked up, she was a sassy lassie that sat across from me.

Yes?

She answered.

I'm afraid this young scamp here was taking a photo of your legs under the desk.

J-Bomb made a face as if biting into a vegan scotch egg.

He did what!?

I DID NOT!!!

Yelled Moccasin-Man in outrage.

I swiveled back to face him.

Oho!! Only a man who was guilty of such an act would deny it so vehemently!!

I looked around and saw others nodding in agreement.

What!?! No! That doesn't make sense. I was not taking photos of her legs, I was taking a photo of your bag!!

Moccasin-Man stated defiantly as if he weren't a leg-snapping deviant.

Show us then. Go on, show us the photo you took?

I said with a smug smile.

Moccasin-Man fumbled with his little camera.

Oh.

He said in a small voice.

OH?

I responded in an asky accusatory way.

I am going to speak to my line manager.

Huffed Moccasin-Man turning to leave.

That's right, you tell her what you did!

I yodelled grandly at his scarpering back.

Once he was away, I picked up my bag and motioned to the others who had stuff littered about everywhere.

Better tidy up chaps, before they come back!