When I saw him for the first time, he reminded me of a Ken doll. His skin was like thick rubber. His face had been sculpted, distorted to some surgeon's concept of perfection. It wasn't just the plasticity that bothered me, though, there was a meanness in his eye that his fake smile couldn't hide. An ugliness inside.

At the end of the night, with all the make up sweated out he's not nearly half as pretty. He's drunk and he's loud and he tells you that he will invest in interstellar trade, that you are petty and ungrateful, that you should learn how to shake the hand of a man. He tops it off by telling you that in ten years time, it will be 2015.

We don't really care. We laugh some times, others we shrug our shoulders. He's our boss and he's not worth the trouble. Serve him another drink, make it a double and make it strong. Call it bartenders' revenge, with a smile.

(Fight Club)