There was no way, in his considered opinion, in which the day could get much worse. Fuck Duncan Leman anyway—if he didn’t want to get a smack in the mouth a week before Christmas, then it was his own stupid fault for constantly picking on the non-Brits at work. Racist bastard! About time someone tore a piece off the old fool. And Corey was more than happy to be that person. Of course, as it turned out, the boss didn’t agree. And, for reasons Corey couldn’t quite work out, it was he who ended up with the first written warning. Was it his fault that racism pissed him off so? No. Was it his fault then, when that pissed off, his mouth ran away with itself and produced more profanities than Corey even realised he knew? No, it was not. Apparently accusing someone of being racist was as bad as being racist nowadays. And it wasn’t like Duncan didn’t deserve the smack. What a fucked up world they lived in! And so, leaving work early (and not out of choice!), he decided to pop into the pub.
