Something for your Consideration

The Events Marshal

He had always been a man who liked to think of himself as somewhat of a hero. Not in the sense of, say, a war hero, of course, but he viewed himself as a hero nonetheless, told himself his services were needed by the many, and could only be done by the few. He was, in his own estimations, an utterly invaluable human being.

His job, no, his duty, was one of an events manager. He of course detested the title of ‘manager’. He disliked what that implied; that he merely managed, that he simply got by during the events that he was in charge of, that he managed to scrape through by the skin of his teeth. Such an idea was the gravest of insults, for in his eyes he did not merely manage, no. He excelled! He was no manager, no; his events were run with military efficiency, and in his mind he was the Events Marshal, the charismatic leader and peerless tactician of the ongoing war with poor middle-management, disorganisation and the most hated, unpredictable, scheming and conniving enemy of all, the customers.

His events were works of art, he knew, grand gatherings of the rich and famous which had the guests returning home in utter amazement at the organisation and efficiency of the staff and service. He had, at one point in his life, had a friend of his describe the work he did as ‘corporate dos’; the Events Marshal had severed all contact with the despicable little man there and then and had never spoken a word to him since.

Now was the hour before battle. Soon the guests would arrive at the venue, the canvas on which he worked his art, service would begin and he would once again lead the charge, sallying forth under the banner of efficiency, discipline and organisation. Now, however, was the inspection, his duty to ensure that the troops under his command were prepared for the gruelling horrors of war.

He stepped forth onto the floor, adopting the strut that was so typical of him, chest thrust forth, head held high, emanating pride and dignity. He passed by two serving staff, and noted one of them quietly remark something to the other; no doubt, the Events Marshal suspected, some praise that the man was too modest to say to him directly for fear of causing embarrassment. The thought was a well-intentioned, if ridiculous one; the Events Marshal was far too dignified a man to ever feel something as base as embarrassment.

He stopped before an assembled parade of champagne glasses displayed on a table, arranged in a single neat square to be filled and taken by guests. Like a general looking over a phalanx of tiny glass soldiers ready to march at his orders, the Events Marshal surveyed them, heart filling with prised at the sight. Spotless, gleaming, absolutely…

The Events Marshal stopped his reverie. There, just off the centre. What was this? A surly, tattered dissenter amongst the troops! A smudge on one of the glasses!

Rage, shock, revulsion and righteous horror filled the heart of the Events Marshal at so terrible a sight. His eyes widened, his entire body quivered with a fury so awe-inspiring that it would have sent gods scurrying away to cower. Like the most psychotic of Sergeant Majors zeroing in on a hapless recruit, in that instant the glass became the focus of every dram of wrath that the Events Marshal could summon together.

One hand plucked it from the ranks, holding it before him as if this was an interrogation and the glass would somehow try and excuse itself for its most heinous of crimes. The Events Marshal turned it over, glaring at the offending smudge as if expecting the glass to cower before him. From his pocket he whipped a napkin, one kept in reserve for such emergencies, and in a single delicate movement, pinched the cloth between forefinger and thumb. In a few swift movements, the dissenter was polished and replaced back in the ranks, ready for duty.

The Events Marshal turned away from the formation, stalking across the hall, eye roving over it, searching for flaws as a predator would sight out the weak and old in a herd. For the moment, at least, he could see none, and true happiness washed across his mind.

He checked the watch, all of the clocks of the building synchronised with its tick, and nodded to himself. Soon, it would be time, he knew. Time to stand, time to deliver, time to serve.

Time to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of hospitality.