The board of directors is incensed. I stand before them, arms outstretched in a gesture that exuded openness and trustworthiness, or so an in-flight magazine once said. I repeat the words: V8-powered golf carts. I twist my posture slightly and rap my knuckles on the projector screen behind me, flashing screaming WordArt in glorious 800x600.

I have them now.

When I started at this small golf cart company as the vice-president of engineering, the director of engineering stopped by my office. A tall, lanky man, he no doubt saw himself as a mentor and a father figure to me. I saw him as an unusually large speed bump. Regardless, the company and myself were done with him within months. His marriage and employment somehow broke down simultaneously in a series of ridiculous rumours spread by cruel saboteurs around the water cooler and Christmas party.

With that last obstacle removed, I ascended to corporate Godhood. I directed the research and development boys to get cranking on a skunkworks project, and started moving budgets around to cover my project until the last possible minute. It was complete, and that minute of my triumph had arrived.

Behind me, the projector flipped to a test video. A 427-topped golf cart screamed through a cone maze before breaking into an unrestrained flat spin. The spin would only stop once the driver lost consciousness and struck the roll hoop with his helmet, splintering it into a glittering starfield of carbon fiber dust.

The board of directors was shocked, speechless at my callous disregard for the health and safety of our customers. One of them was about to say something, but I headed him off at the pass with a quick click to the next slide, showing millions of confirmed preorders. The room fell silent, then burst into applause.

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Ted, the CEO, made finger guns at me and winked. I winked back and grinned broadly, sliding a pair of keys to him across the table, marked in matte black electrical tape. Internally, I wondered how strong his neck muscles were.

Image: Uncle Joe’s Racing