Sharon beats Johhny.

Another great day, thought John Smyth, striding into the Maidstone branch of Dunstan and Sons Insurance Brokers like he owned the place—which, as Colin Dunstan's nephew, he essentially did. Let the lesser minds manage the peasant claims; he deigned to handle only the highest-end clients, the ones whose premiums kept this provincial operation afloat. His uncle had died running this company, a victim of his own pathetic sentimentality. John had no intention of making the same mistake. At forty-five, he planned to retire by fifty, leaving this cesspool to the mediocrities who deserved it. He gave a perfunctory nod to Jack, the security/receptionist who existed in a permanent state of irrelevance, and headed for the elevator to his second-floor office—the largest in the building, naturally.

The antiquated elevator groaned upward, a fitting metaphor for the obsolete thinking that surrounded him. He pulled the gates open with the disdain of a man forced to operate machinery beneath his station, walked down the hall offering minimal nods to people who barely registered as sentient, and swept through the permanently opened double doors into his sanctum.

"Morning," he said to Sharon, his newly appointed PA/receptionist. She mumbled something, still painting her nails—a performance of incompetence that would have infuriated a lesser man. But John saw her true value. She was perfect: a pliable non-entity, probably a slag too, though that was incidental. On the larger side, dressed in clothes that screamed surrender, with zero ambition or initiative. She'd keep her nose out of places he didn't want her looking, just like the last dumb bitch who'd gotten herself pregnant and fucked off on maternity leave. Sharon was precisely what he needed: furniture that could type.

He settled into his Italian leather chair—because he deserved nothing less—and surveyed his domain. The mahogany desk, the view of Maidstone's mediocre skyline, the framed certificates that meant nothing but impressed clients who knew no better. His first appointment wasn't for another hour, with a property developer whose mansion had "mysteriously" caught fire. John had already decided how he'd handle it: drag it out, maximize the billable hours, then deny the claim on a technicality. Then, later, a fool who made his money in caravan parks. He deserved nothing.

The morning proceeded as usual, with its tedious predictability. The first client—a simpering property developer whose grasp of policy language rivaled that of a toddler—had been dispatched with the effortless grace of a cat swatting a moth. Denied, naturally. The man had actually wept. John had barely concealed his smile.

He pressed the intercom button, knowing full well Sharon would be painting her nails or scrolling through whatever digital sewage passed for entertainment among her kind. He counted the seconds. Seven. Eight. Nine. Finally, that grating voice: "Yep?"

That single syllable encapsulated everything wrong with the modern underclass—lazy, insolent, barely literate. "Any chance of a cup of tea, Sharon?" he asked, layering the words with enough faux-politeness to make it clear this was not, in fact, a request.

"Alright, I'll get you one in a minute." The line went dead.

John made a strangling motion in the air, not out of anger—anger was for people who lacked control—but as a physical manifestation of the logical conclusion to her existence. Then he reclined in his chair, a throne really, and gazed out over Maidstone's pitiful skyline. While the peasants below scurried about their meaningless lives, he, John Smyth, had been playing a far superior game.

He closed his eyes and mentally tallied his actual portfolio. For ten years, he'd been siphoning from the very clients who thought themselves his betters—subtle adjustments here, redirected premiums there, a commission inflated by a few percentage points. They were all too stupid, too blinded by their own self-importance to notice. He'd amassed a small fortune, a retirement fund that would let him escape this provincial purgatory and live as he deserved. The rich arseholes trusted him because of his name, his suit, his office. They mistook breeding for integrity, class for honesty. Fools. Every last one of them.

Sharron barged in without knocking—of course she did, subtlety was beyond her species—and plonked the tea down with the grace of a rhino at a waterhole, slopping it into the saucer. She turned to leave without a word, a mute beast of burden.

John waited until she'd reached the threshold, that delicious moment when she thought she'd escaped. "Sharron," he called, savoring the way her shoulders tensed. "What time is my next client?"

He knew precisely: Pemberton, the caravan cretin, 11:15. But watching her turn, hearing that theatrical tut—"It's on yer desk"—was worth the performance. She jabbed a finger at the leather-bound diary she'd placed there hours ago, her face a mask of sullen resentment.

"Oh, yes, I see it now," he chuckled, drawing out the syllables. "Thank you."

The door closed with a slam that was just heavy enough to be insolent, not quite heavy enough to be actionable. John smiled, sipped his tea, the one good thing she was good at, she made builders' tea, strong and sweet. 

Finally, the day ended at 3:45, and he was ready to leave. He had a reservation at Chilston Park Hotel; he wanted to get there before the riff-raff contaminated the atmosphere. He was looking out of the window, straightening his tie, when Sharon barged in unannounced. He turned, wondering what was going on; she was usually getting her coat on to leave about now.

"I need a word, John," she said, almost demanding.

"That's Mr. Smyth to you, Sharon." He replied that there were some lines he would not allow to be crossed.

"I need a word, Mr. Smyth," her words were dripping in sarcasm.

"No, Sharon, whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow. I'm leaving; I have an appointment."

This time it was Sharon who let him get to the threshold before calling him back. "Johnny," she called, a name he hated, "It's about your special files. We need to talk."

John froze. For a moment, the practiced mask of superiority slipped, replaced by something raw and unfamiliar—uncertainty. He turned slowly, deliberately, forcing his face back into its accustomed arrangement of mild contempt.

"Special files?" He let the words hang, testing their weight, watching her. She stood there, her face more serious than he’d seen her before. There was something else in her eyes, something she’d hidden from him: Intelligence.

"Don't play thick with me, Johnny." She took a step behind him and closed the office door. The click of the latch was deafening. "All those 'administrative fees' you've been charging. The little adjustments to premium allocations. The way certain claims seem to... disappear from the system. I've been keeping notes."

John's mind raced, but his expression remained placid. Notes? Impossible. She was a creature of television and nail polish, not observation. "Sharon, I don't know what you think you've found—"

"I think I've found enough to interest the Financial Conduct Authority. And maybe the police." She pulled a USB drive from her pocket and waved it like a conductor's baton. "Everything's on here. Dates, amounts, client names. Even some recordings."

Recordings. The word hit him like a physical blow. That stupid bitch had been recording him? He felt the blood drain from his face, then surge back in a hot rush of fury. How dare this... this nothing presume to challenge him? He was John Smyth, blood of Colin Dunstan, master of this pathetic little kingdom. She was a cockroach who'd learned to use a keyboard.

"What do you want?" The words emerged clipped, precise—the voice he reserved for clients who'd finally comprehended their own defeat.

"I think it would be nice if you took me out for a meal, you know. A nice, quiet, fancy place where we could have a nice little chat. What do you reckon, about eight tonight?"

The audacity was breathtaking. It was like being blackmailed by a toddler who'd learned to speak by watching daytime television.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then this—" she held up the USB drive like a child brandishing a crayon drawing, "—goes to your board of directors first. Then the authorities. Then perhaps the local paper. 'Nephew of respected businessman embezzles from grieving clients.' I can see the headline now." She was enjoying this, he realized. The pathetic thrill of a maggot who'd found a crumb.

John walked back to his desk, opened the top drawer, and withdrew his checkbook. His hands were steady as a surgeon's.

"Don't bother with that, Johnny boy. I don't need your dosh." She sauntered to his desk and scribbled a number on one of his gold-embossed business cards, defacing it with her vulgar script. 

The door closed behind her, and John stood alone in his sanctum, the checkbook still in his hand. The arrogance that had sustained him for twenty years had evaporated, replaced by something colder. He sat down, opened the file drawer at the bottom of the desk, and pulled out his personal laptop. He logged on and navigated through his files in password-protected directories, three layers deep. He entered the password for the last one. All files were gone except one. He opened it. A GIF came up on the screen—a picture of a cartoon policeman. In one hand, he was holding handcuffs; in the other, a sign reading' dinner at eight'. Written across the bottom of the screen, it said, "It's your choice, Johnny boy."

He closed the laptop gently, his hands already steady again. The arrogance that had momentarily evaporated was already reconstituting itself, molecule by molecule. Sharon thought she'd graduated to the big leagues, but she was still playing with training wheels while he owned the track.

"Johnny boy." The infantilization was deliberate, a pathetic attempt to strip him of his authority. He'd seen how these things worked—Little Johnny jokes always ended with the brat getting his comeuppance. This Little Johnny was about to teach her why you don't bring a meme to a knife fight.

He texted her the name of an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Maidstone. He had managed to get a booth reserved at 8:30. He got home, had a shower and shave, changed into a light jacket and trousers, and chose not to wear a tie. He had a plan to take her down; he just knew that, in a battle of Wits, he would win.