As one would expect of a man who brought nothing to the proverbial table in general, it was no surprise that Mason Keller also opted to bring nothing to the unofficial company picnic he was invited to. “Invited” being perhaps too strong a word for his coworkers essentially feeling guilty over the idea of excluding him from their festivities, even though he was the most despised person in their department—nay, the entire company. And it was no small organization. “Home” to roughly three hundred employees at this point, Pockmark was another up-and-coming app based in Redwood City. It was the first dermatological app of its kind, allowing users to snap a photo of any skin condition they might have and get an immediate “cursory diagnosis.” The real “money” in it for Pockmark was that those who wanted to know more about their condition, and if the app had correctly diagnosed it, could then link up with a number of potential dermatologists in their area to schedule an appointment and learn more. Everyone wins. Or so these types of apps would like people to believe.

As part of the “heart of Silicon Valley” (an oxymoron, to be sure), Pockmark found plenty of investors to get the ball rolling on hiring an ample number of employees before something like “true profit” was actually made. Mason was one of the early hires, a “worker” who was effectively “ferried in” because his uncle happened to be one of the major investors in the company. Having spent most of his early adult “career” being bestowed with jobs of this nature every time he invariably fucked up at one of them, Mason was nonplussed by the easy offer of a role of such import. At least from the sound of the title: Director of Creative Operations. Never mind that Mason was hardly categorizable as “director” or “creative.” None of that mattered when you were a beneficiary of nepotism.

To those who worked with Mason, however, the job opportunity that arose at Pockmark was the best they’d ever had. The salary, perks (gym membership, transportation reimbursement, etc.) and health insurance benefits were beyond their wildest dreams, and sadly, that’s what it is to “dream” in America. To desire being “comfortable” despite knowing somewhere, no matter how deep down, that comfort equals death. But if one had to die in order to live as a comatose “success” at capitalism, there were few better places to do it than in Redwood City. Its clean, manicured essence was further enhanced by having no shortage of parks from which to hold a company picnic in. Of course, Emma, the quintessential “den mother” of the creative department still had to make a “picnic reservation” at Marlin Park in order to ensure that her large group of coworkers could be “accommodated.”

This included, unfortunately, Mason. A man who everyone advised her against inviting even though she insisted that, by inviting him, he would be automatically uninterested in attending. This as opposed to trying to hide it from him and then risk that he might find out about it on one of their social media accounts—thereby not only getting “miffed,” but also deciding to show up anyway. In truth, there was no “good” approach to trying to stave him off. He himself was like a bad skin condition that just wouldn’t go away. Or, at best, one that would occasionally remain dormant before returning with a vengeance.

And oh, how Mason returned with a vengeance by bothering to materialize at this picnic. Something he chose to do seemingly just so that he could irritate. Or even possibly remind his employees that he was actually their boss, not Emma. The latter being the one who would always ensure creative production went smoothly, complete with evading any missed deadlines. Something that Mason appeared to have either no concept of or respect for. Much like his employees had no respect for him. Not only because everyone was well-aware that he had only gotten the job as a result of his familial connections, but because he genuinely viewed them as “lesser than.” Constantly thumbing his nose at their suggestions and input, telling them they were shit while he sat with his feet propped up on the desk in his private office doing fuck-all. Except for maybe jerking it now and again to some very questionable porn.

At first, many of the employees tried to band together to get him fired, but it didn’t take long to fathom that he truly was untouchable. His “angel” investor uncle also happened to be his career guardian angel, too. Which meant being forced to “embrace” Mason no matter how contemptible and useless he was. And Emma, for as polite as she tried to be about it, could tell anyone who wanted to hear it just how useless indeed their “director” really was.

That’s why, the one “solid” thing he might have actually done for his so-called team would be to stay away from their picnic. The picnic that Pockmark had no hand in organizing, which meant there was no foul in not inviting everyone from the company to be part of it…Mason included. Nonetheless, Emma had been a fool to believe that inviting him was the best approach to keeping him away. A “plan” that backfired spectacularly when he not only showed up right on time, but also with nothing in hand as, at best, a display of his “team spirit” and, at the bare minimum, a general ability to follow instructions. Instead, Mason promptly proceeded to enjoy all the various food items that others had brought, carefully considering the most scrumptious, yet portable “nourishments” possible. In Silicon Valley, this meant going all in on hoity-toity nutriments that included the likes of caprese sandwiches, pickled watermelon, orzo pasta salad, a buttered leek and gruyère galette and roasted hazelnut and dark chocolate bark…to name a few mains and desserts involved.

Mason took part of almost every dish, grossly touching each plate, bowl or serving “apparatus” like it was his own personal kitchen. And, to him, of course it was. His entire life had been one “free lunch.” Or free picnic, where this metaphor was concerned. It was enough to send Emma further over the edge than she already was, constantly emotionally overextended as a direct result of Mason’s laziness and lack of leadership. The only thing he could “lead” was a prostitute to his “luxury home” a.k.a. mansion. Because it was evident he was just as lazy in bed as he was in life—so who would want to fuck that for free when it was clear he at least had some money to offer in exchange for one’s trouble?

That’s obviously what his “date” for the picnic, Clara (or so she said that was her name), was doing. And if her practically ass-baring black leather skirt and Barbie pink stilettos weren’t an indication of that, then her accompanying neon green tube top and gold necklace bearing the word “Puta” on it surely were. Emma didn’t think it was possible for Mason to stoop so low. This was a family park, in the end. She had even decided to make use of the designated area for bounce houses by renting one out for a couple of hours. Because it was no secret that people who worked at startups were your standard-issue “kidults.” An unspoken “den mother” had to provide for them as such. And that’s exactly what Emma always did—save for going so far as to offer up prostitutes at picnics. There was a line one didn’t cross, a sense of decorum one didn’t violate. That is, if they weren’t a privileged white male like Mason. He could never possibly understand what might be “wrong” or “inappropriate” about bringing Clara to this picnic, let alone not bringing a food or beverage contribution.

Emma could feel her rage reaching a boiling point far greater than the sun’s as the afternoon progressed and the heat seemed to intensify according to her choleric anger level. The sight of Clara sensually licking her finger after languidly dipping it into the guacamole bowl with nary a concern for sanitary practices both irked and excited Emma. Not because she was sexually aroused, but because if she was this unsanitary with food, then she must be with genitalia as well. Which meant maybe Mason would contract the STD he deserved. As her thoughts circled in this manner while staring daggers at Clara, Mason sidled up to her and whispered, “Nice spread you got.” She shuddered. He was so fucking disgusting. And he knew it. Played into it. Almost like he wanted to be a bad parody of an 80s yuppie villain (sort of like Trump). Emma turned to look him in the eye and replied, “Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d show up. Otherwise I would have made it less inviting.”

Mason smirked. He had grown accustomed to her hostility toward him, was even turned on by it at times. In a way, he liked that there was still someone in the universe who was unafraid to call him out for his ineptitude, for the piece of shit that he was. Other times, however, Emma served as a hostile blemish on his perfect, carefully-constructed bubble. One that he wanted to rub out (wanking allusion intended) when she got too uppity. Today was just such a day. She didn’t know her place, and that was dangerous. Perhaps he had acted too “good-natured” about her overt verbal jabs. It was one thing to make them behind his back, but doing it in his presence was unacceptable. Or so he decided in that moment. Largely because, when Clara came up to them, still licking her guacamole fingers with sexual gusto, Emma continued to belittle Mason. This prompted him to cut her off and verbally eviscerate her tenfold for what he billed as the lack of refreshment selections and overall jankness of the affair. As he did so, everything seemed to go into slow-motion for Emma, who focused in on the little spittles that formed in the corners of Mason’s mouth when he spoke. Of nothing. The sound of his voice was like an airhorn to her: loud, meaningless and blaring on and on needlessly. She was given no choice but to snap to attention when Mason literally snapped his fingers in her face and said, “And could you clean up a bit around the tables Emma? It’s starting to look like San Francisco with all this trash everywhere.”

That was it. The last straw, as far as Emma was concerned. Without even realizing it, she had positioned her hand in “claw mode,” ready to attack. And, thanks to her regularly-scheduled acrylic nail appointments (again, the average Pockmark salary was generous), they were, without question, claws. That had come out as though “activated” of their own accord. Something she could control no better than winning the birth lottery, which is what Mason had won. A phenomenon that had, in turn, won him so much unwarranted confidence and self-assurance, to boot. To the point where he could never have imagined someone doing what Emma was about to do: maim his weasel face beyond recognition as she proceeded to scratch his eyes out and rip out his tongue while the other Pockmark employees gathered around the spectacle to watch.

Rather than helping Mason by trying to “remove” Emma, they did something far more unexpected. Something that Clara saw coming the moment she entered the space—that they were going to eat him alive. After all, he didn’t bring anything else for them to eat, so it was sort of inevitable when you thought about it. Anyway, call Clara’s foresight a “whore’s intuition,” or simply being able to understand the finer points of class division, even when people are told that they’re “the same.”

The employees of Pockmark knew that simply wasn’t the case when it came to measuring themselves against the privileges and liberties of Mason Keller, who had presently become blinder than Helen after foolishly opting to bring nothing of value to the picnic. Though Clara would have happily offered some of her services for free to select attendees…except that she decided, in the midst of their feeding frenzy, that it was best for her to disappear from the scene. Like so many faceless workers making the world turn unbeknownst to the “white collar” ilk.