The Master of Boxes: A Dark Lord’s Guide to Modern Management

By Mark Barkley

 

“Are All Managers Born Useless? Or are they crafted thus? In Management School, you are taught to be as listening and as flexible as a laminate bench top. To steer your staff to misery, burn them over, turn them over, watch them slink out the door broken and busted. Then you can push the knife into allergy-free cake on Mental Health Day.” 

Not my words. A transcript was passed to me from a harried reporter wishing anonymity. He’d interviewed an enigmatic figure known as the Master of Boxes, a significant figure in business and government circles of higher management. 

Contained in this document are the thoughts and insights, in as true and accurate a transcript as possible, of the Master of Boxes. 

In the words of the reporter passing the papers over to me. “May God help us all!”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Jun 24, 2022

Book preview

1. Author’s Note: A Transcript Passed On To Me by a Reporter Unknown. Published In Full, As Received

I write to you, dear reader, to say that as a slave of the internet, I will never win.

As a reporter of no note and no consequence in the digital space, it is my lot to have my correspondence plundered, copied and pasted, reused, re-owned, spat upon and sat upon at the joys of some other person’s life. And yet I must turn up each day.

Debt and mouths to feed are a constant in my maths. And if you think Necessity is a bad Mother, no amount of seed I can throw at her will penetrate her completely to create Invention enough to keep me employed.

Therefore, I come to this assignment that I must speak to you on.

It was a rare commission that I undertook where I was ordered to meet this man on his sick bed. By torchlight I read the name and address on the envelope stuffed with a denomination of unknown deflation. I was marked to meet a man called ‘The Master of Boxes’.

It was in an undisclosed place in a wealthy suburb and his castle was furnished with numb butlers and attentive gargoyles. It had rained incessantly and the fog lay on the ground with its dark and mysterious vines and high pines. Several times I missed the place completely because of the mist. It made me thankful I was in a profession as uniquely respected as journalism, and not something important like pizza delivery. Then I saw the house number on the front gate wall in its black metal numbers. 666.

After gaining access to the house, I was informed that it was his wish that the interview take place in his bedroom. Our contract did stipulate that I offer no physical description of him. But for the sake of the truthful mistress of journalism that I offer allegiance to, imagine a youthful, athletic man of taut physique and a full head of hair and dreams; this man was the opposite. His pyjamas were silk and red and he opted to don a trench coat of war rather than a more comfortable dressing gown.

The chairs that we sat at near his desk were comfortable, antique and wooden and marked with cat claws. Or, I assumed were cat claws. A table nearby was scattered with bottles of good wine, plates of cheese and an intriguing chessboard with gothic pieces, sitting in tense readiness for a game to commence.

His disease was an ailment unknown, though he did regularly imbibe orally the red liquid of the vine on offer, like blood. He drank like it was the only thing keeping him alive, though I wasn’t there to offer a medical opinion. Nor would I say, by the feeling I was getting, I was there to offer a speedy recovery. After the initial greetings were made without any warmth, my credentials and passport were offered for his perusal and approval. It was then the nature of my visit was revealed.

The man before me, whom I was later to refer to in private correspondence to loved ones and family as the Dark Lord, had felt that he had been wronged.

The nature of my commission was to be the conduit for this man. He was slandered in the press by someone that he constantly referred to as ‘the Idiot’, and the purpose of this discussion was for me to organize the Dark Lord’s thoughts into a fierce rebuttal for the damage that this said Idiot had caused him.

Having no idea who this Idiot was placed me at a severe disadvantage. The Dark Lord offered no insight as to the nature of the slander. Although throughout our interview he did refer to texts. They had been copied from articles which he showed to me. But my subsequent investigations couldn’t shine any further light.

There was no appraisal of the Idiot’s character. Or whether that said Idiot had any legitimate claim in mental state, as to be correctly classified as an Idiot. No research that I was able to undertake made me wiser.

The matter was then raised of how I should be able to deal with this material. It was tactfully suggested that I could create a publication for my own financial gain. Surely it would be worth something to read the thoughts of a man who had spent so much time in private and government circles. His assessment was blunt.

Why bother? You write for the attention of the modern manager. No profession is more committed to the bringing of darkness to the world. Your work will be bought, then they will turn around and get a complete electronic refund. And then they’ll leave zero stars. Such is the nature of this unforgiving life you investigate. Grift and thrift.

I thought this an unfair appraisal of any person breathing. But strapped for cash, I was in no position to be fashionably resistant.

It was then left to me as to how to deal with this.

As all vocal recording of our interview were required