I Peanut

It is my last official meal at La Paramount.  The chaps are in good spirits.  Jelly and Butter cheer me on through my traditional chicken and vegetable Asian pot of fun.  We talk about all the great times we have had in this great eating space.  Jelly notes that with the ending of my current position in Government, the door has truly opened for a go at the golden calf of job contentment: a full-time job at the Paramount.  Of course, I could start off small, cleaning out the toilets and scrubbing the jizz off the wash basins and poo from the floor.   Perhaps, then graduating to cleaning up tables and taking the dirty plates back to Chef Lanka, with a few, surly biffs across the head from the big chef for not moving fast enough.  But slowly I Peanut would ascend the dirty, greasy, sticky pole of the big P.  Getting my own apartment looking over the plastic dome of the food court.  Getting special access after hours to the senior employees’ bathroom; unlimited, 24 hour access to the Paramount gym, casino and strip club on the rooftop level.  Then eventually, I would be presented with the massive set of keys to attach to my stained, black slacks along with my own storage locker for personal items and things I had stolen from guests, as I become the official Paramount caretaker, the most revered (and indeed feared) position in the Paramount organisational chart.  When I become no 1, it will be like Scarface burying his head into as many steaming plates of Chef Lanka stewed goat curry as he desires.  Who will stop me then?  And I Peanut will plot my revenge on all those who have wronged me.