January 16, 2015  |  By  | 

the left; at least it was till this afternoon, when the owner Brian Richardson pulled him to the side and told him his services were no longer required. That motherfucker, Cory thought to himself. He kept quiet and pushed the door open. He kept an eye out for any staff or customers that might be present and walking into the hall. He saw no one. Although the evening was the busy time, usually the halls were quiet as the tattoo artists worked on their individual clients. In a moment, he was through the door and in the hallway stepping quietly on the carpet towards his former employer‟s office and tattoo station. He was an artist as well. Cory knew he would be in his office, as he was always in his office on his phone. Fifteen feet down the hall, Cory held his Glock in both hands pointing down in the directions he is walking. He stopped in front of Brian's door and gently gave it a push. The door opened and Cory saw Brian sitting at his desk on his phone as usua l. Cory‟s blood began to boil as he stepped into Brian‟s office and closed the door behind him. It didn‟t take more than a second for Brian to take notice of his former employee standing before him, dressed in all black and aiming a gun at his face. “What are you doing Cory?” Brian asked calmly. “I‟m here to fuck you up, what do you think?” Cory replied, gritting his teeth. His tone was subdued, but he got the point across well. “This isn‟t going to accomplish anything,” Brian said. “Put the gun away.”

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