ACRONYMITY

A Flash-Fiction story by Cherry Octave

The CEO of an NGO was travelling to the AGM of the BBC. Happily his ETA GMT was going to be pretty close to his ATA as he was driving a GTI which had just passed its MOT. His thoughts turned to the attractive MD of the BMC, AKA ‘Hot Pants’, who had made it pretty clear on the QT that she expected to be alone in his company ASAP. Luckily for the CEO the MD was fully equipped with an IUD and intended to take advantage of this fact PDQ.

The MD was married to a member of the FBI who had transferred his allegiance from the CIA after an incident involving the MOD and an NCO. An IED had complicated SWAT operations thus implicating the IRA and putting a question mark on his CV.

The CEO was concerned that his BMI had increased over the past few months and hoped that the MD would not be put off. His GP was concerned that his BP was raised and thought he should go for an ECG. It was all that sitting in front of a CPU, frying his IQ, he thought glumly. He thought perhaps he had ME but then again it was probably the result of the ECT last year after the DMT and LSD interlude. He hopes he hasn’t completely altered his DNA and that the resultant OCD is a passing phase, or he will end up with his P45 at the DHSS.

His iPhone bleeped, it was an SMS from IT sending the PDF and a URL. Thank God! Now his MO was clear and he could proceed as planned: although not strictly PC his overall strategy was less BS for the SOB’s to bitch about. The FTI had given everyone something to worry about. The IRS was working overtime to nail the source and even MIT was showing signs of going OTT. The BNP’s attempt to become a PLC had made the DTI a laughing stock.

Suddenly an HGV carrying cylinders for BOC swerved violently across the road in front of his GTI. His RPM dropped swiftly as he braked dramatically to avoid an RTA. The last thing he needed was to be DOA. “Damn that was close,” he muttered and made a mental note to renew his subscription to the RAC and update his address with the DVLC.

The MD arrived in a completely un-PC SUV. She didn’t give a damn, she had PMT and someone had to pay. Where was the SOB? The only reason she had come to the AGM was to get a little TLC. His GTI roared up the drive … he levered himself out from behind the wheel.
“Good God,” she thought “look at his BMI and his DOB must be earlier than I thought.” Luckily for her, DCI Jones emerged from his red SRI and gave her a package.
“COD from the FBI,” he said.
She knew the game was up. “I’d kill for a BLT” she replied.
“Get in the SRI,” he said.
“TTFN” she trilled to the CEO, “it’s all for the best. LOL”.
“Listen mate,” said the DCI. “If you don’t want some GBH resulting in RIP, I suggest you F-off.”
“OK” said the CEO, “I’m off to see the LSO or the RSC at the V&A. I’m calling in at the CAB and if you attempt to intimidate me I’ll issue an SOS to the ANC who know exactly where I am from my GPS. You will be hearing from my MP and perhaps even the PM”.
“TWAT” said the DCI.

At the AGM there was consternation at the non-attendance of the CEO of the NGO and the MD of the BMC. A message arrived from the MD saying she had RSI and was therefore going for some R&R.

The CEO as a VIP got his PA to PP a letter with a PS: XX

ACRONYMITY
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