Artistic War By C.m. Cipriani

Copyright protected by C.M. Cipriani 2010

When they asked what masthead he’d like on the custom stationary order form, Michael Smith simply drew a masthead. The crisp white linen papers arrived neatly packaged exactly one week later. In the upper left hand corner of each was a stick with an irregular triangle protruding from each side. He inserted the paper into the feeder tray and sat down at his computer to type. He heard a slight creak emit from the black executive chair as he wheeled it under the desk and put a note on his ledger to have maintenance look at it. Meticulous and punctual, he wrote for fifteen minutes finishing just before the timer sounded on his cell phone. Each line was perfectly spaced, aligned and formatted according to current market standards. He waited patiently as the whirr of the printed sounded in the background. Michael Smith adjusted his blue Brooks Brothers tie while he mentally reviewed the upcoming presentation. His bags were labeled and packed. He had measured and weighed his carryon to within an ounce of approved regulations. Each tiny bottle stowed in the black leather dopp kit was AFA certified flight friendly, ready to be displayed to airport security. He had appropriate reading material for the flight as well as earplugs to block out the incessant chatter of the other passengers. A few dollars lined his pockets for valet and in flight staff. He might not be rich but good service deserved recompense. He flicked the desk calendar to show the day he’d arrive back. Then he aligned his pens facing upward so none would hazardously leak in his absence causing an unnecessary mess. The belt, jacket and attaché were the exact same dull, aged brown leather. As he pushed back from the desk an unwelcome noise sounded. Mr. Smith grimaced, irritated at the creaking of his movements from that chair. Copyright protected by C.M. Cipriani 2010

His suit was new; the seamstress had tailored it to perfection. The crisp white shirt had been starched to within an inch of its life, just the way he required it. You’d never find Mr. Smith wearing any style other than business conservative. Actually, you’d never find him imploring any of those frivolous, showy colors that were so much the rage. No, black, brown, blue, white, khaki and cream were the only acceptable colors in Michael Smith’s pallet. The problem with Mr. Michael Thomas Smith was that he possessed absolutely no frivolous fiber in his averagely fit body. He had no depth of imagination. Even as a boy his play was never playful. Everything had a point and a purpose or he would not have it. The one single time he had read fiction it was comprised of so much drivel he nearly vomited. Television was a waste of energy unless it was broadcast from reliable, serious and sensible stations but even then the flourished reports would have him in a disgruntled fit. Food was sustenance not something to be enjoyed, rarely would you find him dining out unless it was forced upon him by a client or supervisor. Instead preferring simple bland meals he competently prepared himself. He thought paintings and most art forms an utter waste of time, money and space except expertly composed symphonies and even those were reduced in his mind to merely form and function. Art in and of itself gave him a migraine. It was a veritable plague to productivity and intelligence. One that needed to be wiped out. He gave a final glance around his tidy ten by ten office, frowning at the ficus in the corner. It had started to brown slightly around one side. He’d talk to Margie about

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getting the plant girl to come back before he returned. He didn’t actually care for plants but was assured through distinct business journals that clients responded well to them. I should have just had her put in a fake one. Collecting the pristine document from the printer, irked some additional toner rubbed off on his clean, well manicured hands, he placed it in a board straight manila folder and into the designated spot in his attaché before taking measured steps to the elevator. He didn’t greet anyone on his way, nor they to him, which was his preference. Work time is for work, he’d say, not socializing. The elevator slowly made its way down the fifteen flights to the lobby. He had already called to have his car brought around knowing the valet had jumped at his request and made sure not to track dirt from his shoes or fiddle with any of his preset controls. Being terse and efficient brought out the good in people, he thought but in truth it was fear that motivated them. When the presentation was done Michael Smith gave his most professional smile to the three men and one woman that circled the large boardroom table. They shook hands and made sociable comments while he collected his items, placing them back exactly where they had originated. Though it miffed him that the woman had creased the corner of one page. He walked out into the paisley and plaid clad reception area silently shaking his head over the ridiculousness of the decor. That was one of the first thing he’d change when the position was official.

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A lot would change in this hippy commune when he was named chairman. Art was a plague on the world, one that he would see contained. Mr. Smith smiled slightly at his own craftiness, his face breaking into a hideous snarl of a grin. Taking a quote from The Art of War, his favorite reference guide, he thought to himself: The clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy's will to be imposed on him. The University of Art Sciences would never be the same once he broke them to his will.

Copyright protected by C.M. Cipriani 2010