Benchman's Uprising

Originally published at The Squalor Review

“We will break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down!” The crowd chanted in unison. “We will break those bastards down!”

The faces blurred together into a massive sea of angry expressions. Indignant expressions. Hurt expressions. The mob gave an impression of being alive as a whole, the pulsing waves simmering as an ocean prepared for the uprising. The sound of their voices crashed against one another, waiting for their leader’s next prompt. Waiting for the next set of instructions to boom through the PA system. Each time his voice erupted through the speakers, it vibrated the walls and tickled everyone’s feet. Puddles from the rain that seeped through the cracks in the roof rippled with each occurrence of his voice.

“And who are the bastards?” Benchman throttled into the mic.

“Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh! Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh!” The synchronization was eerie. “Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh!” Benchman tried to visualize the three men’s faces, but failed to conjure suitable replicas. What kind of bosses would keep this level of anonymity, he thought.

“And what are we going to do?” Benchman stretched them like a rubber band.

“Break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down!”

The heat from the bodies rose, but there was only so much space for it to fill. Sweat was collecting on the foreheads of low-level employees, lower management, middle management; the lows and the highs of the staff were crammed into the big gray room. Folding chairs pushed together to give everyone a seat. Some men wiped their faces with handkerchiefs, while others used the lower half of their shirts, revealing their stomachs while they pulled the cloth to their foreheads. Agitation rose with the temperature. Benchman saw the mass of men channeling this discomfort not at the present circumstance, but instead at the issues being discussed. This pleased him. Because of this they would be more susceptible to his words, to his urgings and his directions.

He was pleased with the solidarity this one entity was able to create. They were no longer employees, but instead a police force for justice. They were here to show the upper crest of the company who they were dealing with. These weren’t beaten men willing to roll over and let themselves be raped by the greed of men. They weren’t going to let their livelihood slip through their fingers. The dog-eat-dog situations were only going to get worse, with the piece of meat being pulled from both sides by the will power of men and by the money.

Benchman was pleased that he was able to gather enough willing men to fight the good fight. That he had followers who were willing to stand by him during trying times. Months prior it was just him and two other guys in his basement. He had invited them over for beers and discussions. Rumor was that benefits were getting cut and he did not agree with it. Why should he lose twenty percent of his medical coverage so Rupterbend could buy a new yacht? Why should he lose out on his annual cost-of-living wage increase due to the greed of Fittshugh and his mistress? Why couldn’t Giovanni take a cut in his travel expenses to allow the men to keep their sparse benefits? Weren’t they cheap enough for the company? Fair is fair, and Benchman wanted it.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Mike had said.

“Yeah, and these pieces of shit think that we’re just going to swallow whatever they feed us.” Ted added.

“And all they’re feeding us is their own dicks,” Mike laughed.

“This is why we need to band together,” Benchman said. “This is why we need to become a force and a voice. Not just drinking buddies griping about the problems. We need to start doing something about it.”

It started off like a pyramid scheme. Or a meth empire. Benchman sent his two peons out to connect. They sold the idea: Life wasn’t fair, so instead of living with it they were going to change it. Fuck the status quo. Mike and Ted brought more to the basement. More stories of outrage were shared. Benchman started to filter the frustration of many into his own words.

A man was reprimanded at work by his supervisor. He was allegedly failing to perform his job duties.

“You should have seen him yelling at me,” ‘screaming at him,’ was how Benchman changed it. “It was out of line. He was out of line. Didn’t even listen to the explanation. These guys, they just don’t get the circumstantial. Life isn’t black and white. Things come up, and why can’t they see that!”

“Did you report him?”

“What would have been the point?” The men nodded while they murmured in agreement. No HR bastard is going to help bring the bastards down because that threatens the status of the company. Bad performance means bad bonuses.

The supervisor sat amongst the circle the next week. No one said a thing about it.

Each week there would be more intelligence brought to light. Did they know Fittshugh was an adultress? The women he fucked would call the office daily. They always asked for Al, never Mr. Fittshugh.

“It’s true!” One man shouted. “I saw him at Applebee’s with a woman who did not look like his wife.”

“And a man willing to cheat on the woman he made a vow to God to stay faithful to, he wouldn’t have any qualms with fucking all of us! He’d do anything if he fucks whores!”

The moral ambiguity these men hid behind was sickening. Of course they would have their excuses. Not reasons, mind you, but filthy, under-tabled excuses that should rot in hell. The excuses themselves even deserved eternal damnation. They’d have one for every occasion. My wife cheated first. Be the bigger man. She doesn’t love me anymore, so I’m just trying to fill the void. So make her love you again, Benchman thought, fight for her. There is nothing that can’t be accomplished with perseverance and hard work. Keep at it. And if the excuses don’t do it, they’ll try to fog over the issues with “good deeds.” Look at the charities we help! Look at the good we’ve done! As if that justifies taking wages away from the working men. The ones with families.

When Benchman started having to add a third row to the circle he knew they would need to find a bigger meeting area. They would probably need to pay for it as well. They didn’t want the higher-ups to know what was happening. The men were starting to connect like a web, building a network to catch an insect, or three. Benchman was going to have to ask for donations. If every man threw in just five dollars they would have more than enough. Pool it all together into one sum and he could use that to secure an area.

They moved outside to his backyard while he searched the city for areas to accommodate them. Some middle management guys started showing up when the space become available. Spies, whispered no one. But these were the men who started giving some more girth to the Rupterland rumors. He’d been saving his own bonuses, they said. Last year when the men got a 2.1% Christmas bonus opposed to the 3.1% that was due, it was because of the greed of one man opposed to the loss of revenue as they were originally told. There was a loss of clients, yes, but instead of the equal .4% drop proposed, Rupterbend made it a full percentage point so he would be able to collect his full bonus. Being rich and powerful is hard, they could hear the bastard saying. Benchman snorted at the thought.

Then there was the cut to benefits: Less sick time, less vacation time, worse medical coverage. All so Giovanni could continue taking “business trips.” They were a ruse, the middle men stated.

“Mini-vacations, that’s what they really are. We all watch the news! We know about the million dollar island weekends as much as anyone! We know it when we see it!”

Giovanni bathed upon glorious white beaches in their minds while they had to fight for an extra hour on the clock. Diapers needed to be bought. Homes couldn’t go cold. The refrigerator needed to be restocked. The lack of hours were wearing the men down. They had started to lash out at one another in a search for more hours, trying to prepare for the cuts that were allegedly coming. They could not fail their loved ones. But they were, all while Giovanni—the bastard—took another sip off his piña colada.

They’d build their case silently, biding their time until Giovanni made his move. As soon as he announced their cuts he would unleash the mob. At this point they were still is a jejune state. They hadn’t matured to their full potential. He hoped they would be stronger when the cuts started happening, and he was confident that they would be.

It grew. Their movement continued to gather momentum with the weight of men. More men came every week. And Benchman sat proudly at the top. Giovanni can make his move, he thought. I fucking dare him. See the rage of riot that will erupt. Just see.

“What are we going to do?”

“Break those bastards down! Break those bastards down! Break those bastards down!”

The mob gnashed its teeth, ready for the battle. The morale here was lifted. He could see the passion in these men. He could see what they really wanted. And if they didn’t know themselves, all he had to do was tell them. Every story he had heard in the circle, every rumor he heard in the hallways, every whiff of information he accumulated was filed in his brain and then peppered into his sermons as fact. He had an army ready to fight for what he thought was fair. They were ready to fight for his view of the company.

“Do you want justice?”

“Yes we do! Yes we do! Yes we do!”

“And how are we going to get it?”

“We will take it! We will take it! We will take it!”

“Yes, we will. We will take it from those bastards!”