"Go to hell," I said. I slammed the cover down and looked up into the
cold eyes of Oscar Phipps who was standing next to my desk.
"Who, may I ask," he said ominously, "do you think you're talking to?"
"Take a look." I lifted the plate once again. Fuzzy was there on his
back, his legs crossed, his tail twitching.
"I don't see anything," Phipps said.
"You mean you can't see Fuzzy here?" I pointed to him, the end of my
finger an inch from his head. "Ouch!" I drew my hand away. "The little
devil bit me."
"You're fired, Mr. Weaver," Phipps said in a tired voice. "Fired as of
right now. I'll arrange for two weeks' severance pay. And my advice to
you is to stay off the bottle or see a psychiatrist--or both. Not that
it'll do you any good. You never amounted to anything and you never
will."