The Nebuchadnezzar magazine

Edit 1 Sep 11, 2025

A short story by Eric-Anderson Momou (E.K. Anderson)

– Copyright September 2025, The Nebuchadnezzar publishing house.

The day was March the first, a Wednesday—I forget the year. Whatever, it was before the Ides of March. I’d just about had it with the job so I throttled it at a hundred down I-94E for what felt like an eon. I’d been fixated on this project for well over a month now. The consortium I worked for wanted a new advertising pitch and I was the intern. Call it luck, our company spewed out profits for every kind of investor. We had entrepreneurs, politicians, lawmen and even drug dealers nuzzling us for exorbitant profits. In the end they always got what they asked for, and we never exceeded the marginal cost, so our share was seventy percent.

My job title is Social Strategist. Do not misunderstand me; I lack charisma, which undoubtedly affected my choice in applying. But the job description was odd, so I kept reading. It entailed that the ideal candidate should possess traits like:

*clairvoyance

*Introversion

*being keen/observant

I didn’t have the gift of foresight On top of that, the job posting didn’t specify a degree, but I thought my GED would help things, so I applied (in email of course). 

They called back the next day and asked if I was interested in the position. To this I said yes, of course.

I ran a blue streak, monologuing about my proficiencies but the guy on the other end droned on. Finally, he said my story was bullshit. Anyways, he said, they had an opening: for one fulltime social strategist. 

“Can you make it in,” he asks.

 “Sure,” I say, “What time?”

“Tomorrow at 7.”

So tomorrow, I wake up at five. I eat a good breakfast, because that’s brain food and I shave. I haven’t shaved in over a year, and with my yarmulke I look like a rabbi from the Talmud. I wear a buttoned up suit,

I enter the door at 630, and meet the receptionist. She’s a girl fresh out of college, with freckles and cascading red hair. I tell her I’m waiting for Mr. What’sHisName, and tells me to wait. So I wait for what feels like an hour, and the time Mr. WhatevertheFuckhisnameis comes out. He’s gaunt, old, and looks like Clint Eastwood. His thumbs are in the belt loops of his jeans

“You’re Jewish?” he says, “I’m not an Anti-Semite. Just curious.”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. You’re hired. What’s the earliest you can start?”

I shake my head, “Tomorrow.”

“Seven then.”

I shake his hand with my left, awkwardly. 

“And your name is?”

“Forget about it.”

So I drive back home. I’ve got the job—which I don’t even understand to an employer who has no name.

Turns out, the job was easy.

“Watch this,” my employer says. “It’s important training.”

We were at a pub in a shady part of town. Evidently some statesman was there, and a retired convict. 

“Hey guppy. You see that?” he said. He gestured to the silver briefcase the statesman carried. Provocatively, the two men scurried into the bathroom, but there was nothing covert about the deal.  Mr. Noname pulled out a pair of leather gloves. The 

 “Gloves. Remember you were never here. You tamper with evidence you’re fired. You’re faceless, nameless, and scared shitless. You understand?”

I faked a humble nod.

In the bathroom, my boss takes a piss.

“Vinny called,” my boss said. Then he punched him. I’m sure he broke the guy’s face, because I heard his nose crunch. He kicks the other guy, Bruce Lee style. When he fell I heard a pop, then I saw his clavicle had jutted out.

We ran.

*

In the car, I ask who Vinny is. My boss shrugs. He made up the name. 

“A corrupt politician has a lot of enemies. Probably can’t remember who he’s shit on.”

“And you punched him because?”

“Flare mostly, but I made him afraid. By making him fearful I stopped the deal, which strengthened national security. Why? Because truth is the other guy was a militant for the Jihad militia and securing a drug deal in Panama would have opened up whore trafficking. Whore trafficking, is a perfect disguise for 

“A punch is all it took?”

“That’s right. Like those comic book villains. Just one punch.”

“Social strategy, my friend. That’s all there is to it. Do what you need to do to get a desired outcome, and then scram. Vamoose.”

“Point taken,” I scribbled in my notebook how fucked up this was.

“Ducks are flying low this season,” she said. “You missed Gandhi at the last mile marker. It’s okay you’ll see JC again at the next exit.

“That an attraction?”

“JC? Heavens yes. Just keep driving east.”

“Drive, east son.”