The Contract- Revised

Chapter 1 - The Offer

It started like any other miserable Monday.

Coffee was stale, the office printer jammed, and my boss James had already made three passive-aggressive comments before noon. By three o’clock, he delivered his trademark phrase with the grace of a brick: “Could be better.” That’s all he ever says—never “good job,” never “well done.” Just that. Like a broken record of corporate disdain.

I’ve worked here five years. Five long years of emails, deadlines, and watching James balloon in size while the rest of us tried to hold the company together. He's the owner, so he can do what he wants—but I swear he’s doubled his daily snack intake since I started. Tight shirts, short temper, and zero compliments.

I’m Tom. Thirty years old, six feet tall, 170 pounds. Not a model, but I keep myself together. James, on the other hand? Mid-fifties, probably 5’10, maybe 220 pounds on a good day, and carrying his weight like it’s a badge of honor. Salt-and-pepper hair, a resting scowl, and the social grace of a raccoon in a dumpster.

We don’t get along.

James thinks $17 an hour is “more than generous,” despite the fact that In-N-Out pays their burger flippers better. He rants about work ethic while chewing Oreos in his overpriced ergonomic chair. I think he still holds a grudge from when he overheard me call him a “fat pig” during lunch break. Honestly, he wasn’t wrong to be pissed—but he’s been passive-aggressively punishing me ever since.

One afternoon, after some light arguing during a group conversation in the office, he gave me a look and said, “Tom, step into my office. We need to discuss your future.”

That phrase always sounds ominous. Like something out of a mafia movie.

Still, I followed him in.

His office was dim until he flipped on the lights. Sleek wood furniture. Giant desk. Three curved monitors glowing like a command center. But what really caught my attention were the snacks: a half-empty container of Oreos and a crumpled bag of Lay’s chips beside his mouse.

He sat down, shoved a handful of chips into his mouth, then raised an eyebrow at me.

“Something funny?” he asked, catching my smirk.

“Just admiring your multitasking,” I said dryly.

James leaned forward and tapped at his keyboard with greasy fingers. “I’m making a document for you. Might wipe that smirk off your face.”

My stomach dropped. Was this a warning? A write-up? Termination?

A small printer beside him whirred to life, and a single sheet emerged. He reviewed it briefly, then slid it across the desk along with a pen.

“Read it,” he said. “Let me know what you decide.”

I took the paper and read the heading.


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Internal Memorandum — Terms of Employment Adjustment

Dear Thomas,
Following multiple complaints from coworkers about your inappropriate language, including terms such as “pig,” “tubby,” “round all the way round town,” and “lardass,” the company has decided disciplinary action is necessary. Rather than terminate your employment immediately, we are offering two options:

1. You may continue working under a revised salary structure. Starting today, you will be weighed weekly. For every pound you lose from your current weight, your hourly wage will decrease by fifty cents until it reaches minimum wage. If you gain the weight back, your original wage will be reinstated.


2. Alternatively, you may choose to participate in the company’s “Mass Leadership Initiative.” Under this program, you will receive a promotion and a raise of fifty cents per hour for every pound you gain until reaching 200 pounds. After 200, every additional pound earned will provide a twenty-five-cent increase per pound.



Please indicate your choice by signing below. Declining both options will result in immediate termination.

Thank you for your cooperation,
— Human Resources


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I blinked. Looked up. Blinked again.

“You’re kidding,” I said, laughing nervously. “What is this, some sort of twisted April Fools joke in August?”

James leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers over his belly. “No joke. You think it’s funny to mock your superiors? Let’s see how funny it is when you’re the one packing on the pounds, buddy.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious.” He nodded toward the paper. “That’s your new contract. You want to stay employed, you pick a path. Trim down and lose money—or bulk up and get promoted.”

I held the pen in my hand, tapping it against my temple. The room felt colder. My pulse quickened as I stared at the dotted line beside my name.

This wasn’t a prank. It was a trap.

And somehow, I had to decide which side of the scale I wanted to land on.


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