This competition is for bragging rights only--no money is being dispersed. I will build the foundation of the short story, you get to finish it.

The rules are simple:

1. No profanity.
2. Send submissions to me via "Contact Lowell's Notes" on my profile page.
3. The deadline for submissions is November 30, 2009.
4. You can submit as many endings as you choose.
5. The winner's version will be posted in the form of a hub "Two Edged Sword, Part II, by (winner's name or profile here).
6. Part II should be approximately the same length as Part I.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact me.

My last day on the job. I look around and feel a twinge of nostalgia. This has been my home away from home for almost eight years. I am the Senior Research Investment Accountant for Greenburrow Petroleum, Inc. Downtown Tulsa. Now that I think about it, that is a strange title. In reality, I am a CFP, a Certified Financial Planner. Unlike CPA's, I am not regulated by any governmental authority.

I am thirty-two years old; college educated, single. I am relatively fit, fair skinned, light brown hair, with serious (I've been told) green eyes. I am a genius--just kidding.

Basically, what I do for Greenburrow is look for new investments both inside and outside the petroleum business. Primarily, my job is to find ways for the company to make additional money to help stabilize the system operations during the legendary down cycles in the industry.

I am proud of my track record here. In eight years, I have managed to grow the company's supplemental investment program by over thirty percent. The income from these investments now accounts for approximately forty percent of the posted gross income of the company. We're talking about many millions of dollars here. Okay, my arm aches from patting myself on the back. I know you are asking yourself why, if I am such a success, I have decided to resign--well, actually it is a little more complicated that that, but I'll tell you more about that later. Boring stuff, really.

The vast majority of our shareholders are sophisticated investors who are in this for the long haul. They seem to be energized by our relatively new investment program but are increasingly demanding more say in our business operations. This carries grave consequences for our executives and top managers. Investors don't like paying for all of the perks that the top dogs think they deserve; like incredible amounts for severance pay, and fat expense accounts--some of which can be written off on taxes, so are necessary, or at least acceptable, evils--which goes back to one of the reasons I'm resigning.

See? It gets complicated.

"Excuse me, uh," a man in a blue service uniform says, reading my name from a work order as he steps through my open doorway, "Mr. Kimble?"

"Yes?" I wonder briefly if they are already sending the cleaning service to clean my office.

"I'm Carl, with American Computer Service. I'm here to install the new computer system."

Even worse than I thought--I have been asking for a new computer, begging really, for the past couple of years.

"Wrong office," I say, feeling my neck begin to itch.

He squints at me and reads the work order again. "Are you Brian Kimble?"

I nod, "Yes."

"Well, this is the right place then," he shoves the work order close enough for me to read the printing.

I really don't want to read it. I see the basics of the work order though at a glance--enough to know the boys upstairs have slapped me in the face.

My resignation has caused quite a stir upstairs. Not because of my brilliant mind, but because of the inside information I have stored in it--and, because my sudden resignation smacks of bailing out of a sinking ship. But this company, like the Titanic, is unsinkable. The fact is, the shareholders are starting to bail out too. You see, once the shareholders challenge the management of a company, the relationship becomes a little edgy. For example; in the long history of AT&T and its offspring, the Baby Bells, no proxy resolution opposed by management had ever been approved by shareholders. But recently, retired workers from Verizon led an investor revolt to curb severance pay for executives. The savvy investors holding Greenburrow stock quickly followed suit.

In this case, even though shareholder votes are only advisory, management agreed, under great duress, to reduce severance pay for executives from 1.2 million to forty thousand--quite a concession. Now the shareholders taste blood and are making more and more demands for expenses to be cut back. When the shareholders attempted to nominate their own candidates for Board Director, the company started freezing them out. I can't earn enough money for the company fast enough to turn the tide.

I had a lengthy conversation with Daniel Labahn, the company CEO. We discussed the what fors and whys of my resignation with the obligatory platitudes exchanged. He didn't actually offer me any more money, but he did discuss how he thought I should reconsider.

When he saw that I intended to follow through with my resignation, he began telling me of all the new and exciting office improvements that are on the way--I have been hearing this for eight years--then he worked in the no compete clause of my contract for good measure. I had the fleeting thought to tell him that my knowledge is up for auction to the highest bidder--but I think there is something illegal about that, so I refrained. He danced around actually threatening my professional future. Things were a little tense between us when I left the meeting.

I never have been one to posture. By that I mean I don't threaten to quit a job just to try and get my own way about things. Anyway, my job has been pretty secure and the working environment is, for the most part, good. Most of the other employees have no clue what my job or title is. Half of them think I am upper management and the other half think I am some kind of tax write off for the company and that I don't actually do anything--as much of my day is spent in front of my computer just sifting through financial statements of obscure companies.

I eye Carl the computer tech and consider throwing him out on his ear. What can they do--fire me?

"Can this wait until tomorrow?" I ask, only half joking. I really need to be able to get all of my stuff out of the office before the end of the day.

"No sir, Mr. Simmons insisted that it be done today."

"I see." I pick up a pencil and tap it on my chin, thinking. Bill Simmons is my boss. He works directly under Daniel Labahn, the CEO. Why the sudden rush?

"It won't take long," Carl assures me.

"How long?" I ask.

He shrugs, "If you go to lunch, I'll be finished and gone before you get back."

I glance at my watch and am surprised to see that it is already after noon. I take a deep breath and wonder if I will really be able to box everything up before five. Maybe they will pay overtime if it takes me longer--doubtful, as I'm a salaried employee.

I gather a few loose items and leave for lunch. I am not in a good mood. It irritates me that I am upset by this petty maneuvering by my superiors.

I meet Mrs. Haywood, Mr. Simmons elderly office manager, in the hall and put on my happy face.

"Brian," she clutches my arm and looks up at me with frightened eyes, "they are going to kill me." Her eyes dart around without meeting mine and I see tears brimming in them.

What? She must have forgotten to make coffee--I knew it would happen some day.

"Oh, now." I try to console her.

She sobs deeply and opens her mouth to say something.

I glance down the hall, "Look, I'm not really the person you..."

"Hush! You are in danger too!" she leans closer, "Thirty-eight years! Thirty-eight years I've worked for this company and now this."

I take a deep breath and wonder what is going on.

"Mrs. Haywood, are you sure--? I put my hand on her shoulder.

Frankly, I wonder how she has been able to keep such a high profile job for this long anyway--not that I dislike her, but it seems like there would be a lot of competition and the younger women I have met in the company are ruthlessly competitive.

She nods. "Yes," she says. She opens her mouth to say more before I see a look of pure horror in her eyes as footsteps approach down the hall. I've never seen her ruffled like this. What is going on?

"Look at the new system," she whispers dramatically before dodging into an empty office. At seventy five, her dramatic exit was somewhat less than graceful.

I stare bemusedly at the door that she has silently closed. Has she lost her senses? I stifle a laugh and wonder if this dramatic display is the result of thirty eight years of employment here. Good thing I am getting out of here.

Kill her? I wonder if that's the new company policy. I can see Bill Simmons or Daniel Labahn trying to force her into retirement--but I can't imagine them putting cement shoes on her.

"Brian?" a voice queried behind me.

I jumped like I had been shot! Mrs. Haywood's fear was real and I guess a little of it had transferred to me. I turned around with my lungs wrapped around my heart.

Daniel Labahn approached me with a puzzled expression at my reaction. "Have you seen Mrs. Haywood?" he asked.

"I..." I swallow the lump in my throat.

Mr. Labahn smiled pleasantly. "Well," he said in his cultured voice, "if you find her, please let her know that her son is here to pick her up--she is refusing to take her medicine." He raised his eyebrows as he finished the sentence in a conspiratorial tone.

I am getting a headache.

"Fine." I say, feeling a bit put out with the whole scene, but not willing to give away her hiding place.

I watched Mr. Labahn's departing figure and sighed.

"He's lying!" Mrs. Haywood whispered fiercely from the darkened office.

Whatever.

"He's gone. You can come out now." I say.

This is just crazy.

She steps out from behind the door, her eyes were wide and she looks more than a little frazzled.

"They are going to kill me. They are going to kill me!" She looks up at me vaguely like she is choking, "Please believe me..."

I take a deep breath. "Look, I'm going to lunch. Why don't you come with me? I am hoping that she doesn't latch onto me again. Maybe I can get her downstairs so that her son, the company nurse, or the people in white jackets can take over.

She looks really frail, her hair is mussed, and I notice that her lower lip is trembling.

"I'm not crazy, you know," she says balefully. "They are going to kill you too--for taking the Charter Fund."

What? I am not equipped for this.

I guess I am silent too long and she takes it personal. She takes an unsteady breath and straightens her shoulders before marching past me out into the hall.

She slowly turns around and points at me. "You...and me are being set up. They are going to kill us." Then she gathered what little dignity she had left, lifted her chin and marched away.

I watch her go and shrug in frustration and resignation. I look in on Carl the computer guy. He assures me he'll be gone before I return from lunch. I leave the building and suck in a lungful of fresh air. What a day!

I walk across the street to a Subway Sandwich Shop and order a sandwich. The girl behind the counter puts on her gloves and asks if I want white or wheat. I get the white. I order a cold cut sandwich, chips, and a Coke.

"Didn't a guy lose, like, two hundred pounds eating here?" I ask the girl.

She beams and nods, showing her braces, but doesn't answer.

"In that case, put some extra cheese on my sandwich, and I'll take another bag of chips." I say.

She giggles. So much for people taking me seriously.

I fill my soft drink at the dispenser and then sit near a window to eat.

Eight years of normal working conditions and things get interesting on my last day. Just my luck.

Speaking of interesting, I see an ambulance whip into the parking lot across the street and realize that I had been hearing its siren as it approached. The Doppler Effect worked against me and I hadn't realized that it was so close.

I watch the medical personnel as they open the back doors of the ambulance and slide out a gurney. This will be a sight to see. They must have caught Mrs. Haywood. They will probably have her strapped down when they come out.

I crunch on a chip and smile a little, thinking about her paranoia. She will be horribly embarrassed when she realizes what has happened. I have always liked her. It's sad to see people grow old.

I sit up straight as two police cars slide to a stop behind the ambulance. A few minutes later I watch with morbid fascination as the medical guys push the gurney back out of the building. The figure on the gurney is covered with a white sheet. I feel the blood drain out of my face and I have a moment of weakness as shock pulsates through my veins.

I sit numbly, my sandwich threatening to come back up.

My cell phone rings and I unclip it from my belt. "Hello?"

"Brian?" It is Terri, my part-time secretary, who has been in a meeting all morning.

"Yes?"

I hear her voice crack with emotion. "Mrs. Haywood is dead!"

"Oh, no!"

"They said that she fell from the balcony. Everyone is in shock--you really should come as soon as you can."

"I'll be right there," I assure her before disconnecting. I hurry to clear my table and then jog back across the street.

I didn't know what to expect as I pushed through the doors into the large, elegantly decorated foyer of our downstairs reception area. This, by the way, is a place I usually avoid. I normally come and go through the side entrance, using my employee card to unlock the door.

Huge granite pillars are evenly spaced throughout the open area that is referred to as the Plaza in all of our memos and brochures. Various sections are supplied with expensive furniture and tasteful art. An extravagant curving staircase of marble, oak, and plush red carpet winds upward to the balcony, from which Mrs. Haywood fell, which has massive carved oak handrails and balusters with brass toppers.

This entire room is designed to let you know that we, as a company, have money to throw away. It is impressive, if overdone.

I look up at the two story height of the balcony and feel light-headed, thinking of poor Mrs. Haywood.

Did she jump? Was she pushed?

I notice, for the first time, an area near the bottom of the stairs that has been cordoned off with yellow tape.

I see several employees I know gathered by the round reception booth and hurry to them. Everyone is, obviously, shaken by the sudden death of a colleague. A few of the ladies are wiping tears while the men are silent and solemn.

I can't believe Mrs. Haywood is really dead. I stand with my hands in my pockets, staring at the area where she apparently fell. My brain is in overdrive.

Everyone has been asked to remain in the Plaza while the police, who are now swarming the place, take statements and process the scene.

She said they are going to kill me because I took the Charter Fund. The Charter Fund is approximately sixty million dollars which has been secretly set aside for a few--twelve to be exact--partners in the event that the company goes bankrupt, or suffers dissolution (termination of the corporation). In other words, they are guaranteed to walk away with five million each no matter what. Very few people are aware of the existence of the Charter Fund. It is never discussed in any public forum.

I have an uneasy feeling that I am being watched, and casually look around. I see Bill Simmons, with two beefy men from the Greenburrow Security Team, leaning against the balcony rail looking down at me. Funny how you can feel when someone is staring.

Bill straightened and he and the men disappeared out of my view.

Now I am feeling paranoid.

I cannot, for the life of me, believe how I feel right now. My hands are sweating and my heart is pounding--I am scared. I feel like I should be doing something, but I don't know what to do.

I am a professional man. I am not skittish and always peering around corners, but I am scared--and I can't explain why. I don't put a lot of stock in sixth sense. Never have--but my insides are tense with the knowledge that something is dreadfully wrong. I have an overwhelming desire to get my stuff and get out of here.

I see Mr. Labahn moving through the crowd toward me. When I see him point in my direction, I scrunch down a little to hide from his view.

Now I am simply terrified.

I sort of scoot around the reception desk and stand behind one of the huge granite pillars. My heart is tripping double time.

I peer around the pillar through the limbs of a potted tree and see Mr. Labahn scanning the area, obviously looking for someone. I see the heavily muscled men standing beside him and suddenly I believe everything Mrs. Haywood had said.

I know it sounds foolish, but I am truly afraid for my life.

It's up to you to finish the story. :) Have fun! I look forward to your submissions. Please send them via "Contact Lowell's Notes" on my profile page. Thanks!