The Walk of Truth

Before I boarded the flight, I felt he and his team were such snobs. They felt they ruled it all. They looked down on everyone. I secretly wished for his failure.

When I saw that he and his team were being replaced, I felt compelled to shout out to him from the back of the private jet as they were denied entry and walked down the road in shame as if in a ritual of shame, but my voice wasn’t heard.

Yet I exited the private jet onto the tarmac and headed towards a park of this nameless city where I sent someone to request a meeting, and sure enough, they all came with all their boxes and things, a fired team, many of them Pacific Islanders with tattoos. One caught my attention with a tattoo of Maona. I knew what Moana was, but wtf was Maona? A misspelling? Not so uncommon to see typos in tattoos, but hard to believe it to be a typo on a Pacific Islander with so many cultural tattoos. Yet as I asked about it, my question was forgotten.

My attention briefly shifted to their sandals before being interrupted by a conversation about the billionaire who had just fired them for poor performance when in fact their performance had been anything but poor. And here I was determined to make things right. To fix things. For at the end of the day, what mattered was truth and not personality flaws.