Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are fickle, sparkle and wrinkle. Diabolical those words.

Donut Friday
I’m curious to the point of being nauseous.
It’s way too early for Ramirez to be at work, but there he is, standing outside of the break room with a shit-eating grin and drinking coffee from the mug that still has H.R.’s panties firmly bunched – there’s a drawing of a rooster on one side, with block, uppercase letters spelling out “COCK” underneath and a drawing of a German shepherd on the other, the same block lettering spelling out “BITCH” – and he's starting. Intently, like a kid at a parade, waiting for the floats that toss candy to come rumbling by.
Or how people stare at car wrecks.
“Yo, Hombre, slumming it?”
“Mitchell, you bastard,” he says. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on somebody like that?
He winks.
My stomach lurches.
“Dare I ask?”
“I brought donuts,” he says, visibly hurt. “Put a little wrinkle on the most important meal of the day. Made ‘em magically delicious.”
I go to the window for a look. There’s two large pink paper boxes partially filled with donuts, glazed and coated with sparkled sugar sprinkles.
Mia from accounting is at a back table, staring at the overhead fluorescents. Her legs are akimbo, her skirt has ridden up to show off the tops of the sheer thigh-highs we all knew she wore. The tiniest tip of her tongue, pink and perfect, protrudes from between her lips as she bores laser beams into the lights.
“Acid,” he whispers. “I put acid in the sprinkles.”
“Jesus, Rami, you’re going to kill someone.”
“Not all the sprinkles, jackass,” he says. “I’m not a Sadist. One sprinkle per donut, one hit per person. Four dozen total. Gonna be an interesting day, doncha think?”
Before I can answer, Davidson, my weasel of a supervisor, rounds the corner and stumbles forward, loopy strands of spit hanging from his lips. He’s got his Oxford unbuttoned and he’s pinching his nipples between his thumb and forefingers.
I nod as he passes; his face is a mask of pleasure, ignorance, bliss.
“That fickle little bastard is going to have the greatest day of his miserable fucking life,” Ramirez says. “Be a good day to ask for a raise, brother.”
I clamp a clammy palm over my mouth. I plead with my eyes, but Rami just smiles.
“Look, I’d love to stand around and shoot the shit and all, but I’ve got a consult with creative services in 15,” he says, tapping the chunky Tag Heuer watch on his wrist. “And today, that meeting should be a fucking goldmine.”