So, first, at least make it worth it. If you are going to backstab me, don’t make it easy for me – keep my whip. But I also ask that you make it worth it – have that gold idol under your arm. Leave me to die. Don’t just pick up corporate brownie points by ratting me out.
I mean, shit, I’ve been backstabbed major by corporations – I’ve had two that owed me backwages or cut my wages to keep the lights on fire me. I’ve been fired for nepotism – when the little family-run business found themselves getting called out for it and canned me. Got that? I got turfed! And then they committed perjury by lying in arbitration, right there in front of me, a witness and a judge, just to save a little money and claim coup. And you know what – I thank them for it. Now I know what real backstabbing is. It was a cheap tuition to getting a good hard look at the black heart most humans carry within their puffed-out, posturing chests.
Pathetic, that’s what I call your efforts.
Backstabbing is what The Count of Monte Cristo is about. Every great story has an element of betrayal. If you are going to backstab someone, you brick them up in a wall or frame them of some crime. You don’t do something anemic and traceable.
For the record, I’m not a backstabber. You won’t get a smile on my lips and a knife in your back. No. You won’t get anything. Not the warmth of my friendship, the comfort of my backing, nor the experience of decades of corporations. You are ostracized. You are excommunicated. Yes, I will deal with you, firm and fair and tersely, but not one step further.
I will stand back and enjoy your gradual failures and declining fortunes.