Special Order

The Managing Director of Global Coldstores was a very business-orientated man. His name was Ron Badger; he was 47 years old and lived in a small cottage by the River Severn. A hefty salary had afforded him many modern conveniences, namely a large range oven, which he used on most weekends. He would use his Saturday mornings to cut wood for the fires after skinning animals and leaving them to hang. This drained the blood from the carcass, ensuring he didn’t get any nasty infections from the meat. Sometimes, he would take meat from the coldstores, as it was of considerable quality, but only if he hadn’t provided his own supply.
One weekend, towards the end of June, he was perfecting his pork pie recipe so that he could take his wife on a picnic. Mrs. Badger was very fond of her husband’s cooking and never turned down the opportunity to taste one of his many culinary delights. He had retrieved the pork from the coldstores on Friday evening, after everyone had left. Ron had to tell security that he was staying late to finish his Human Resources report, but they never checked the cameras in any case. Ron had performed his usual magic trick of taking a large sports bag into the stores and filling it with whatever he desired. It wasn’t a particularly complicated plan, but his position in the company allowed it to work.
The pork haul this weekend had been successful and so to was the picnic. Both Ron and his wife had enjoyed the pork pie and the casual cook’s head was filling with new recipe ideas. He was pondering them on the way to work the following Monday morning when, by complete accident, he hit a Great Dane crossing the road. Ron was startled and after a few moments sitting motionless, he opened the car door and walked to the bonnet. The dog’s tongue was writhing in its skull, so Ron took his shovel from the back of the Grand Cherokee and ended the dog’s misery. He carried it to the boot and laid it next to the shovel.
Upon arriving at work, Ron was instantly met by one of the coldstore shop-floor assistants, Benny.
“Mr. Badger, we’re packing an order inside and we’re twenty kilos short. When does delivery arrive today? This order must be out before eight a.m.!”
“Delivery won’t be arriving until midday today, there’s a farmer’s blockade at Dover and they’ll be lucky to even make lunchtime. Don’t worry though, I’ll sort this.”
Ron walked back to his car and drove it behind the stores. Twenty minutes later, he drove back to his parking spot affront his office and walked towards the warehouse carrying his large sports bag. He found Benny and lifted the bag in the air. A smile washed across Benny’s face – the day had been saved.
“I must apologise, Benny. I was cooking for the wife this weekend and sneakily took one of the pork joints for a pie. I only used a small amount and kept the meat refrigerated, it should be OK.” He opened the sports bag and passed the meat wrapped in paper to Benny.
“Not to worry, Mr. Badger, I suppose you are entitled to your benefits. I’ll see the order gets sent right away, thank you.”
Ron nodded and zipped up the bag, returned to his Jeep and threw the bag into the empty boot. He slammed the door shut and walked towards the office to begin another day’s work.