Second Prize

Let me have your attention for a moment. Remember me? Yeah, you do. I don’t know how you sad sons of bitches did it. I don’t even know how it’s mathematically possible. But then I don’t know how losers like you can call yourselves salesmen without dying from either laughter or shame. So what I know, pal, isn’t the point here today. Mitch and Murray asked me, as a personal favor, to come down here to deliver a message of mercy from the angel of death:

You all tied for second in this month’s sales contest.

Everybody gets the steak knives. Nobody gets the car. Nobody gets fired, except those guys who tried to steal the leads, what are their names? Moss and Levene. You ask me, they showed more balls than every man in this room, myself excluded. At least they tried to grab their destiny while the sun shined. The wheels of justice are grinding their balls into dust, but at least they showed some in the first place.

Not like you losers. Enjoy your steak knives, gents. Because God knows you don’t deserve them. You shouldn’t be eating steak. You should be the steak. Because there are only two sides that matter in this world: predator and prey. And when I look around this room, I see a buffet. A smorgasbord of cowering prey, waiting for some carnivore to come along and chow down on your ass.

A predator takes what is his. He doesn’t sit back on his fat haunches and settle for number two. And what I see before me is a huge steaming pile of number two. It’s all you are this month, next month, every month from here to eternity, pal, until you show me and Mitch and Murray that you can get mad! Get mad, you sons of bitches!

Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing? Sit your ass down and shut up until I say you can - hey, you too - what is this? Hey - knock it off, that’s a $2500 suit - put the knives down! Put the knives down! Get back! Stop it! I’m gonna tell Mitch and Murray!