"Why doesn't he draw the curtains?"
"Oh, it's not that he doesn't have hands; his hands only know how to count money."
On this uneventful morning, Neil, Mark's immediate supervisor, was nearly driven mad.
Just sitting nicely in his office, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, he was suddenly informed that Mark, who knew plenty of his secrets, had been taken away by the Anti-Corruption Bureau.
He wanted to pull some strings to deal with it, but his friend just threw a photo at him.
In the photo, Mark stood by the window with the curtains undrawn like a fool, his face unabashedly displaying his greed, with his fat paw resting in a box filled with green bills.
A single photo shoved all his words right back down his throat.
Now, he not only had to figure out how to disassociate himself from Mark but also how to shut Mark's mouth.
"Damn Mark!"
The desk was banged so hard it rattled, and the trophy that was polished three times a day fell and was dented at one corner.
