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He knew there was something wrong the instant he stepped through the main door of his office building. There was a strange silence about the place. Usually it was hustle and bustle, with people, workers and customers mostly, scurrying about the entranceway and gathering in tight crowds by the elevator shafts, chattering about what they did last night or what they intended to do this day. Today, the chatter was strangely subdued, as if someone had told a particularly vile off-color story very loudly, and the people were complaining about it looking at the floor and muttering their displeasure under their breath. He smiled to himself a little, wondering what the story was. What he didn't know was that there was a tiger waiting for him upstairs. In his office. On the desk.

It was a quiet ride to the sixth floor, where his office was located. The ride was strange too. Most of the time people gave him greetings with a smile; he usually acknowledged with a nod. Not to get too close, he had decided a long time ago. After all, he was one of the Vice-Presidents of the company and had to maintain a professional and personal distance from the staff. This day their eyes were diverted to the ceiling or the floor of the elevator, and no one spoke. What's this, he thought. The tiger on his desk waited patiently. All tigers have patience.

He entered the large double doors to his kingdom; his suite of offices. Except for the receptionist, there were no people in the anteroom. That was odd too. The receptionist, whose name he never could remember, did give him a greeting, but there was a catch in her voice. He nodded. He asked if there were any messages and she said yes. There was one, she said, and it was on his desk. He nodded, and entered his private office suite. The tiger could smell his blood now.

His personal secretary was not in the outer office. That was strange too. She usually had coffee waiting for him. He entered his inner office, his sanctum sanctorum, he liked to call it. The tiger had no knowledge of sanctity; it knew only hunger. His inner office was well appointed. It was fully paneled in fine mahogany, and those panels were covered with mementos of his life; photos of him with high government officials, corporate awards, and activities of his personal passion, sailing. His desk was an antique, of course, and massive, crafted in Spain many years ago by a master woodcarver. The chairs were somewhat out of the character of the office; modern, nondescript, but comfortable and smelled of money. The tiger cared about none of these things.

He had made many deals for the company in this office, and brought in millions in sales here. His personal fortunes flourished here too, allowing him to be the spendthrift he was, allowing him to surround himself in opulence. His personal base salary wasn't that much; no, he made 95% of his annual wage on commissions. He was working on a deal now that he knew would give him enough, at long last, to invest and provide the income he would need when he finally hung up his spurs. The tiger knew nothing of this man; his wants, needs or plans. The tiger knew only that this man was food, and it was time to eat.

The man saw the white envelope on the desk. It had a corporate logo on the upper right corner. His name was typed on the envelope. Just his name and middle initial. No title of respect, just his name and middle initial. He had a brief thought to punish the person who addressed the letter; he always insisted that his title be used on correspondence. He took his sterling silver letter opener, the one given to him by a senator from New York many years ago and carefully slit open the top of the envelope. He took the letter out and unfolded it. The tiger sprung out quickly and took his first bite.

There were few words on the letter. It started with his name only. It told him the company had been sold to a larger firm and that he had not been selected to be a part of the new organization. The tiger took another bite, a harder one. At the time of the receipt of the letter he would have no more authority to negotiate for the company. The tiger bit again. He had two weeks to clear the office of his memorabilia. The tiger took yet another bite. He would be given two weeks severance pay. The man's blood was flowing profusely now. The president of the new company, a man he had crossed swords with some years ago, had signed the letter.

The tiger finished his meal, and licked his chops.