Diabolical Wic

Southbound on I-85, not too far from Richmond. I’m headed back to Concord, NC. They’ve already put a pre-plan on me. It’ll be my third straight load with loaded miles of 280 miles or less. I’m trying to talk myself out of saying something. It seems pretty obvious to me that this is punitive in some way. My miles always drop off after I have a run-in with my fuck-tard dispatcher. So yeah, I’d love to say something about it. “Yeah, you little worm. I see what you’re up to.”
But I’m far more diabolical than that. The beauty of dealing with a fuck-tard is that they generally don’t realize how stupid they really are. In fact, they tend to believe they’re rather clever.
What my fuck-tard dispatcher is too simple to understand is that during our run-ins he tends to fire off responses in anger, complete with a bevy of exclamation points and question marks, while my remarks are carefully thought out and precisely worded. I am always very aware of how the things I say would sound if someone in management should review the satcom record. In such a review I would come off as forceful but calm. The Fuck-tard would come off as angry and immature.
With that in mind, I hope I get short trips for the rest of the week. It would be great to make a phone call next Monday to request switching dispatchers. When asked why, I could discuss personality conflicts and personal vendettas. As evidence I could just say “Look at my miles for last week. I never had a trip with more than 300 loaded miles.” I could also request that they review the satcom records, and give them dates of a string of arguments with Lord Fuck-tard.
You see, at this point I won’t be satisfied with just switching dispatchers. If Fuck-tard is trying to limit my miles on some kind of personal vendetta, then he’s trying to hurt me. For that, he must be made to suffer (that said with a big grin and acknowledgment of melodrama). How better to hurt someone who is on a power trip than by seeing to it that they are made to explain themselves before their superiors?
Fuck-tard didn’t realize what he was getting into. Not only am I well-skilled in the satcom ass-covering game (thanks U.S. Xpress!), but I was studying Sun Tzu and Clauswitz at fourteen. You really want to play career chess with me?
That’s the fun part. Fuck-tard doesn’t realize this is a game he can lose.

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