He waited in the crowded outer office of a tall glass
skyscraper. He stood as there were no chairs suitable for Donkeys. It
would have been somewhat inappropriate to rest his rear only
on a chair, especially as there had been no business suits in
Donkey dimensions in New York and so was not wearing pants.
Looking around the other applicants were mostly young smartly
dressed accountants, mostly female, and mostly very
intelligent. Several clutched framed Harvard Business School
degrees and no doubt reams of recommendations and glowing
references bundled up in neat piles ready to present.
Dunbar Jones didn’t go to university. He didn’t have a laptop
and actually couldn’t hold a pen or type due to his large
The large Mahogany door at the end of the crowded hall
opened. Out came a young lady, looking much less hopeful than
those waiting their turn. If she had been a cockatoo and had
a crest it would have definitely fallen flat.
“Dunbar Jones?” Clipped a secretary with a tight grey bun
from her desk at the door.
“Dunbar Jones you may go in now.”
He trotted down the soft carpeted corridor and nudged the
door wider with his large muzzle. Inside the office was an
enormous cavern of luxurious interior deign. Expensive
couches with equally expensive cushions precluded an even
more impressive games area. Several famous works of art and
fancy lighting fixtures adorned the walls.
“Aha, Dunbar Jones, mind if I call you DJ?” A plump middle
aged man with pale wobbly jowls and decidedly ostentatious
eyebrows greeted him from behind the vast desk.
“I’ve been waiting for you to come through. Been dealing with
all the riffraff. Now you know a Harvard Degree is so blaise
these days, and Oxford? Cambridge? Even had a young lady with
one from each! Pfaff, you can get all that online. No, you
are the type of man that has REAL talent. You have LIVED, you
ARE TMI Investment Banking! Welcome DJ, welcome I say!”
Dunbar felt quite welcome. In fact he felt so welcome he
placed his ample rear end on one of the desk facing purple
“Whiskey?, No?” BJ Whyte licked his thick lips and poured one
for himself, it was now 9:15am.
“So, I believe in action DJ. Thats why your application
impressed me. No paperwork, no fancy recommendations,
NOTHING! That told me you are a man of ACTION rather than
words. WE don’t need words. You can’t imagine how many words
all these applicants come out with. Not one of them showed me
what I needed to see, a man with a mission, a man with GRIT.
Thats what it takes in finance.”
Dunbar Jones blinked.
“Got a wife? Kids? Where are you holed up? I’ll get Peggy to
send the Missus some flowers and toys for the kids. They
won’t see too much of you once you start tomorrow! Take her
out tonight, buy her a nice dinner. Peggy will book you in at
Remys’ tonight at 8.”
Dunbar Jones realised it was now time to leave. He stood up
and made his way out of the office. BJ was now shouting into
the intercom for Peggy to cancel all the interviews as he had
found his man.
The wife returned from the supermarket for the two hundred
and fifty thousand and thirty third time. It was 11am. She
made the same journey each week, if not several times. Empty
large hessian bags returned full and heavy. She had thick
strong legs. Her back was broad and her thick fingers able to
pull the relentless weeds fro the dry front garden outside
15 Taupe Road.
She carried the house key on a string around her neck, so as
not to lose it. That had happened once and it was 10 hours
before her husband came home from his office job to let her
in. She had become cold in the night air, but munched on the
bag of carrots from the supermarket.
The family home was comfortable. The wife was a good cleaner,
her hands small enough to scrub between the tiles on the
bathroom, and reach into the crannies beside the old oven to
pull out any spilt food.
Her children were at school all day, and that gave her just
enough time to clean up their breakfasting, do two loads of
laundry, vacuum the house, clean the bedrooms , pay the
bills, and walk the dog. After a small lunch of salad (she
was told she needed to lose weight), she would then move onto
preparing the children afternoon tea, wrapping the presents
she bought for the upcoming children’s Laser tag party and
writing out 150 Christmas cards.
At 2pm the phone rang. It was her husband. She was in the
middle of removing the stains from the hall way carpet.
“Hello? Is that you Dunbar?” She knew it was from the
clunking of the receiver, Dunbar would have to lay the phone
down as he had no hands.
“Are you coming home late again? Thats ok, I will leave your
dinner in the oven all you have to do is wake me and Ill come
warm it up.”
She was told it was rewarding to look after her husband, that
it is well documented that thinking of others inherently made
Finishing the carpet, she left the house in the car and drove
to the school to collect the children.
DJ had found some pants. It seemed that more and more Donkeys
were now working in Wall Street. Industrious tailors taking
the opportunity to broaden their market. The range was
limited, but better than nothing. Dunbar had been told he
needed to start wearing clothes to work. He had chosen a nice
pair of Grey Flannel pants, a crisp white shirt and a yellow
cable knit jersey. He also now owned a suit for meetings.
Today the offices were all abuzz. There had been apparently
some problems with a big investment deal. Foreign clients had
decided to pull out at the last minute and its was looking
like the firm was to lose at least 2 billion.
Apparently the deal had gone south over cocktails at
Winstons, over on 54th st. BJ Wyte had unfortunately had ten
too many and proceeded to butt heads with the client.
The client happened to be an Ox with a very strong cranium
and a very short temper.
BJ called DJ into his office for a crisis meeting. Dunbar
Jones had a vague thought he should change into his suit, but
without fingers it was pretty impossible.
With his pale flabby face now an florid crimson and his
forehead sporting a very large bruised egg, BJ erupted into
an expletive riddled rant.
“That bloody OX is going to cost me a fortune!” The crimson
patches had now combined to create one completely scarlett
mask of fury.
“YOU! You’re the man to fix this. YOU FIX IT! I don’t want
to lose any money you hear! NONE!”
Dunbar Jones blinked. He wasn’t sure whether to sit down.
“All I did was call him a girl because he wouldn’t get up and
do Karaoke. I’d just sung “Don’t you want me” you know by
Human League for gods sake. Now he’s pulling out all his
investment in the Chicks ’N Chicken chain. We have already
built 5000 outlets across America, and broken ground in
France. Thats not cheap!”
Dunbar Jones decided to sit down after all. He was also
wearing a new pair of Dinky Donk Shoes. The shoes looked good
but really pinched if he stood for prolonged amounts of time.
“Heres what we are going to do. YOU are going to go MEET with
Brian. YOU are going take him out for lunch, take him to that
new swanky joint on 23rd St. Then take him to a boxing match,
or baseball or some kind of sporting thing that Russian Oxen
like. Give him as much beer as he can take and buddy up. I’d
suggest a fishing trip but we don’t have time. We have to
close this deal tonight. Make him your best mate, spark a
bromance. GO to Brotown. Do some Brogramming if that’s his
thing. Go Manspread yourselves allover the NYC subway system.
WHATEVER IT TAKES GET HIM BACK ON OUR SIDE!”
By now BJ had worked himself up into such a lather that the
heat generated was beginning to fog up the large glass
Dunbar Jones stopped by Peggys desk on his way out and
collected the black company credit card. He had to carry it
in his teeth as he had no hands.
Rimsky’s was the new joint on 23rd Street. It was popular,
what with being new and also because the beer was Belgian.
Peggy had booked the round table in the centre of the
restaurant, and managed to reserve the only two quadrupedal
stools they had.
DJ arrived at 8pm. Brian the Russian Ox at 8:05pm.
The beer was good, the dinner excellent and the conversation
was as minimal as it could possibly be without being
described as silence.
Neither DJ or Brian were known for much more than a few
grunts, but they were able to discern a few things. DJ worked
out Brians eye motions weren’t a tic but a polite request
for the salt and Brian helpfully nudged the plate of carrots
closer to DJ after deciphering nose flaring.
It could be said the high profile top financial executive
working dinner went well.
Walking the New York streets afterwards, the two executives
also realised they had allot in common. They had a similar
gait, seemed to both want to go the same way and even stoped
to sniff the same hedge outside the Shaving Soap Store on
Dunbar Jones still wasn’t too sure what BJ had been telling
him back at the crisis meeting, but it seemed he was very
upset. Perhaps he had lost something or had stood on a
thumbtack. Either way, the two animals had enjoyed the night
It was the end of the financial year. A time when the offices
of all the big banks and investment firms seemed to emit
radiant tones of gold and green. Profits were good. The
executives were happy. Boozing went long into the night with
only the most junior or least male of the species vacating
early due to embarrassment. Entertainments were booked that
weren’t to everyones taste.
The donkeys stayed. They were amongst the most highly paid
these days in the city. A meritocracy of high achievement and
rich rewards resulted in an ever expanding Donkey percentage.
The Donkeys seemed happy, the tailors and various Donkey spin
off businesses such as Jonny Maas Equine Fake Fingers, Dinky
Donk Shoes and Marchellos Hoof Gloss were over the moon.
Dunbar Jones sat at his desk. The office was empty as most
important workers had headed down to the basement bar tonight
was the Bro Glow Happy Hour.
There were no papers, no computer and still not even a pen on
DJs desktop. He hadn’t managed to workout the Fake Fingers
most Donkeys sported these days.
“DJ, My MAN!!” In came BJ, clutching a very large bottle of
Scotch and puffing on a cigar.
Dunbar Jones blinked.
“We did it! YOU did it Bro!” The middle aged bloated business
man was sweating. Perhaps from excitement or just fatigue
from walking down the adjoining corridor.
“YOU got the raging Russian Bull to sign! They tried to get
out of it, said it wasn’t legal but Chicks ’N Chicken is up
and running. Already 450 stores have opened their greasy big
doors and the green is flowing our way!”
After the night out with Brian, the Russian Ox, DJ had
visited his boss and entered his office just as he was biting
into a rather over sauced hotdog supper. The tomato sauce had
blurted out and down his chin.
“Give your napkin!” He had yelled. Meaning the napkin from
Rimsky’s which somehow had become lodged on DJs Donkey suit
“HANG ON A MINUTE!! THATS NOT ANY NAPKIN YOU CHEEKY B******!”
The napkin in question had a hoof print on it. This was
Brians. Brian had stepped on it as he walked out of the
restaurant, a gust of wind had then blown it up and it was
caught up in Dunbars suit.
Apparently this was now legally Brians signature.
The rest was history.The firm made allot of money that year.
Allot of city firms made allot of money on other deals that
year. The city was humming with the self congratulatory
parties late into the night.
All over New York Donkeys saw the morning in, surrounded by
very grateful bosses. Most of them sat down, most of them
wore pants and one of them was even called Dunbar Jones.