Honestly, that computer science and cybersecurity shit was hitting different. I wasn’t just passing classes; I was actually getting good at coding. Like, real-deal good. I set up a virtual machine on my laptop to test out firewall breaches, and I was writing my own patches for other systems. I even coded my own personal antivirus from scratch.
To test it, I’d download the most famous, nasty-ass malware out there—stuff that’s crashed whole corporate networks—and let it rip inside my VM just to see if my software could kill it. It did. Every single time.
I was on the verge of graduating early. The finish line was right there, but of course, my work life had to get hard.
My old manager left, and they replaced him with this new narc-ass bitch named Tisha. Bro, nobody liked her. Not even the corporate dick-riders. Tisha was the type of person who’d do the absolute most over nothing. If you were two minutes late because of traffic, she’d act like you stole from the register.
And she loved to roast people. She’d stand there throwing shots at everybody, but the second someone roasted her back and got her good? Boom. Fired. Or she’d make everyone stay late and do extra work.
Now, me personally? I’m not a hard guy to like. I’m pretty cooperative. I show up, do my work, and don’t make waves. But oh boy, I could not stand this bitch.
She was in her late forties and had absolutely no hairline. Now, don’t get me wrong—the bitch had a fatty on her. I’m not gonna lie about that. All the dudes at work would joke about how they’d crack her, but they all said it had to be back shots only. There was no way in hell you could do missionary while looking at that massive forehead.
Nah, fuck that. That wasn’t even a forehead; it was a fivehead. Her forehead was so big I could’ve slapped my entire palm on it and still had room left over. Her hairline was so far gone I could’ve done the slick-back challenge on her shit. Real life “no nigga I’m a pimp named slick back” lookin' ass.
First off, let’s talk about where your boy was working. I was stuck at a combination KFC and Taco Bell. Yeah, one of those joint fast-food spots.
My main job was preparing the chicken and wrapping up the burritos, mostly because the other people at this fucking job didn’t know how to do any of that properly. Wrapping a burrito isn’t rocket science, but these dudes made it look like it.
Actually, I picked up cooking when I was a kid. Back when my mother was trying to starve me out, I had to learn how to throw a meal together. I’d grab whatever random ingredients we had in the house and look through her old cookbooks, trying to figure out how to make something edible. Now that I’m older and look back on it, that shit was kind of fucked up. But that’s beside the point.
One day in particular, I got to work a little late.
The reason? The fucking cops were harassing me again. Ever since that party, they’d been breathing down my neck. But I didn’t say a damn word to them. Every time they tried to ask me a question, I just pleaded the Fifth or asked for my lawyer. Mr. Walker had told me to call him the second I got into any legal trouble, so that’s exactly what the fuck I did.
The cops even tried to play the “you’re on parole” card to scare me into talking and lock me up. Tough titty, though. They were a little too late for that. My parole had officially ended three days ago. My record was clean, so I was chilling.
But Tisha didn’t care about none of that. As soon as I walked in, she was ready to write me up.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “The police were harassing me again.”
She smacked her lips and did that stupid head roll. “You’re always using the same excuse for being late. I’m going to have to write you up for that.”
“Huh? Mi scusi?” I looked at her. “What do you mean, the same excuse? Write me up for what? That’s not even an excuse, that’s an objective fact. You know I record every single meeting I have with the police, right? So you know I’m not lying. Why are you gonna write me up?”
I always record them, by the way. Never trust those body-cam kids. They’ll try to delete the footage, or make you pay a mountain of fees and wait months just to get your hands on it when you actually need it.
“I’m not even going to argue with you,” Tisha snapped, waving her hand. “Just don’t come late again or you’re fired.”
“Yo, that’s not even fair. How are you gonna fire me over something I can’t even control? It’s not my fault the police are trying to ask me questions about some shit I had zero involvement in. Who’s gonna write you up when you get late because some driver crashed on the highway and backed up traffic? Is that still your fault?”
“If you don’t shut your smart-ass mouth, you’re going to get fired right now,” she said, her fivehead practically shining under the fluorescent lights. “Now get your ass to work.”
The voice in my head started acting up immediately: Man, who the fuck is this bitch talking to? She talking like she can whoop our ass, son. Smack the fuck out of this bitch!
Nope. Not today, Satan. Not today. I’d just gotten off parole literally three days ago, and there was no way in hell I was trying to get dragged back into the system. But at the same time, I couldn’t just let this slide. She kept trying to little-bro me, and that was disrespectful as hell.
I had to keep working if I wanted my paper, but I couldn’t let her play me like that. So how was I supposed to deal with this?
BING!
A literal lightbulb went off in my head, bro. I figured out the best way to get fired where she’d still have to face some serious consequences.
But what are you talking about, Rico?
I’m talking about calling OSHA on this bitch. Now, for the people who don’t know what that is, OSHA is the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. Basically, their job is making sure work sites are safe and healthy to work in.
And I’m not gonna lie to you—I was working at a ghetto fast-food joint. It was close to my dorm, and it was the only place hiring at the moment, so your boy had to take what he could get. But the state of this place made it the perfect setup for my plan.
The restaurant was mostly managed by hood niggas, my manager being no exception. They did the bare minimum just to keep the place looking presentable, which meant there were safety hazards all around this bitch.
Grease-slicked floors, exposed wiring by the fryers, expired food—you name it. The only person who actually gave a fuck about his job was this dude named Jacob.
Jacob had been working there way longer than me. In fact, he'd been the assistant manager longer than Tisha had even been the general manager, and he really wanted that promotion.
During our break, I walked over to talk to him.
“Yo, Jacob. Let me talk to you for a second while we’re on break,” I said.
“What’s up, Rico?”
“Hey man, I think I figured out a way for you to get that manager position.”
He looked at me, confused. “How is that?”
“Simple,” I said. “We both lie our asses off about Tisha. But not to corporate. We call OSHA.”
“OSHA?” Jacob frowned. “Don’t they only work with power plants and construction sites?”
“Hell no. They’re universal for all workplaces. And you know how badly this place is kept up, right? I’m talking about safety hazards all over the kitchen.”
“Yeah,” Jacob admitted, shaking his head. “I always hated that shit. Tisha never talks to corporate or the franchise owner to get anything fixed. Not only that, she won’t even let us take free food home at the end of the day, even when we have to throw it straight in the trash.”
“Exactly,” I said, leaning in. “So here's the game plan. We report the kitchen hazards, but we also claim that she threatened to fire us if we called them. Then, we make it look like she actually fired us because we reported her to OSHA. That’s whistleblower retaliation, and it’s highly illegal. Even if she does fire us, corporate will have to fire her to save their own asses, and we can get our jobs back. It might look a little foul if it’s just me, but you’ve been here for five years, son. If she fires both of us, we’ll be Gucci.”
Jacob stared at me, a slow grin starting to spread across his face. “So how are we supposed to pull this off?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I told him. “I got you.”