Verified Mistrust
      By Timothy A. Fenner
       
       
       
       
      In the twenty-three years of my life, I’ve had the dubious 
pleasure of receiving two of the strangest, if not the worst 
marriage proposals in history.
      My eighteen-year-old sweetheart offered the first on the 
eve of my sixteenth birthday, May 31, 2016, the day after I 
graduated from high school. The proposal came with a cheap 
bottle of wine in one hand, two red SOLO cups in the other, and 
a tiny diamond ring tied to the end of his erection.
      I respectfully declined.
      The second proposal came just moments ago from a coworker I 
barely even know. The offer carries the promise of zero sexual 
contact, an endless supply of servants and power, and rather 
than a ring, my very own crown. Not that Harold comes from 
royalty. Nevertheless, he’s offered what has to be the most 
bizarre and disturbing proposal ever conceived.
      And he’s only given ninety seconds to choose, though we 
both know I can’t say no.
      
      ***
      
      I didn’t think much of Harold Pinkerton the first time I 
met him. I doubt many did. Not that anyone could be blamed, mind 
you. He maintained a persona so meek he barely cast a shadow. 
Even the United States Government failed to see past his 
disheveled brown hair, worn penny loafers, lifeless tan 
trousers, and drab sweater vests when they hired him into DARPA.
      A wolf dressed in nerd’s clothing.
      Most of the general populace regarded Harold as the de 
facto target for ritual humiliation, including whispers behind 
the back, shared electronic mockeries, even direct 
confrontations.
      Harold Pinkerton: the go-to punching bag for anyone 
battling self-esteem issues or in need of ill-mannered 
amusement.
      Harold’s camouflage was too meticulous, his performance too 
perfect, keeping his true self hidden from us mere mortals.
      The one most blind to Harold’s true self had to have been 
our boss, Kyle Jacobson. He took every opportunity to pick on 
Harold, to “knock him down a peg” as he liked to say after one 
of his verbal lashings had sent Harold running. Had Jacobson 
known Harold’s secret, I doubt he would’ve muttered a single 
derogatory word, let alone dare to look in Harold’s direction. 
      Jacobson’s hate-affair with Harold took center stage the 
first day of my new job within the Tactical Technology Office. 
Mister Jacobson, as he preferred to be called, had just led me 
into a sea of taupe-colored cubicles when we happened upon 
Harold scurrying towards us, likely on his way to the stock 
room.
      Jacobson swung out a fleshy arm before me, halting our 
advance through cubicle hell, and said, “Well, would you look at 
that.”
      Harold glanced up from what I would come to learn was 
commonly called his “nerdunch,” a term coined specially to 
describe Harold’s distinctive posture: head hung low to avoid 
eye contact, shoulders slouched forward in a hunchback of sorts, 
bent arms tucked to his sides to allow his hands to fiddle with 
one another. Seeing Jacobson, Harold’s advance faltered to a 
stop.
      “You’re lucky, Ippolito,” Jacobson said, gesturing his 
surprisingly small hands toward Harold. “It’s rare to catch 
sight of the elusive Uber Nerd.”
      Harold’s eyes twitched side-to-side behind his thick-rimmed 
glasses. His fidgeting hands shifted into overdrive. He twisted 
left, then right, looking for an aisle to duck into, but he 
found nothing but white cubicle walls.
      When Harold turned to run, Jacobson cut him short. “Now, 
now, Harold. Don’t be rude.”
      Harold turned back with an achingly slow twist of his feet. 
The oily darkness of his dilated pupils locked onto me, then 
Jacobson. In hindsight, I should have seen it then, the hidden 
anger swirling inside Harold, the pent up rage clawing to be 
released, his utter disdain of inferior minds. But, like most 
people, I locked on to how comical his magnified eyes looked 
behind his glasses.
      “Come on over, Harold,” Jacobson said. “Meet the newbie.”
      Harold sighed, tucked his head against his chest, and 
inched toward us. He stopped well beyond arm’s reach and just 
stood there like a sulking child.
      “Michelle Ippolito, meet Harold James Pinkerton.”
      “Hello, Harold,” I said, stepping forward with an open 
hand.
      Harold’s gaze flicked to my hand and quickly back to the 
floor. After the longest of seconds, and a grumbling “ahem” from 
Jacobson, Harold plopped a limp hand into mine.
      I wrapped my fingers around the clammy lump, gave it a 
shake, then let it go as quickly as the social graces allowed.
      “Harold here is our very own resident genius,” Jacobson 
said. “He works on a variety of projects, typically for the TTO, 
but he also covers stuff from MTO, DSO…hell, damn near every 
other office there is. And most of it’s so classified even I 
don’t get to know about it all.” Jacobson crossed his thick arms 
across his hulking chest and leaned toward Harold. “Ain’t that 
right, Harold?”
      Harold sucked in his lower lip but remained silent. The 
poor devil seemed to get smaller and smaller under Jacobson’s 
grilling, like an ice cube under a heat lamp.
      “That’s sounds interesting,” I said, hoping to cool the war 
brewing before me.
      Jacobson leaned back and blasted a snort from his bulbous 
nose. “I’m sure it is. Can’t say for sure. Only Harold knows 
what goes on in his little fortress of solitude.”
      “You have a…fortress?” I asked, hoping to break through 
somehow.
      “You bet he does,” Jacobson said, denying Harold the chance 
to respond. Not that he would have. “Harold’s got his very own 
lab, servers, Internet access…even dedicated supply chains. And 
we’ve been told to provide him whatever he needs, whenever he 
asks for it. It’s a pretty sweet gig. Wouldn’t you agree, 
Harold?” 
      Harold said nothing. Had it not been for the nose-curling 
stink of what I assumed was the man’s halitosis, I could’ve 
forgotten he was even there.
      “Harold only has to leave his fortress to head home, take a 
dump, or, when he’s desperate, for a part from the general 
stockroom.” Jacobson smirked and narrowed his eyes. “Is that 
what brings you out today, Harold? You need something from my 
stockroom?”
      Continued silence.
      Had I any nerve, I would have handed Jacobson the employee 
handbook he’d given me earlier in the morning, and opened it to 
the harassment section. But I kept quiet in the misguided hope 
of making a good impression.
      “Come now, Harold. If you needed something, you could’ve 
just asked,” Jacobson said. “But you never ask for help, do 
you?”
      Again, Harold said nothing.
      “Fear not, old boy. We got you some help anyways.”
      Harold’s head popped up as Jacobson clasped a hand on my 
shoulder.
      “Michelle here will be dedicated to providing quality 
assurance for all of your projects. Her job is to make sure 
everything you release actually works and meets spec. Every 
piece of code, every hardware design, everything. Whatever you 
plan to send out of that fortress of yours goes through her—or 
it doesn’t leave the facility.” Jacobson’s smile grew larger and 
larger with every headshake from Harold. “Starting tomorrow, she 
gets access to your lab and all of your files. How’s that 
sound?”
      Harold’s mouth bobbled, his body twitched, yet, still, he 
said nothing.
      Great, I thought. Use me to antagonize my new co-worker, 
Jacobson. I’m sure that’ll endear him to me.
       “Great,” Jacobson said. “Michelle will see you in the lab 
first thing in the morning.”
      Harold took a retreating step, then another, before finally 
spinning to scurry away.
      Jacobson chuckled. “As you can see, he can be a bit 
difficult. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get along just 
fine.”
      “I’m sure we will,” I said, doing my best to sound genuine. 
      “Believe it or not, he’s the smartest person in this place. 
Hell, smartest person on the planet probably. Unless you can 
find anyone else with an immeasurable IQ.”
      “Immeasurable?”
      “Little Harold maxes out every test thrown at him,” he 
said, waving me onward through cubicle hell. “He’s collected 
over a dozen degrees, half of them advanced. Did it through some 
sort of accelerated learning program for the gifted. Behavioral 
science, engineering, physics, technology, mathematics, 
neuroscience, telecommunications... Hell, he’s qualified to 
perform brain surgery.”
      “But he looks so...young?” In fact, Harold looked even 
younger than me.
      “Hard to believe, I know.” Jacobson pointed to one of the 
many “Trust, but Verify” signs hanging above. “But every single 
one of them has been confirmed. He’s as smart as they come. 
Socially stunted as they come, too.”
      “Really?” I said, trying my best to sound surprised. Social 
skills are often lacking in the engineering world, especially at 
this level.
      Jacobsen chuckled. “Yeah, but like I said before, I’m sure 
you two will get along fine.”
      
      ***TO BE CONTINUED***
      
      
Or this:

      In the twenty-three years of my life, I’ve had the dubious 
pleasure of receiving not one, but two of the worst marriage 
proposals in history.
      
      (not sure I like the definitive “worst proposals in 
history” statement, as I’m sure there are likely others that 
have been worse.
Note: this story is formatted for submissions, which a lot of publishers require underlines vs italics in order to 
prevent font and print issues from obscuring the italics. 

In short, if you see an underline, treat it as an italic.  :)
Verified Mistrust: 8