“You want a what?”

“I want a fucking yacht,” Derek responds sternly. “My girlfriend’s birthday is coming up and I’m throwing her a party. And it’s going to be on a fucking yacht.”

“But, sir— how are we supposed to get a yacht with such short notice? I mean, there’s paperwork… transactions… permission…” His assistant was cut off.

“I don’t give a fuck! I want a goddamn yacht by this weekend.” He slammed a thick stack of a hundred dollar bills on the table.

“There. I’m fucking paying you to get out of my office and to find me a nice, big ass yacht for my girlfriend, okay?” He walked around his desk, staring at the assistant intimidatingly.

“Don’t tell me that you’re refusing? This isn’t request, it’s a fucking order. You don’t think my girlfriend deserves a nice fucking boat for her birthday? Is that what you’re telling me?”

The assistant’s face flushed white. She stood there with pure embarrassment and humiliation. “N-No..?”

“Then get the hell out of my office and get me that yacht.” He stood just inches away from her, his eyes narrowing before she sprinted off.