So sometimes I use a lot of brackets.

It will be years later, in that same boardroom (refurbished; the glass is tinted, the blinds are off-white, and the carpet is a deep ochre. A bowl of beads [glass: red, copper, cocoa, gold and brassy] is a bed for a tealight candle that in turn casts their colours around onto the dark wood of the long table. It shines through them and their souls sparkle and shift on papers and annual earnings and manilla folders;) men and women will sit, anxious, and stare at that lanky man, who will again revel in his subtle power, power over them, these incredibly powerful people, as he is the messenger.

The Big Man is dead.
Inside his exoskeleton (sometimes with filigree silver buttons, sometimes with a smart olive green tie) he had weakened, and his heart (a fragile, fatty, orange thing) had seized, flipflopping (like a fish)and inside his chest (double breasted, under a white shirt), it had choked. Choking, whimpering, a silence, as he had lain next to his mistress (exoskeletonless), staring at the ceiling fan and clutching at his chest. A lifetime of indulgence in the social right had worn him down, and she would wake next to him, worry that he has overslept into the morning (what if his wife suspected?) and she would feel a swell of affection for him (finally) in her soft, pinkwhite chest (with a smattering of freckles) and she would touch his arm and he is cold, his eyes milky, and his fingers curled in his chest hair. She (Not Wife, more of a Wife than any Wife before) would scream; she would scream and scream and scream for she had never seen a dead person before. Not Wife would cover herself with a sheet and tears when the ambulance came, and she would then slip out of The Big Man's ex-life forever.
Staring at the ceiling fan, a portly insectoid man with clicking mandibles, downward corners at his mouth and sometimes sweat rivulets (when it concerned his Wife and Not Wife) had passed away with his fingers (on hands that would be clasped upon one another) curled in his peppered chest hair, with a sleeping Not Wife beside him.
He had been happy.
Sinful, self-absorbed, and happy.

The Messenger Man, with his projector and his files and power (over nervous a nervous board room) cracked his knuckles; "We reached an all time low, and have indeed recovered from that blow, but not nearly enough. The year following our collapse, we saw the post count double, and last year, we saw 8 posts. Considerably less than the usual standard, but seemingly enough to pull this company through on,"
He paused.
Smiling.
Powerful.
They waited.
Wide-eyed. Sweating. Fidgeting.
Powerless.
"The board of shareholders does not believe it is adequate, that the returns are worth the expenditure, and many forfeit their stocks, claiming the profit margins are too narrow. As it stands, in the 13 years this amalgamated company has stood, a product of a lucrative merger, we have amassed 149 posts, and at times, 20 posts per annum. On average, the output of this company is 11.46 posts annually. While this could be extremely adequate, if not exceptional," (a pleased murmur) "no one feels it is consistent enough to be considered reliable and thus our shareholders are continuing to drop like flies." (a displeased murmur)
One (third from the top, right side) raised a hand to silence them, to speak; (a sharp, silent gasp. oh the audacity)
"I've seen many blogs that have been very successful on one post a year, or even going an entire year without production. It was simply that the posts were long, detailed and interesting. Maybe we should take a different approach?"
The Messenger Man twitched.
(curious murmur)
"I don't think so." He said, lanky man, powerfulless man. Slipping man.
"We have to increase post production; frequency and quantity are most important," he continued, thus ignoring the One (third from the top, right side.)
Since his (disgraced, dead) Big Man (insect) father had passed away (exoskeletonless, not alone) he had taken a place at the company's boardroom table, not quite his successor, not quite his usurper, just there.
He was a deeply bored man, and only superficially a business man.
With no Wife and no Not Wife to speak of, he was a bit hedonistic, a bit lonely, mostly steeped in ennui.
A man of privilege. A man of excess, in a house of silence, with a Mother and a Not Mother his Big Man Father would sometimes kiss in restaurants no one thought he knew.
He had no wings to fly (maybe dusty, maybe crinkling cellophane) nor mandibles to click, antennae to swivel (even in boardroom swivel chairs) or even a hard exoskeleton. Instead, his suit (soft, inadequate as a protective measure) was chocolate brown, smooth, and his shirt was black, and he wore no tie (oh the audacity)
He would talk to every woman, and coerce every woman he spoke to, and maybe fuck a good half of them. Maybe.

Messenger Man spoke, "What could be attribute it to?"
(Nervous, sidewaysglance, fidgeting) they fired suggestions
"Being busy?"
"Distracted?"
"Out of the house?"
"With company?"
"Feeling out of sorts?"
"Illness?"
That One (third from the top, right side, deeply bored, superficially business:
"Maybe we start long posts, and amidst conversations and other activities, they generally lose focus, momentum and a sense of planned continuity?"
... (murmur)
"No, that's just stupid."