Vocation, Vocation, Vocation
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“What can I do for you?” asks Mrs. Wahlberg.
“Well,” I says to the primly dressed woman. “My wife told me that if I have time to make Sporn, I have time to look for a job. So I saw your add in the paper saying these things would make me very wealthy. I’m totally in.”
Mrs. Walberg beams an unnaturally white smile as we enter the barn. “Do you have any experience with alpacas?”
“Alpacas are in my blood. My great grandfather ran an alpaca store, and my father lost the whole business in hand of poker. Despite the tragedy of it all, I’m third generation." I stick my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans and add, "I'm a legacy if you think about it.”
Just inside the barn now, she stops and reaches for my hand and pats it softly in a gesture of comfort. “It must have broken your heart to lose all those dear animals at such a tender age.”
Alpacas are animals?
“Oh yeah,” I says looking sadly at the ground, thinking quickly. “We had it all. Alpaca merchandising, alpaca cages, alpaca um, food … you name it. And every Christmas dad would pick out the fattest alpaca of all, and serve him up open-pit with a balsamic glaze and-”
I feel her hand stop.
“You ate alpacas?” she asks coolly.
Oops.
“There was never any money for food at Christmas,” I begin slowly. “This was due to –ah- dad’s gambling problem. Yeah. It was either eat an alpaca or one of the kids, and the alpacas couldn’t vote.” I pretend to rub a tear from my eye. “Dad was a very sick man,” I sniff.
“How many alpacas do you want?”
“I need to make a lot of money quick. How many do you have?”
“Several hundred.”
“That’s probably a pretty good start,” I says. “Will they all fit in my car or will I have to make a few trips?”
Mrs. Wahlberg laughs. “Oh look,” she says, pointing behind me. “One of them is curious about you. Her name is Molly.”
When I turned to look, I saw a freakish creature so hideously deformed it could only be explained by God being really, really mad at it: it looked like the product of a deeply inbred dog raped by a meth-addled ostrich.
I'm pretty sure I screamed before I passed out.
Meh.
-I've had worse job interviews.
[LOBO]
“What can I do for you?” asks Mrs. Wahlberg.“Well,” I says to the primly dressed woman. “My wife told me that if I have time to make Sporn, I have time to look for a job. So I saw your add in the paper saying these things would make me very wealthy. I’m totally in.”
Mrs. Walberg beams an unnaturally white smile as we enter the barn. “Do you have any experience with alpacas?”
“Alpacas are in my blood. My great grandfather ran an alpaca store, and my father lost the whole business in hand of poker. Despite the tragedy of it all, I’m third generation." I stick my thumbs through the belt loops of my jeans and add, "I'm a legacy if you think about it.”
Just inside the barn now, she stops and reaches for my hand and pats it softly in a gesture of comfort. “It must have broken your heart to lose all those dear animals at such a tender age.”
Alpacas are animals?
“Oh yeah,” I says looking sadly at the ground, thinking quickly. “We had it all. Alpaca merchandising, alpaca cages, alpaca um, food … you name it. And every Christmas dad would pick out the fattest alpaca of all, and serve him up open-pit with a balsamic glaze and-”I feel her hand stop.
“You ate alpacas?” she asks coolly.
Oops.
“There was never any money for food at Christmas,” I begin slowly. “This was due to –ah- dad’s gambling problem. Yeah. It was either eat an alpaca or one of the kids, and the alpacas couldn’t vote.” I pretend to rub a tear from my eye. “Dad was a very sick man,” I sniff.
“How many alpacas do you want?”
“I need to make a lot of money quick. How many do you have?”
“Several hundred.”
“That’s probably a pretty good start,” I says. “Will they all fit in my car or will I have to make a few trips?”Mrs. Wahlberg laughs. “Oh look,” she says, pointing behind me. “One of them is curious about you. Her name is Molly.”
When I turned to look, I saw a freakish creature so hideously deformed it could only be explained by God being really, really mad at it: it looked like the product of a deeply inbred dog raped by a meth-addled ostrich.
I'm pretty sure I screamed before I passed out.
Meh.
-I've had worse job interviews.
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