LOBO's Discourse on "The Nature of Reality." Yes, there's a Quiz.
Predator Press
[LOBO]
As the economy slowly recovers, overqualified people compete for grunt work.
(-I imagine you’ll hear a lot more stories like this in the near future.)
But one of my squad is getting a promotion.
And it might be me.
***
Still, the morning meeting wasn’t for another twelve minutes. I let the door close behind me and basked in the restorative quiet, slipping into the deskless swivel chair for a contemplative moment.
Absently doing the well-practiced battery swap, I ponder having forgotten I set them up yesterday. Indeed I now remember explicitly doing it. But I could have walked in on a single battery today, and never given it another thought. The good ole sterile, irrefutable, mathematical Universe confounded its favorite Existentialist again with a potent dose of non-subjective Reality -alas only demonstrating my full embrace of the lens from which I choose to view it.
The “promotion” is nigh inconsequential, and hardly warranting attention. Paywise, it is about a quarter an hour -$10 a week. Before taxes.
And I am apparently competing with the rest of my “squad,” Barbarossa and Agatha –both of whom burst suddenly into the room, startling me slightly, and apparently discussing the same subject.
“It’s not worth it,” explains Agatha. She greets me with a dismissive wave, engrossed in conversation with Barbarossa. “It just makes people complain to you more. And that’s all people do around here is complain.”
The fact that Agatha is ironically complaining hasn’t escaped me, but I got lost in thought about Agatha's hands.
I don’t think "Agatha" is a woman.
See you can tell a lot about people by their hands. Their real age. Their occupation.
Their sex.
It beats that “Adam’s apple” crap all to hell. You can have the Adam’s apple surgically altered. But to my knowledge there’s no plastic surgery for hands -and could you imagine the expense? Thus, I suspect this large-handed, sometimes flat chested, six foot two, athletically-built, redhead-sporting-rare-patches-of-unfreckled-flesh “woman” -who personally chose the name “Agatha” BTW, and visibly smolders about all the above- is competition for this dubious honor with me.
In any case, she will kick ass on our softball team. Barbarossa, on the other hand, is of little concern. His eyes are black and swollen from sleepless exhaustion. And his hands shake from nervous anxiety. Addled. He really, really looks like he could use some pot to relax. But remember he thinks I am his probation officer for some reason, and I promptly dispose of unprocessed piss tests of his on a weekly basis like clockwork.
-I can't let him cloud his judgment now, potentially on the cusp of a potentially huge career move for him, can I?
As a Professional, I would prefer Barbarossa seek out the Universe's source of his issues -like the fact that someone using a surreptitiously-made car key has been sneaking out of the morning meeting and parking his car someplace different, adjusting his seats, reprogramming his radio stations and, yes, occasionally slightly deflating a random tire here and there.
I only know this because I have been paying Agatha twenty bucks a week to do it for over a month now.
And with Barbarossa out of the running, I’ll just point out the parking lot security tape of Agatha doing it.
But then I noticed something else disturbing about Agatha's hands.
-Barbarossa was holding one of them.
I think I screamed.
[LOBO]
As the economy slowly recovers, overqualified people compete for grunt work.
(-I imagine you’ll hear a lot more stories like this in the near future.)
But one of my squad is getting a promotion.
And it might be me.
Still, the morning meeting wasn’t for another twelve minutes. I let the door close behind me and basked in the restorative quiet, slipping into the deskless swivel chair for a contemplative moment.
 |
| "Honey. we can't see each other anymore. -It's not you, it's me." |
The “promotion” is nigh inconsequential, and hardly warranting attention. Paywise, it is about a quarter an hour -$10 a week. Before taxes.
And I am apparently competing with the rest of my “squad,” Barbarossa and Agatha –both of whom burst suddenly into the room, startling me slightly, and apparently discussing the same subject.
“It’s not worth it,” explains Agatha. She greets me with a dismissive wave, engrossed in conversation with Barbarossa. “It just makes people complain to you more. And that’s all people do around here is complain.”
The fact that Agatha is ironically complaining hasn’t escaped me, but I got lost in thought about Agatha's hands.
I don’t think "Agatha" is a woman.
***
See you can tell a lot about people by their hands. Their real age. Their occupation.
Their sex.
It beats that “Adam’s apple” crap all to hell. You can have the Adam’s apple surgically altered. But to my knowledge there’s no plastic surgery for hands -and could you imagine the expense? Thus, I suspect this large-handed, sometimes flat chested, six foot two, athletically-built, redhead-sporting-rare-patches-of-unfreckled-flesh “woman” -who personally chose the name “Agatha” BTW, and visibly smolders about all the above- is competition for this dubious honor with me.
In any case, she will kick ass on our softball team. Barbarossa, on the other hand, is of little concern. His eyes are black and swollen from sleepless exhaustion. And his hands shake from nervous anxiety. Addled. He really, really looks like he could use some pot to relax. But remember he thinks I am his probation officer for some reason, and I promptly dispose of unprocessed piss tests of his on a weekly basis like clockwork.
-I can't let him cloud his judgment now, potentially on the cusp of a potentially huge career move for him, can I?
As a Professional, I would prefer Barbarossa seek out the Universe's source of his issues -like the fact that someone using a surreptitiously-made car key has been sneaking out of the morning meeting and parking his car someplace different, adjusting his seats, reprogramming his radio stations and, yes, occasionally slightly deflating a random tire here and there.
I only know this because I have been paying Agatha twenty bucks a week to do it for over a month now.And with Barbarossa out of the running, I’ll just point out the parking lot security tape of Agatha doing it.
But then I noticed something else disturbing about Agatha's hands.
-Barbarossa was holding one of them.
I think I screamed.
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