“You really must admit — this is rich.”
That was me to my former personal secretary Ms. Cashtushy. We were in the conference room at Carver Consolidated Capital (C3), discussing her résumé submission for the office manager position I’d recently advertised. And while she wasn’t quite the sexpot she’d been when we worked together at Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs (LCF), she’d obviously gone to considerable lengths to doll herself up for the interview. A fact which I lasciviously appreciated.
Cashtushy arched an eyebrow, staring cooly through me rather than at me. “Oh?” she said. “How so?”
“Well as I recall, you tried to assault me with pepper spray the last time we met. Hardly the best way to go about getting a job!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, smiling as I leafed through her application forms. “Frankly, I’m not even sure why you need this gig. I thought you’d been hired on as the dean of admissions for some Christian mail-order university?”
She shifted in her seat. “Well now Mr. Carver. Surely you can’t begrudge a girl for seeking better opportunities?”
“No I cannot—”
“—but you’re a far cry from a girl! You’re a middle-aged married woman, for Nixon’s sake! No, I fear your ship of better opportunities sailed many moons ago, my sweet. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
Cashtushy crossed her arms and sneered in anger. “Jesus,” she said. “You are such an asshole.”
“What—! You’re certainly not going to get hired with that sort of language.”
“Oh yes I am.”
“Remember all that covert bathroom webcam footage you shot of me over the years at LCF? The footage you publicly bragged about numerous times on that weird little blog of yours?”
“Maybe,” I said, not liking the turn the conversation had taken.
“Hmm,” she said. She rose and began to gather her belongings. “Here’s the thing, you disgusting tub of goo. You’re going to hire me for this position—”
“—and you’re going to pay me two hundred and fifty thousand—”
“That’s right! Two hundred and fifty thousand! Per year! Otherwise, I’m going to the FBI with the ID-stamped files my sister’s hacker boyfriend copied off your home computer last night. Do we have an understanding?”
I nodded as giant sheets of sweat flopped off my brow.
Cashtushy smiled sweetly. “Great. See you Monday, Mr. Carver.”
And that was that. Though I dislike the underhanded way she went about it, I suppose it will be good to have Cashtushy around again. Granted, she looks more middle aged and married with each passing day, but the complete lack of recurring females with speaking parts has really turned this blog into a sausage-fest since my return. So until next time, toodle-oo.