Well, because I love you and because I promised, here is your story for getting me to the 150 likes point on the fanpage. No cartoons today, I'll let you get to it. Enjoy the silliness, and start thinking about what YOU want to see on the blog. As I'm growing, I want to hear from you! Put your comments and questions below, and you can bet I'll answer back.
Well, without further ado--here it is, a story based on my day job--which I love--and the little-known administrative wing of supervillain organizations. Enjoy.
To Whom
It May Concern
Being the administrative assistant for an enormous evil
supervillain organization is less fun than it sounds.
Sure, I’m a secretary for D.O.O.M, Inc, but working for them isn’t
a guarantee of glamour. The strangeness of most things and the novelty wore off
a long time ago. Still, as long as I’m writing my official defection letter
with this job application, I might as explain why, and give you an idea of what
I do around here.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. It isn’t for the faint of
heart—if one is afraid of breaking a nail, working for supervillains is hardly
an ideal career choice. That’s why I get the manicurists to give me titanium
tips. I digress.
Why do I want to join the other side, you’re wondering, when I’ve
spent so long interacting with you already? After all, I can guarantee that
whether you’re an admin staff member like myself or a manager, you have
probably heard my voice on the phone, requesting insurance information. I’m one
of the front desk people, and you barely know my name, but you know me
extremely well nonetheless. It’s the reason I’m not wording this as formally as
usual for a cover letter. We’re on the same side, in a sense. I can’t ask you
to think of me as ‘one of the good guys’ yet, I know that has to be earned, but
maybe if you understand more about my job, you’ll see my reasons for defecting.
I have to admit that there are certain perks that never quite lose
their charm. Calling down a batch of henchmen to the lower lobby to deal with
the heroes who drop by does become routine. Watching an intrepid yet hapless
captive romantic partner being slowly lowered into a lava pit full of fire
sharks, however, always improves my day.
Then there are the benefits packages—perhaps the riskiest part of
leaving this job will be abandoning my benefits. Full health and dental,
complete accident coverage including vaporization, irreparable frostbite, evil
clones, and alien abduction or enslavement in addition to the routine
‘dismemberment or death’ inclusions is a pretty sweet deal. The fact that they
cover 50% of my salon visits and include a gym pass with ten personal training
sessions a year—evil has to look good—is more icing on the cake.
So, all in all, it’s a decent package. Or, it was.
I should preface further exposition by mentioning my most unique
assets. There aren’t many women who can calm a pack of ravening rat-wolves with
a single look, and the titantium-reinforced skeleton and unique cybernetic
enhancements mean that I’m technically a bit more than human myself. The
interfaced network on my systems makes Google’s look like an infantile joke,
even if it does mean that I’m technically mostly AI. It’s not a procedure you
can request from standard health care coverage, and it was done for free here.
You wouldn’t believe how useful an in-brain scheduler is for updating morning
torture sessions and ensuring that minions are cloned on time.
Admittedly, there are downsides. I’ve been here for a year and a
half, and that’s considered formidable. An uncomfortable number of my
predecessors and coworkers have been eaten by unspeakable tentacled horrors—not
just on dates. And, of course, we’re often in the line of fire when hero teams
hit the building. Force-fields around one’s desk are only so effective, hence
my upgrades.
Unfortunately, being partly computerized—bionic, if you prefer,
though it’s more than that—hasn’t given me the godlike patience true computers
and AIs have. You can only page the lab about a hyena-lizard-chicken escape so
many times before the pall of cleaning up all that dung afterwards kills any
excitement. Summoning the cleaners, forwarding our insurance bills to accounts
payable every time The Strong Arm breaks the door down dramatically…it has
become tiring.
Then, too, there’s the public vs. private image discrepancies with
the villains. When El Destruyado, Hell’s Own Luchador, charges into the fray
against La Esperanza and they smash the downtown core again, he seems
terrifying. Thunder, lightning, and wrestling moves that would incapacitate
anyone in the human leagues in a single blow are not to be trifled with. But
when the same man comes into the office with a double-chocolate biscotti
crammed into the lower half of his mask, latte in one hand and ePhone in the
other, it’s a different story. When Dr. May Hem has once again unleashed the
wrath of science on New New York or Toronto, she’s a sight to be seen. The way
she awkwardly flirts with Venus Fly Trap around the water cooler, though, shows
the body language of a different woman. And don’t get me started on The
Merciless Blob’s Friday snack binges, or the time I caught The Frostinator
crying deeply into the receiver as an awkward sex trade worker comforted him on
speakerphone.
People—perhaps even some heroes—tend to forget that under the
masks, the villains lucky enough to be full-timers are still people. They still
have uncomfortable holiday parties where The Newt drinks too much. They still
have board meetings to discuss strategies for the next quarter. Some of them
still get very lonely.
I do wonder about my status among the supervillains I interface
with. You can only bring so many lattes to the lab and tolerate the way they
forget your name each time for so long. (Granted, these are workaholic scientists,
and one needs to cut them a certain amount of slack for that.) Perhaps it’s the
awkward sense of sympathy I feel for some of them, or the frustration of
working around the time constraints of evil schemes, but in spite of my
aggravation, I feel some guilt about this career move.
I’m worried that knowing too much puts my life in some danger, of
course, but in a perfunctory way. We’re not quite family, but I’m more than a
mere peon, or so I’d like to think. Obviously, I’m keeping my options open.
Incidentally, I still haven’t mentioned another of my primary
qualifications for this position, namely, the time I’ve spent dealing with
heroes. They tend to be very polite when they’re not destroying the furniture
dramatically, though once in a while things get more interesting.
“I, THE STRONG ARM, CHALLENGE DOCTOR IMPERVIOUS TO A BATTLE TO THE
DEATH, IN THE NAME OF SAN FRANCISCO!”
“I’d be happy to direct you to him, sir, but Dr. Impervious is out
and you’ll have to make an appointment.”
He looked at me with the befuddlement only an entitled,
unconsciously privileged hero can muster. “IT’S A CHALLENGE TO FIGHT TO THE
DEATH!”
“And you’ll need to book an appointment. You can use the direct
line on the platinum phone in the lobby.” I gestured at the glossy , old-fashioned
phone on its marble plinth.
“THE SAFETY OF SAN FRANCISCO—NAY, THE ENTIRE WEST COAST—IS AT
STAKE! HIS EARTHQUAKE GENERATOR HAS TROUBLED THE SHORES FOR THE LAST TIME!”
“Actually, sir, you’ve reached the Canadian branch. I’d be happy
to assist you with a Vancouver-related incident, but I can’t help with San
Francisco. You’ll have to try the D.O.O.M. Inc, office on location in San
Francisco. If you have a concern for Canadian operations, however, you’re
welcome to wait. I’d be happy to get an evil representative to assist you.”
The look of stupefaction on his face was magnificent, but it was
quickly replaced by his default emotion, righteous meathead anger. “HE CAUSED
THE QUAKE! HE MUST PAY!”
I used my intercranial wireless to access both the government and
civilian seismic databases to search for info on the most recent earthquake. It
takes very little digging, and .5 of a nanosecond later, I had my answer. I put
on the seriously-annoyed face, the one that makes extraterrestrial diplomats
pause. “It was a natural earthquake, sir, and I’m afraid that if you continue
with that tone, I’ll be calling disposable security goons to see you out.” I
slapped a sticky note with Dr. Impervious’ extension on the desk for him.
With a furious glare and an emasculated curse—heroes don’t really
swear—he went over to the phone, dialed the number I’d given him, and scowled
at me.
“NOW WHAT?”
“Please wait patiently, sir. An evil representative will be with
you shortly. Otherwise, I’ll be happy to get you a complementary beverage.”
He glowered at me and reluctantly accepted a triple-shot skinny
moccachino with lizard milk. They almost always take the coffee and wait, in
the end.
This isn’t to say that all heroes are, in fact, assholes. Plenty
will just arrive, politely issue their thundering challenges, fight through the
goons, and go on their way. I’ve always liked the few corporate heroes that are
emerging—the ones who show up in Italian suits to broker peace negotiations
have a sense of style, of sophistication, that you don’t find with the
old-school meatheads. Sometimes we still send goons after them for fun, but
it’s pleasant to see the opposing side meeting us on our level.
I should return to descriptions of my qualifying features. I will
also be a valuable addition to your team due to my experience with difficult
situations and triaging calls. For instance:
“Good afternoon, D.O.O.M. Inc, how can we destroy you?”
“Yes, I’d like to donate to the orphans of evil villains—“
“That would be our evil fundraising wing. One moment and I’ll put
you through.” Click click. “Good afternoon, D.O.O.M. Inc, how can we destroy
you?”
“You’ll never win, D.O.O.M. Inc! Good will triumph! You may have
destroyed my Bear Cave—“
“Can I interrupt you briefly for your superhero alias or false
identity, sir? It will help me direct your call.”
“I am The Grizzly, and—“
“Ah, thank you, Mr. Grizzly. I’ll be happy to direct you to our
damage claims department regarding your Bear Cave. Please ensure you have your
claim number and insurance information ready.”
“I don’t want your money! I want justice! Your clearcutting—“
“Actually, sir, if I may interrupt, D.O.O.M. Inc is committed to
sustainable evil. We have very strict low impact environmental policies. You
may be looking for DEATH Cor. I understand that the Fire and
Inflammable Villain Associates Guild also has a branch dealing with forest
destruction.”
“That’s not good enough! I demand compensation for the lives of
innocents you’ve claimed! This is far more than a matter of destroying my Bear
Cave!”
His stage growl, reminiscent of a tracheal-tube-using Bob Dylan,
gives way to his real voice, the reedy drone only old men can
muster.
“Just one moment please, and I’ll be happy to connect you with the
complaint department.”
Of course, at the end of that call, we had a mauve alert—class C
hero invasion—and the acid sprinklers went off unexpectedly. Just then, the
Gibbonator burst through the wall, screaming in agony as his new rabid
gorilla-shark hybrid apprentice tore its master’s intestines out. Even before
the implants and fractal programming that supplements my consciousness, I’ve
always had the ability to keep a cool head and a smile under pressure.
Now, due to your equal opportunity employment initiatives, I
suspect I have a better chance than most for a position at WorldSavers United.
Nonetheless, I regret to say that I am still concerned about one aspect of my
future career with you based on past experiences with D.O.O.M. Inc. At D.O.O.M.
Inc, I knew I’d never be a supervillain proper; staff structures tend to be
very rigid and hierarchical, for all that our communication protocols are the
most progressive in evil industries.
I’ve been hoping to make more physical use of my implants and
accessories in a future career. I’d like WorldSavers United to be that
career-fulfilling directional change.
Sadly, you can’t be a cyborg half-composed of evil hyperquantum
computing parts without picking up a knack for analysis. I know that any
applications from candidates with evil corporations on their resumes have a
rejection rate of 87.965%, rounding down a bit. Therefore, I took the
precaution of stating my case in a more familiar style, for greater warmth and
appeal. I needed to ensure that the letter would be distracting and lengthy
enough that you’d fail to notice the letter bomb nanobots that have already
invaded your office.
I admit this was my idea—what better way to hit heroes where it
hurts than to disorganize them hopelessly? A fake defection letter…it’s
perfect. With no one to forward your calls and log evil challenges and
appointment requests, you’ll be helpless.
By now, of course, your seconds away from destruction in a
fireball full of deadly neurotoxic smoke, but I’ll dispense a bit of useful
advice before I close.
Never trust an evil admin applicant, but don’t trust admin in
general. Perhaps you will disagree, Cheryl on the third floor, but I suspect
you and I have more in common than you’ve been led to believe. You see, I know
you forwarded this letter to your superiors, and that they sent it to the
heroes before you’d even skim-read the third paragraph.
And so it is to you, La Esperanza, The Grizzly, and (oh, I hope)
The Strong Arm, that I address my final message. Wherever you work next,
whether I destroy WorldSavers United or merely cripple it temporarily, keep
something in mind. As you replace your staff at this or the next organization,
remember—no matter which side we’re nominally on, all secretaries are evil.
As well, I hope you’ll consider my application, and that you’ll
call me on the cell number attached to arrange an interview time.
Love it! You have a beautiful writing style, Michelle. Guess that comes from being an evil receptionist for so long. Best of luck with the applications and letter bombs!
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