Thanks, sponsors!âI SAID WHERE IS HE?!â She yelled again. âI SAID TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF!â I replied once more, because I am not a quitter. âListen, Brockway. Iâll give you one chance at this and one chance only: You will tell me what you did with Ross Wolinsky, or I will be forced to take drastic action.â âTAKE YOUR SH-â I began, but was interrupted by her interruption. âIâm not going to take my fucking shirt off! Just answer the question! I
Nothing like a hot, sweaty, yellow-pajama clad woman, right fellas?âYou have a point,â I said, slowly realizing that Wolinskyâs updates had indeed stopped the second I came on board, âmaybe itâs a company policy? We both have intense beards, you see, and I think there might be something in the employee handbook regulating beard output via-â âNO MORE LIES!â She broke in, âjust tell me why he left and nobody has to die tod-â âINTERRUPTION!â I yelled abruptly, âSee how rude that is? Doesnât feel so good, does it? Now, lady, I didnât do anything to Ross, but whatever beef you think you have with me, donât drag the interns into this, okay? Just let them goâ¦â I said selflessly, knowing that tales of my heroic, self-sacrificing nature would significantly increase the moisture levels in the secretary pool â which is already pretty moist, considering that it's literally a pool full of secretaries.
We call them "secretaries" for tax purposes.âWhat interns? Thereâs nobody here,â she said, craning her neck like an insane, deadly, large-breasted crane âThe dolls? Are you talking about the dolls with the smashed in heads on your desk?â âOh, uhâ¦â I squinted through the mescaline haze, âNo. Nothing, theyâre uhâ¦my balls,â I said, trying to cover for my drug-fueled psychosis, âthatâs what I call my balls: âThe Interns.â So, yâknow...let âem go.â A long, awkward silence passed as the confusion swept over her. I took the opportunity to alternately gesture at my crotch, and then shrug like âwhaddaya gonna do? You gotta let these balls go!â âEnough stalling,â she said, motioning me towards the door, âweâre going to get some goddamn answers. Whereâs Jackâs office?â âWhoop,â I said, âwop bop boop.â My mouth seemed to want to make Do-wop noises; I considered it only polite to let it do so. Mescaline is a hell of a drug.
Pictured: How I see most editorial meetings.She sighed with disgust and led my impotent, hallucinating mess of a body from office to office in her fevered search for Ross. She asked Bucholz, but she couldnât decipher that gibberish language he calls âCanadian English.â She interrogated and beat Swaim half to death before she realized that he liked it. We left him bleeding on the floor, still insisting that he pay her for the âbest afternoon of his life.â DOBâs office was empty â well, empty of people, anyway. It was filled to the brim with hastily sketched cartoon pornography and empty bottles of Mad Dog 20/20. We thought we heard a gentle sobbing, and saw a slight shift in one of the debris piles, but I guess she didnât have the heart to check. Finally, we arrived at Jackâs door. âHave you ever watched the colors bleed?â I asked her, âDo youâ¦dâyou think it hurts?â âSHUT UP,â She cried, pistol-whipping me in the back of the head, âOâBrien! Open up, if you value the life of your employees!â âI donât!â Came the muffled response, âbut you sound hot. So Iâll bite.â The door slid open almost silently, and Jack stood there in all of his royal affluence; his purple and gold robe billowing in the breeze from his platinum wind machine. âWhat do you want, lady? Youâre interrupting âJackâs Rock Hour,â and unless youâre down for posing splay-legged on a white corvette, I got no use for you.â He sipped from his golden skull-engraved chalice, and flashed some horns at nothing in particular.
3PM - 4PM. DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS YOU ARE PREPARED TO ROCK.âI want to know what you motherfuckers did with Wolinsky! There was nothing! No explanation! No goodbye! Just this jabbering dickhead and his retarded Cracked fan fiction!â She screamed, shaking me. The wound on the back of my head throbbed with every syllable. The pain felt likeâ¦what? Like a C-sharp. That was it! Pain was definitely a C-sharp. So what does that make the feeling of my fingers touching each other? That feels like an E-minor, I thought, and I set about intently listening to the song of my physical body. Then I realized that 10 minutes had passed, and something was in the middle of happening. The girl sat on the edge of Jackâs desk - glaring seductively at me with all of her sexy hate - while Jack screamed into the intercom. âPenny, any word from Wolinsky? Weâve an interested party up here that has brought up something quite...interesting. That was poor word choice, I know, but tell me: Has Wolinsky been in his office at all in the last few months?â Penny is our secretary downstairs. Sheâs always had a thing for me, I recalled. General disgust is a thing, right? âNo sir, not since December. We sent an intern, Ted, to check up there, but when the elevator came back down there was only a doll that bore a strange resemblance to Ted lying on the floor. I felt compelled to take it home, and put it in my kidâs bedroom. Every night since she dreams of a young man crying in a vast white void, she says thatâ¦â âPenny, goddamn it! If I wanted your life story, Iâd watch the Lifetime Network Movie of the Week about it, where youâd probably be undervalued by your children, and an abusive husband would beat you. I will be that husband Penny, do you understand?! So keep your damn answers to the point. Nobodyâs seen Wolinsky, correct?â I thought that Jack was making a move towards the girlâs gun while she was distracted by my sudden, inexplicable gyrating, but he was just refilling his skull chalice with that special mix of bourbon and Kool-Aid that he calls âJack Juice.â
Jack Juice: Like this, but it makes you yell at children and sometimes you go blind.âCorrect, sir,â Penny replied, âever since Wolinsky read aloud from that old book he found in the company cemetery, he hasnât possessed a physical body to speak of. Itâs been awful hard to keep track of him since then.â âHas he left a message? A note somewhere? Has there been any suspicious activity?â I could tell Jack was getting worried now, but I was far too busy dancing to the orchestra of my feelings to empathize with him. Perhaps I could work âempathyâ into the next movementâ¦ âNo, sir,â Penny replied, âhe had a package delivered to him on the winter solstice, and then nothing.â âA package? On the winter solstice?â Jack sighed in exasperation and pinched the bridge of his nose. I finally worked âempathyâ into my Nerve Sonata, which my body physically interpreted as repeatedly thrusting my crotch in his direction. âPenny,â he continued, âwas there anything odd about the deliverymen? Anythingâ¦unusual?â âNot really, sir. They had red, flowing uniforms. Kind of young and real innocent looking. Oh, and they were hovering.â âThat would be considered
This is my simile. It may suck, yes, but I chose it and I will stick with it to the bitter end.âGod...damn it...PENNY! Now we have to do the Moon Sacrifice again to break the Ice Seal of Norgoth! Do you have any idea - any fucking idea
DOB: All the skills of a ninja, all the motives of a sex offender.âYou had me at hot virgins!â DOB said, his face peaking out from between Jackâs hot pink mink and his deep blue blazer. âI didnât say âhot virgins,â Dan. You just get down there and fill out the âBlonde Virginâ form, and make sure to check the âVegetarianâ box this time. Last time you forgot, and that bitch ate a hot dog at the Calling Circle. Theyâre still scraping Swedes off the walls for a hundred miles in each direction.â âGotcha, Jack-a-Mole. One hot vegan; blonde on top, intact on the bottom. Cominâ right up,â DOB hustled out the door, his hangars clanking with every step. âAND KEEP IT IN YOUR PANTS,â Jack yelled at the disappearing figure. âNO PROBLEM,â DOB replied a bit too quickly. âAND BY THAT I DO NOT MEAN THAT SHE CAN WEAR YOUR PANTS WHILE YOU PUT IT INTO HER,â Jack clarified. âAwwwâ¦â DOB said, rustling away. You could really hear the disappointment in his voice, which I attempted to channel into my Body Orchestra, only to find that I was no longer dancing. I was huddled in the corner, inexplicably wet from head to toe. I mustâve done
Pictured: A man who absolutely does not have time for your shit.As she swooned to the floor, overcome by Jackâs infamous âFuck Youâ charisma, I staggered through the door after my boss, and up to the helipad. There was a long road ahead of us: We had a virgin to kill, an Ice Seal to break and a motherfucking blogger to bring back. His name is Ross Wolinsky, and come Hell or high water, he is coming backâ¦ Epilogue: Never mind. DOB screwed the virgin. Apparently, he thought it wouldnât count if they both got into his pants at the same time.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.