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.