~BBW, Intrigue, Romance - a smart broom pusher and his friend gets a special assignment, with a payoff no one anticipated.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not really a weight gain story, but deals with BBWs and FAs in the subject matter. Perhaps kind of an odd story to post here, but figured this would be the place for it.]
Man! All I ever wanted in life was to be normal.
I often find my mind wandering back to this train of thought, “James all you really need in life is a decent paying job, a nice homely girl…a wall flower, settle down, and marry her, and then retire to the suburbs…"
NO WAIT! Ever since my last nightmare of a girl friend that I actually had I know better. She was the dream girl who forced me to sit down and watch “The O.C." and "Desperate Housewives.” I have learned from that experiance that the suburb is not all that quiet and placid at all. All suburbia is really chaos wrapped in a deceptive Anglo Saxon shell.
I ruminate some more, waiting on my job for the call ...
"I need to go somewhere in the countryside or the mid-west. I need to avoid the south at all cost because as bad as those pretty white ladies can be nothing is worse than years of engrained hatred in a populated place. What would I do if they ever got drunk and decided to succeed?…I hear North Dakota is pretty empty, I could go there buy a house and just live out my life in peace with my average wife and almost guaranteed average kids, just chewing on a piece of straw and staring at the sunse…”
“ALRIGHT GENTLEMEN! HOPE YOU ARE WEARING SWEATPANTS BECAUSE IT TIME FOR THE SULTRY TIEGRA!”
My train of thought is interrupted by Steve the DJ who playfully refers to himself as the mix master of erections…he is an idiot, but then again he makes almost thirteen dollars an hour. In addition, here I am just making barely above minimum wage, worse of all I sweep out a strip club all day.
A coworker, a fellow broom pusher and best friend, nudges me in the side.
“Hey Jamie, gets a look at this girl’s ass, it is so firm and perfect, just totaslly grand."
I nod.
"I love this job. Beats the tarnation out of dealing with stupid customers selling electronics or baggin’ groceries for overly fat Americans driving their SUV’s”
My best friend Ridley is marveling at the young woman’s gyrating posterior. Ridley is a tall, lanky Irish man paler than most cancer patients before they are going to eat it, with hair redder than the flames in ninth level of Dante‘s Inferno.
“Ridley, don’t call me Jamie, I prefer James” I reply bitterly mainly because I’ve told him a million times to call me James, I suppose he calls me Jamie just to piss me off…
“Whatever, 'James'. Anyways, what say me and you hit up Johnny’s pub tonight and drink until the ugly girls look like Tyra Banks?” Ridley asks in his usual gaudy manner.
“So, you are saying you only want to get a couple beers?” I reply,
“Two beers? What are you talking about? I am talking about really ugly girls, girls so grotesque that if sober I wouldn‘t mess them even with your dick instead of my own. What you‘re thinking of is mildly attractive women.”
“What’s the difference?”,
“Well one requires drinking a couple brews and the other requires im,bibing oneself into oblivion with shots of whisky and turpentine.”
“But you said you wanted them to look like Tyra Banks and old five head isn’t that attractive and if they really turn into Tyra Banks and start trying to crusade for justice and be a half-baked poor clone of Oprah, I’ll need to drink myself into more than oblivion ”,
“Crap, James you really know how to bring a good idea down”.
I know he’s right. Although I may be a John everyman I have the gift of being insightful and using said insights to prey on peoples flaws, weaknesses, and insecurities through well placed insults.
“Sorry, Ridley, but yeah, I’d like to go out to Johnny’s Pub tonight and get wasted,” I apologize.
“RIDLEY! JAMES! Come into my office right now!” A high-pitched shriek interrupted our cleaning.
“Uh-oh - the witch is summoning. This can’t be good” Ridley, says exasperated.
“Yeah, this will probably be a train wreck, but let’s go see what our harpy of a boss wants,” I reply.
“That seems like the best course of action; remember what happened last time we took too long going to her office,” Ridley reminds me.
“Please, I am still trying to forget. There was KY jelly and blood everywhere” I respond shuddering.
“Let’s just hope she hasn’t been drinking vodka”,
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Quarter to 10 am.”
“Well then, she is probably on her fourth shot”.
Mrs. Hernandez was at the very tail end of what you would call twenty something. She had a face that was pretty but from years of dulling, the pain with alcohol and cigarettes left it dried out and withered. Her hair was bleached blonde with the brown roots showing, her skin was an orangeish color from using generous amounts of tanning crème, and her frame was lithe with just enough meat on her tits and cleavage so she could be considered stacked.
She had married the previous owner of this hallowed establishment; like many marriages of that sort it was so that she’d inherit the club and all of the money of her dearly departed husband. Aside from being a gold digging ****, she is also a raging alcoholic, and while it is funny to draw dicks on her face while she passed out before lunchtime, it wears thin when she burns you with cigarettes and yells at you for her daddy issues.
Now that isn’t to say that Mr. Hernandez, may he burn eternally in hell, was a good man. On the contrary, he was a degenerate piece of crap, and a sexual deviant. The later isn’t a surprise considering his entrepreneurial ambition involves women in bras and panties stripping down to nothing but their birthday suits and dancing to bombastic hip-hop and trendy trance music while overweight men in sweatpants pay them to grind on their downstairs area.
He was, however, more degenerate than your average T&A jerk. It was Mr. Hernandez’s sexual preferences that made me feel sorry for Mrs. Hernandez., See, as I heard from one of the girls who used to work here, he liked to give his women golden showers, and have them defecate on his chest, then have them use it to give him a filthy Sanchez, and those were the tamer of his quirks. I guess when all is said and done she earned this place once he keeled over from his second heart attack.
Mrs. Hernandez didn’t change much about the seedy little office after Mr. Hernandez died. I guess it was for some sort of sentimental reason, it is almost sweet…almost. The office was tiny sweat box with faded green walls with paint peeling off, it had a tiny plywood desk in the middle of it. Near the east wall was a small side table with a small read oscillating fan with streamers tied to the grate. The motor puttered as it tried to cool off the room, which on top of its described luxury had ugly blue shag carpet. Mrs. Hernandez sat at her desk fanning herself lazily with a cheap paper fan.
“Do you boys know why I called you in here?” she asks.
“You are going to give us both blow jobs and hot Karls?” jokes Ridley.
“No, Ridley, because you and I both know you don’t have the fortitude to stand that. James on the other hand…” Mrs. Hernandez retorted.
“Let’s not finish that sentence,” I interrupt. To my surprise she complies.
“Now what did you want to see us about?” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.
“Oh yes, straight to business. I like that in a man, Mrs. Hernandez says, winking at me which causes my dick to do something it hasn’t done since day camp.
“AHEM!” I exclaim with fear in my throat.
“Right, well, it seems we have a big problem on our hands” she said.
“Did one of the girls sprain their twat, does she need someone, perhaps a spright young man to rub it back into working condition?” Ridley inquire raising his eyebrows up and down in an extremely lewd manner.
“What? No, you half wit. It looks like ...” she pauses and collects the thoughts in her booze conflicted brain. Taking a deep breath she continues . . .
“Do you boys know what a BBW is?” she asks with a serious look on her sharp edged face.
“With all sincerity Mrs. Hernandez, I can say that I do not” I reply.
“Is that some kind of techno-biological weapon Al Quadea developed? Or wait it could have been an enemy of the X-Men… yeah it sounds like something Magneto would use” Ridley answers.
Mrs. Hernandez pauses for a moment, her muddled brain trying to process Ridley's nonsense, then speaks, choosing her words carefully, “Ridley, you know, yYou really are an idiot”.
She then looks at me, relaxes and sighs, “No a BBW is an acronym for Big Beautiful Woman. Which is just a nice way to say fat chicks, or if you would prefer with more flair, Big Bloated Bitches”.
“Alliteration aside what does this have to do with one, competition, and secondly us?” I ask, confused.
“Well, it seems a strip club in the lower side of town is going to open up in a month that features nothing but these giantesses” Mrs. Hernandez says, cutting to the chase. She looks threatened.
“No way! That crap is totally gross. Who in their right mind would want to see that, much less pay for it? I mean since they’re fat chicks, shouldn’t they pay guys to watch them.” Ridley interjects with contempt searing through his speech.
“Well, it caters to and is aimed at guys who lust after and even like these BBWs, these men dub themselves or are called by the women they chase as FAs or Fat Admirers” she answers.
"This is all very informative, but why do you care? I mean it seems like they aren’t even in direct competition with you and their patrons seem to be those who wouldn’t even think of setting foot into your fine establishment. So I guess I am still unsure of why you called Ridley and I into your office to give us the whole modest proposal scenario here,” I comment, attempting to get some clarity on this whole bizarre conversation.
“Why do I care, James? Well for starters it is an affront to everything that is beautiful and attractive in the world. Secondly it throws the status quo out of whack, it defies the very law that has been set in place that fat women are to be reviled and only to be considered for sex if a man is extremely desperate or immensely intoxicated. I mean its not like society as a whole, the food industry excepted, encourages over-indulgence and mass consumption; it has always been and always shall be that thin is in” she responds coldly and almost soberly.
“Don’t forget it is totally disgusting,” added Ridley for redundancy’s sake.
“Right, never thought I’d agree with anything Ridley said, but it is also disgusting. However those are not the reasons I called you two into my office. The reason I am worried about this at all is that once this place opens and our dancers inevitably get wind of it, they might let themselves go and not strive for the perfection of their slender physiques. They’ll probably figure out that they can make the same money, if not more, at this new club, and eat whatever they want in the process. It’s that thought that keeps me up at night, and if that happens we are all out of a job. I won’t let that happen! I will not be run out of business by some tribe of fat chicks and their on the fringes fat fetishers!"
At the end of her paranoid tirade towards a business not even open yet her face is flushed and I'm fearing she will have some sort of seizure. She is genuinely scared and I see her mental stability teetering. She grabs the edge of her desk, breathing heavily, and finally regains her composure.
"Sorry about that little outburst. Now, James, I can always trust you, and Ridley is your friend so that is good enough for me. I need you two to do something for me and keep it quiet. I want you to sabotage the club's opening night, and show them that this town will not stand for something so bizarre and different. If you need a few more people to mix things up for fair, feel free to. Also, I don’t care how you do it, I’ll leave the creative part up to you and Bobby Fisher over there. If you do this right, there is quite a pay off for you.”
Mrs. Hernandez was now getting to the point of this whole long encounter.
“That is quite a lot to ask. How much exactly are we talking about if Ridley and I pull this whole thing off” I ask intrigued at the proposition and the things I could do with the money.
“Well…How does five thousand each for the two of you and a two dollar raise sound, and another five thousand to split between the people you employ for this mission,” she replies knowing just the right amount to make sure I’d say yes.
“Alright. for that amount I’ll kill these broads” Ridley blurts out, unable to contain his excitement any longer.
“Well that comes as no shock, Ridley. I probably could of got you to do it for a fish sandwich and seven minutes in the closet with Claudiette, but what about you James?” she inquires.
"I’ll do it, but not harming anyone, on one extra condition," I reply.
“And what would that be?” she wonders curiously as her hands went toward the buttons on her entirely too low cut pink blouse.
“I want you to punch Steve the DJ out,” I respond, not giving her the answer she hoped I would.
“You want me to what?”
“You heard me, 'cause last I checked I had no speech impediment. I want you to first punch Steve the DJ out cold, I want you to punch him in his stupid face and lay him out for the way he treats people."
She sat thinking heavily for a while through her boozy haze, and then responds, “Done. I’ll do it right after closing. Now you both can get back to work”.
Ridley and I began to walk out of Mrs. Hernandez‘s depressing little office when she calls out, “James, wait. I need to hammer out some of the monetarily terms with you. Ridley, I trust that is alright with you”.
Ridley gave me a look, then nodded and went on his way out of her office. I turned back and said, “Okay,well I expect there to be some sort of legally binding contract that ensures that Ridley and I get paid half up front and the rest upon completion of the job.”
“James, you and I both know that there will be no written contract. I can’t have this coming back at me, so no paper trail,” she replies.
“Well, then how do I know that you will make good on the deal?” I ask.
“I’ve been recording this conversation on this tape recorder, which is will have to be good enough” she counters.
“I suppose so” I said, wondering how a celluloid trail is less than a paper trail and what difference it makes if I have no copy. But then I remember that she's half drunk and drunks don't have logic. “But if this isn’t about how we will get paid then why did you have me wait behind?”
“Well, James, I know you are a crafty and intelligent young man, but I have an idea that will make this easier…You’re fired.” Mrs. Hernandez said will no sense of humor in her voice.
“What! Why are you firing me you …” I respond only to be interrupted,
“I wouldn’t finish that thought. Don’t you see this BBW club doesn’t open for a month. What I want you to do is go and apply for a job and be the inside man, much like one of those movies where they have an inside man. You will go in there and learn the machinations and dynamics of the club and be able to plant the materials you will need to pull of this job. Also it will allow you to plant seeds of destruction amiong the workers and dancers in there, so even if this doesn’t go as planned they may eventually destroy themselves from the inside out. What do you say to that, Mr. Starsmoore?”
"I think I want my five thousand up front,” I reply.
[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Not really a weight gain story, but deals with BBWs and FAs in the subject matter. Perhaps kind of an odd story to post here, but figured this would be the place for it.]
Heart's Desire
by None
by None
Man! All I ever wanted in life was to be normal.
I often find my mind wandering back to this train of thought, “James all you really need in life is a decent paying job, a nice homely girl…a wall flower, settle down, and marry her, and then retire to the suburbs…"
NO WAIT! Ever since my last nightmare of a girl friend that I actually had I know better. She was the dream girl who forced me to sit down and watch “The O.C." and "Desperate Housewives.” I have learned from that experiance that the suburb is not all that quiet and placid at all. All suburbia is really chaos wrapped in a deceptive Anglo Saxon shell.
I ruminate some more, waiting on my job for the call ...
"I need to go somewhere in the countryside or the mid-west. I need to avoid the south at all cost because as bad as those pretty white ladies can be nothing is worse than years of engrained hatred in a populated place. What would I do if they ever got drunk and decided to succeed?…I hear North Dakota is pretty empty, I could go there buy a house and just live out my life in peace with my average wife and almost guaranteed average kids, just chewing on a piece of straw and staring at the sunse…”
“ALRIGHT GENTLEMEN! HOPE YOU ARE WEARING SWEATPANTS BECAUSE IT TIME FOR THE SULTRY TIEGRA!”
My train of thought is interrupted by Steve the DJ who playfully refers to himself as the mix master of erections…he is an idiot, but then again he makes almost thirteen dollars an hour. In addition, here I am just making barely above minimum wage, worse of all I sweep out a strip club all day.
A coworker, a fellow broom pusher and best friend, nudges me in the side.
“Hey Jamie, gets a look at this girl’s ass, it is so firm and perfect, just totaslly grand."
I nod.
"I love this job. Beats the tarnation out of dealing with stupid customers selling electronics or baggin’ groceries for overly fat Americans driving their SUV’s”
My best friend Ridley is marveling at the young woman’s gyrating posterior. Ridley is a tall, lanky Irish man paler than most cancer patients before they are going to eat it, with hair redder than the flames in ninth level of Dante‘s Inferno.
“Ridley, don’t call me Jamie, I prefer James” I reply bitterly mainly because I’ve told him a million times to call me James, I suppose he calls me Jamie just to piss me off…
“Whatever, 'James'. Anyways, what say me and you hit up Johnny’s pub tonight and drink until the ugly girls look like Tyra Banks?” Ridley asks in his usual gaudy manner.
“So, you are saying you only want to get a couple beers?” I reply,
“Two beers? What are you talking about? I am talking about really ugly girls, girls so grotesque that if sober I wouldn‘t mess them even with your dick instead of my own. What you‘re thinking of is mildly attractive women.”
“What’s the difference?”,
“Well one requires drinking a couple brews and the other requires im,bibing oneself into oblivion with shots of whisky and turpentine.”
“But you said you wanted them to look like Tyra Banks and old five head isn’t that attractive and if they really turn into Tyra Banks and start trying to crusade for justice and be a half-baked poor clone of Oprah, I’ll need to drink myself into more than oblivion ”,
“Crap, James you really know how to bring a good idea down”.
I know he’s right. Although I may be a John everyman I have the gift of being insightful and using said insights to prey on peoples flaws, weaknesses, and insecurities through well placed insults.
“Sorry, Ridley, but yeah, I’d like to go out to Johnny’s Pub tonight and get wasted,” I apologize.
“RIDLEY! JAMES! Come into my office right now!” A high-pitched shriek interrupted our cleaning.
“Uh-oh - the witch is summoning. This can’t be good” Ridley, says exasperated.
“Yeah, this will probably be a train wreck, but let’s go see what our harpy of a boss wants,” I reply.
“That seems like the best course of action; remember what happened last time we took too long going to her office,” Ridley reminds me.
“Please, I am still trying to forget. There was KY jelly and blood everywhere” I respond shuddering.
“Let’s just hope she hasn’t been drinking vodka”,
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Quarter to 10 am.”
“Well then, she is probably on her fourth shot”.
Mrs. Hernandez was at the very tail end of what you would call twenty something. She had a face that was pretty but from years of dulling, the pain with alcohol and cigarettes left it dried out and withered. Her hair was bleached blonde with the brown roots showing, her skin was an orangeish color from using generous amounts of tanning crème, and her frame was lithe with just enough meat on her tits and cleavage so she could be considered stacked.
She had married the previous owner of this hallowed establishment; like many marriages of that sort it was so that she’d inherit the club and all of the money of her dearly departed husband. Aside from being a gold digging ****, she is also a raging alcoholic, and while it is funny to draw dicks on her face while she passed out before lunchtime, it wears thin when she burns you with cigarettes and yells at you for her daddy issues.
Now that isn’t to say that Mr. Hernandez, may he burn eternally in hell, was a good man. On the contrary, he was a degenerate piece of crap, and a sexual deviant. The later isn’t a surprise considering his entrepreneurial ambition involves women in bras and panties stripping down to nothing but their birthday suits and dancing to bombastic hip-hop and trendy trance music while overweight men in sweatpants pay them to grind on their downstairs area.
He was, however, more degenerate than your average T&A jerk. It was Mr. Hernandez’s sexual preferences that made me feel sorry for Mrs. Hernandez., See, as I heard from one of the girls who used to work here, he liked to give his women golden showers, and have them defecate on his chest, then have them use it to give him a filthy Sanchez, and those were the tamer of his quirks. I guess when all is said and done she earned this place once he keeled over from his second heart attack.
Mrs. Hernandez didn’t change much about the seedy little office after Mr. Hernandez died. I guess it was for some sort of sentimental reason, it is almost sweet…almost. The office was tiny sweat box with faded green walls with paint peeling off, it had a tiny plywood desk in the middle of it. Near the east wall was a small side table with a small read oscillating fan with streamers tied to the grate. The motor puttered as it tried to cool off the room, which on top of its described luxury had ugly blue shag carpet. Mrs. Hernandez sat at her desk fanning herself lazily with a cheap paper fan.
“Do you boys know why I called you in here?” she asks.
“You are going to give us both blow jobs and hot Karls?” jokes Ridley.
“No, Ridley, because you and I both know you don’t have the fortitude to stand that. James on the other hand…” Mrs. Hernandez retorted.
“Let’s not finish that sentence,” I interrupt. To my surprise she complies.
“Now what did you want to see us about?” I ask, steering the conversation back on track.
“Oh yes, straight to business. I like that in a man, Mrs. Hernandez says, winking at me which causes my dick to do something it hasn’t done since day camp.
“AHEM!” I exclaim with fear in my throat.
“Right, well, it seems we have a big problem on our hands” she said.
“Did one of the girls sprain their twat, does she need someone, perhaps a spright young man to rub it back into working condition?” Ridley inquire raising his eyebrows up and down in an extremely lewd manner.
“What? No, you half wit. It looks like ...” she pauses and collects the thoughts in her booze conflicted brain. Taking a deep breath she continues . . .
“Do you boys know what a BBW is?” she asks with a serious look on her sharp edged face.
“With all sincerity Mrs. Hernandez, I can say that I do not” I reply.
“Is that some kind of techno-biological weapon Al Quadea developed? Or wait it could have been an enemy of the X-Men… yeah it sounds like something Magneto would use” Ridley answers.
Mrs. Hernandez pauses for a moment, her muddled brain trying to process Ridley's nonsense, then speaks, choosing her words carefully, “Ridley, you know, yYou really are an idiot”.
She then looks at me, relaxes and sighs, “No a BBW is an acronym for Big Beautiful Woman. Which is just a nice way to say fat chicks, or if you would prefer with more flair, Big Bloated Bitches”.
“Alliteration aside what does this have to do with one, competition, and secondly us?” I ask, confused.
“Well, it seems a strip club in the lower side of town is going to open up in a month that features nothing but these giantesses” Mrs. Hernandez says, cutting to the chase. She looks threatened.
“No way! That crap is totally gross. Who in their right mind would want to see that, much less pay for it? I mean since they’re fat chicks, shouldn’t they pay guys to watch them.” Ridley interjects with contempt searing through his speech.
“Well, it caters to and is aimed at guys who lust after and even like these BBWs, these men dub themselves or are called by the women they chase as FAs or Fat Admirers” she answers.
"This is all very informative, but why do you care? I mean it seems like they aren’t even in direct competition with you and their patrons seem to be those who wouldn’t even think of setting foot into your fine establishment. So I guess I am still unsure of why you called Ridley and I into your office to give us the whole modest proposal scenario here,” I comment, attempting to get some clarity on this whole bizarre conversation.
“Why do I care, James? Well for starters it is an affront to everything that is beautiful and attractive in the world. Secondly it throws the status quo out of whack, it defies the very law that has been set in place that fat women are to be reviled and only to be considered for sex if a man is extremely desperate or immensely intoxicated. I mean its not like society as a whole, the food industry excepted, encourages over-indulgence and mass consumption; it has always been and always shall be that thin is in” she responds coldly and almost soberly.
“Don’t forget it is totally disgusting,” added Ridley for redundancy’s sake.
“Right, never thought I’d agree with anything Ridley said, but it is also disgusting. However those are not the reasons I called you two into my office. The reason I am worried about this at all is that once this place opens and our dancers inevitably get wind of it, they might let themselves go and not strive for the perfection of their slender physiques. They’ll probably figure out that they can make the same money, if not more, at this new club, and eat whatever they want in the process. It’s that thought that keeps me up at night, and if that happens we are all out of a job. I won’t let that happen! I will not be run out of business by some tribe of fat chicks and their on the fringes fat fetishers!"
At the end of her paranoid tirade towards a business not even open yet her face is flushed and I'm fearing she will have some sort of seizure. She is genuinely scared and I see her mental stability teetering. She grabs the edge of her desk, breathing heavily, and finally regains her composure.
"Sorry about that little outburst. Now, James, I can always trust you, and Ridley is your friend so that is good enough for me. I need you two to do something for me and keep it quiet. I want you to sabotage the club's opening night, and show them that this town will not stand for something so bizarre and different. If you need a few more people to mix things up for fair, feel free to. Also, I don’t care how you do it, I’ll leave the creative part up to you and Bobby Fisher over there. If you do this right, there is quite a pay off for you.”
Mrs. Hernandez was now getting to the point of this whole long encounter.
“That is quite a lot to ask. How much exactly are we talking about if Ridley and I pull this whole thing off” I ask intrigued at the proposition and the things I could do with the money.
“Well…How does five thousand each for the two of you and a two dollar raise sound, and another five thousand to split between the people you employ for this mission,” she replies knowing just the right amount to make sure I’d say yes.
“Alright. for that amount I’ll kill these broads” Ridley blurts out, unable to contain his excitement any longer.
“Well that comes as no shock, Ridley. I probably could of got you to do it for a fish sandwich and seven minutes in the closet with Claudiette, but what about you James?” she inquires.
"I’ll do it, but not harming anyone, on one extra condition," I reply.
“And what would that be?” she wonders curiously as her hands went toward the buttons on her entirely too low cut pink blouse.
“I want you to punch Steve the DJ out,” I respond, not giving her the answer she hoped I would.
“You want me to what?”
“You heard me, 'cause last I checked I had no speech impediment. I want you to first punch Steve the DJ out cold, I want you to punch him in his stupid face and lay him out for the way he treats people."
She sat thinking heavily for a while through her boozy haze, and then responds, “Done. I’ll do it right after closing. Now you both can get back to work”.
Ridley and I began to walk out of Mrs. Hernandez‘s depressing little office when she calls out, “James, wait. I need to hammer out some of the monetarily terms with you. Ridley, I trust that is alright with you”.
Ridley gave me a look, then nodded and went on his way out of her office. I turned back and said, “Okay,well I expect there to be some sort of legally binding contract that ensures that Ridley and I get paid half up front and the rest upon completion of the job.”
“James, you and I both know that there will be no written contract. I can’t have this coming back at me, so no paper trail,” she replies.
“Well, then how do I know that you will make good on the deal?” I ask.
“I’ve been recording this conversation on this tape recorder, which is will have to be good enough” she counters.
“I suppose so” I said, wondering how a celluloid trail is less than a paper trail and what difference it makes if I have no copy. But then I remember that she's half drunk and drunks don't have logic. “But if this isn’t about how we will get paid then why did you have me wait behind?”
“Well, James, I know you are a crafty and intelligent young man, but I have an idea that will make this easier…You’re fired.” Mrs. Hernandez said will no sense of humor in her voice.
“What! Why are you firing me you …” I respond only to be interrupted,
“I wouldn’t finish that thought. Don’t you see this BBW club doesn’t open for a month. What I want you to do is go and apply for a job and be the inside man, much like one of those movies where they have an inside man. You will go in there and learn the machinations and dynamics of the club and be able to plant the materials you will need to pull of this job. Also it will allow you to plant seeds of destruction amiong the workers and dancers in there, so even if this doesn’t go as planned they may eventually destroy themselves from the inside out. What do you say to that, Mr. Starsmoore?”
"I think I want my five thousand up front,” I reply.
