I don't know who you are, but you're in front of me, so you must be important. You have five seconds to prove it.


Oh. Right, that new assistant. Wonderful. Well, as long as you’re not as expendable as the last one, I'll consider your hiring tolerable.

You should know something about me.




That wasn't going to lead up to anything, but from the blank stare on your face, I see it has to.

How old are you? 19? 21? They send them over so young now. Well, you might know me from your father’s magazine collection, if he’s generous. I was a model in the 80’s, before Photoshop and digital cameras, back when looking good in a photograph actually meant something. And the reason I know your father saved those magazines is because they all did. Trust me, you would, too.

Oh, stop looking at me like that. I know, I know, your male pride is hurt, you're a modern, sensitive boy who doesn't objectify women, all that liberal progressive nonsense. Good for you. Your parents must be proud of their little queer.

The way we’re going to find out if you’re actually worth that desk outside my door is how quickly you figure out one simple thing.



I don’t buy that bull.


Men are clay. Malleable creatures easily shaped by a wag of the tail, a wink of the eye, a promise of time spent together. Oh, the things you can make a man do with just a bit of beauty. It really would be pathetic if it weren’t so dreadfully useful.

See, the trouble is that all women know this. It’s just few know what to do with it. It’s like a puppy squeezing at a chunk of play-dough, so entranced by smashing the stuff she never bothers to learn how to shape it. And then you end up with men all beaten and bitter until they become convinced satisfaction can be found in a porn magazine or a boyfriend’s tail. What a waste.

I, on the other hand, shape men. This fortune I made posing for magazines was no small effort, but it was pennies to the riches I grew investing it. Starting businesses. And growing men for those businesses that didn’t just ogle but worked, toiled, and fought to create this empire I’m legally required to call a holding company. Of course you know about the international bank, the FBA team, the entertainment properties. If you also know of the lobbying firm, the arms manufacturer, the private security company, well, you’ve done your homework.

Don’t think for a moment that I inherited all this, that I’m some kind of old money socialite living off the riches of generations better situated than me. I’m the one who revolted against the king. I’m the one who organized the peasants, stood up from the soil to bring hell upon the government, burning castles, destroying empires, ending dynasties until the dogs all claimed my standing was the will of God Himself.

Naturally, I do it with a checking account, not a gun. But it still demands men. Good, well-trained, properly shaped men.

Now, the question is for you, assistant.

Will you serve me?

---

A commission I had gotten from  foxenawolf years ago, but just never got around to posting it.

Foo-Foo is the owner of the San Jose Thrust, and for years was Buck Hopper's boss. It was the arrival of Hopper that convinced Foo-Foo to purchase the team-- just in time for Julio Onca to slash up her goods. The situation since has been-- complicated.