The Spins

Token contact post alongside the list of RP threads. Feel free to drop a message or constructive critiques. Comments are screened; this is a Safe Place, so have at thee.

Mimosas for breakfast and today I think I'll break the advertising machine. Who says I can't own every on-air spot and billboard in the country?

A good meal, a stiff drink and then that vaguely orgasmic feeling of a cigarette to tie a pretty cancer bow around the end of an evening. It sounds grand in theory, but the reality of Alcohol and Big Tobacco is another thing. They're on the outs again. They had their make-up (a week or two of hazy, near-perfect peace neither one of them can ever quite recall; the world's best smoke-veiled blackout), and their shake-up (shouting, property destruction, theft, attempted murder -- the usual). Now it's time for the cycle to complete itself before starting anew.

Al shrugged off Ben's attempt to do her in, countered it by stealing his black market baby, and bounced around a few tried and tested bars before fizzling out. She's the sleepy-eyed drunk this week, storing up all her energy for the next big push. She's also petty enough to not intend on giving Ben his pet back anytime soon.

So when Absinthe comes home from a weekend outing, Al's little mini-me is treated to a broken lock on her café door. La Fée Verte is, by and large, unharmed. Alcohol can be found sleeping off a bender in one chair, another pulled up close to prop up her feet. On the table next to her is the unconscious Whitey, a crumpled pack of smokes clutched in her tiny hand. Calling before she drops in isn't something Al ever cared to get the hang of.

Texas: Knows when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, but definitely not when to walk away. Back to work on Monday! 'Til then I am the line dancing-est motherfucker in the Lone Star State.

Ben: Eat my ass. Whitey says the same. ♥

Oops. I'M OKAY. It wasn't my car that flipped.

I think.

Cutest thing in the world: retards who try and pick up the sole sober chick at the bar. You get any more precious, pumpkin, and I'm gonna barf rainbows into my pint glass.

Every hour's happy hour, you beautiful monkey-loving freaky freak bastards.

Oh God, oh frick! She's back. We're all doomed. I'm doomed.

Waiting in Benny's office when Big T returns from March Madness is:

1: Dead hooker
1: Cigar bouquet
20: Gold-wrapped chocolate coins, only a handful with tooth marks in the foil.
1: Horribly out-of-date Christmas card with a very crude drawing of Santa Claus and something derogatory about The Assistant. It reads "Let's do lunch. New sushi restaurant opened next door to the Thai massage place."

[Blocked from Mr. Reynolds]
God damn it. Good-bye, freedom. Hello, quart of ice cream.

As a favor to his good friend Ben Reynolds, the Hobo -- known to the world at large as "The Hobo" -- sends a gag gift to their compadre Matt Sterling.

Except when the hired call girl, Cherry Parfait, arrives to the address she's been given, it's the home of Anton Creo. Oops.

OH MY GOD WHY WOULD HE EVEN

WHAT THE FRICK

HOW DID

ARGH

I'm locked in my bathroom with a box of butterscotch krimpets while whatever... whatever thing my boss mailed lives in my Tupperware. It keeps coming over and scratching at the door. I've been calling it Freddy Krueger.

...do I call the ASPCA or the zoo..? I hate my life.

St. Patrick's Day, whatever. It's March! March Madness! The one time of the year I get to have a normal life like a normal person, and it's the entire fricking month!

I have absolutely no idea where Mr. Reynolds goes or what he does -- questionable sanity says thanks, let's keep it that way -- but it doesn't matter, because I am free as a bird until April 1st.

This weekend I think I'm going to see a movie. (What's playing, anyway?) And keep my cellphone turned off. And sleep at night and be awake during the day and have breakfast out in public like a normal person.

I am not wearing a shirt with this printed on it! I don't care who I work for; I don't even smoke!

Mr. Reynolds took off this morning, from what I could tell of some weird e-mails. I'm still in DC, though, and thank God. He called me in to his office the other day while a commercial was playing, then proceeded to make me stand there while he went ballistic for about half an hour.

I'm actually kind of looking forward to going back in tomorrow. It should be peaceful! I might even get some work done, for a change. Even the to-do list is a little less crazy than usual; I can get at least half of it done, although I'm very graciously going to ignore the fat joke he made. And forget about the tub of ice cream I had for dinner Friday night.

It might be a good week!

[OOC: As a note, gods or immortals are welcome to pipe up indignantly if that's their bag. Big T breaks the Assistant on a regular basis, so more crazy people won't affect her.]

Er. Mr. Reynolds is currently unavailable, but gleefully demanded asked that I post a memo for the group of people on his blog roll.

Per Mr. Reynolds, any "hilarious effects you cancer-incubating freaky freaks" are experiencing today are because of him. He says that thanks can come in the form of everyone lighting up a Cuban, as he already has enough money and doesn't know where yours has been besides.

Furthermore, anyone who has felt unwell, or had a migraine, the shakes, the trots, or any other side effects from his influence oh my God what the hell is he talking about is welcome to contact Mr. Raum, as he is "the Christian bitch" who apparently threw the first punch.

Since turnabout is fair play, Mr. Reynolds will also be offering a reward. Whomever comes up with the most creative way of disposing?! of Mr. Raum will be "graced with the gloriousness of what it's like to be me with all engines rarin' ". Whatever that means. 'Cause I'm supposed to make sense of crap like "bathing in power rushes". Maybe he meant an orgy. God.

If there are any questions, please send them my way and I'll be sure to pass them on to Mr. Reynolds.

My boss is insane. That's all there is to it.

EDIT: I'm also to add that the offer of nicotine products as replacements is "about as effective as giving methadone to a crack addict".

Mr. Reynolds But it was so I could have been there I was just there yesterday

I think I'm going to be sick.

Four cups of coffee! He sat me down and had me drink four cups of coffee and it was great! Except I think I'm going to vibrate out of my skin any minute now BUT SERIOUSLY THAT IS OKAY.

Ash!! I can see you typing over there! You've got socks to iron, mister, so hop to!

I think this might be the greatest day I've had since I started working for Mr. Reynolds.

Delivered to Alcohol's home is a paper-wrapped box; there's no return address, but the name in that corner is "B. Reynolds". Inside of the box is a plastic tackle box. A note attached says "Al". Nothing more, nothing less.

( [Delivered to Alcohol] )

Yesterday was peaceful and quiet and I had a cup of coffee for the first time in months. I'm pretty sure it might have been like drinking heaven. Can you do that? Well, I managed to. So, uh, random Internet guy? Thanks for the rec!

Back on call first thing in the morning. Deep breaths. Almost a week with no explosions, it's a new record. Hopefully there won't be another office full of wading pools and butterscotch pudding to clean up.

[Locked from Big Tobacco]
He asked me for some reports on cigarette smoking and -- God help me -- porno, so I got those done after I finally finished ironing enough socks to outfit the entire Marine Corps.

I didn't knock, because he told me that it keeps him on his toes. And, I dunno, I guess it could have been worse. He was just sitting in that ridiculously oversized leather chair of his, puffing away like there aren't rules against that. Really, there was nothing unusual about it.

Except, y'know, the video conference he was on with those half dozen other guys? It was just so creepy. They all had that same stupid chair, and they were all holding their cigarettes their same way, and they were all wearing the same grin that he gets. The one that keeps me up at night slightly manic one. They didn't look the same at all, really, but man it was so surreal.

He told me to shut my mouth because I looked like a goldfish.

I had half an apple pie for dinner. I'm on call until Sunday. Maybe it'll be quiet.

( [Delivered to National Security's office] )

Mr. Reynolds? When was the last time you visited South Carolina? Because I called every dry cleaner in the state, God help me.

Mr. Reynolds, your itinerary should be waiting, and I spoke with the concierge to book dinner for you.

( [Locked from Big Tobacco] )