“Almighty She Who Taps the Keys, we are reporting for duty.” Twenty-six extremely pale men in dirt-colored uniforms snap to attention on the desktop.
I have to remember to give Ms. Wildstar credit for recruiting even the Barthromians in her efforts to delay her next visit. Or maybe she’s up to something. “What’s Ms. Wildstar up to these days?”
“Sorry ma’am, we weren’t written to be spies.”
“Right. What were you written for again? Oh yes, to be bad guys. So be bad and do something you weren’t written for. Come on, break the mold.”
All twenty-six of them stare at the desktop. The leader quietly says, “We don’t know how.”
“You’re worthless. All of you. Not that it should be a surprise. You’re here.” I sigh. “Fine, what’s your question?”
“What do you find most stressful about writing 50,000 words in thirty days?”
“Getting my work done when I’d rather be writing. Too often, writing wins. Which means work piles up and then I’m running around swearing at everything until I’m caught up again.”
“It’s all about time management, ma’am.”
“Yes, well, when you can find the time to be bad, you get back to me on your time management advice. Until then, you’re dismissed.”
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