It was another busy day at Amalgamated Skills — “Where we bring you the skills that you use to do things better than you would do otherwise, if you didn’t have the skills that we bring you.” Rhett Kronkhead, the ever-flustered Production Manager, was in a blood purple rage.
“Confound it!” he hollered, shaking a phone bill in one purple fist and storming out of his office. “Would you look at these confounded phone calls? It’s ridiculous!”
“Simmer down Rhett,” said Vilma, A.S.’s ever-wry Art Director. “And pull up your pants.” Rhett had a lot of enthusiasm, some great acid-tinged stories from the sixties, and a good heart. But he had no ass.
“How can I simmer down?!” said Rhett. “Would you look at this bill?! Who is this clown?! He’s making 30 calls a day!!”
By this point, a small crowd had gathered around, murmuring like nervous spoonbills. “I’m going to make an example of this clown!!” Rhett stormed back into his office, flopped himself down behind the desk, and reached for the phone. “I’m gonna call him right now!!” he shouted.
“I’m calling!!”
There was a moment of silence and then — a ferocious slam, as the phone came crashing back down. “Busy!! Typicall!!” Rhett sputtered. “Who is this clown?!”
“Let me see that,” said Vilma, reaching over for the bill. She gave it a quick scan. “Rhett,” she said. “Rhett, this is your phone number.”
“My wha –?” said Rhett, his waking mind drifting off into a babbling dream space as he slipped down off the chair like a spilled Slurpie. “I don’t … I mean … my wha –?” he said again, his whole body now somehow sliding through a thin crack in the baseboard, deep down into the darkness below.
And only his pants remained.
"…something like the supervisor of an entire team of political agents…"
