i rock the mike like a vandal
Pam Poovey holyshitsnacks
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Isis Headquarters, New York City, *mumblegrumble year*, Thursday Fandom Time (NFI, NFB)

Cheryl had been in the supply closet this afternoon.

She probably shouldn't have snuck away from her desk -- Ms. Archer would kill her (mmmmmmmmmmmm) if she knew Cheryl'd been away from her desk while Mr. Archer was still missing. Though at least this time she was, like, way less freaked out about it. Cheryl figured all those calls she made with the door shut probably weren't just to look for Mr. Archer, if you knew what she was saying.

Anyway, whatever -- with Ms. Archer's door shut, and Pam off with Brett teaching that stupid class, Cheryl was bored. Cyril was like, the only one around to talk to, and he wouldn't choke her anymore so that was a bust.

So instead Cheryl was going to casually sit at her desk and huff the rubber cement she'd found in the supply closet. Boring afternoon just got waaaay better.

"-- a complete success!" Pam announced, waving the gun around excitedly. "Those kids ate that shit up like it was covered in chocolate pudding. We showed 'em how to aim and made sure they were all wearing those headphones and nobody got shot!"

It wasn't a good idea to gesture emphatically with a gun. Especially not when you'd just made a point of saying that you were at zero casualties for your Gun Safety class.

"Aaaaaaaaah!" screamed Brett. "My leg! My leg!"

"Aw, jeeeeeze," Pam whined, now staring down the barrel of her revolver. "Did I leave the safety off?"

That was a lot to take in when your head was still swimming from glue fumes.

Cheryl had her priorities straight, though -- she shrieked at Brett's injury, but then turned to snap at Pam. "You made me spill!"

It was going to be obnoxious to try to get glue out of her skirt. Ugh.

The door flung open rather dramatically, and Malory Archer narrowed her eyes at her employees.

"I do hope I'm hearing things," she said, sweetly. "Because it sounds like someone is making an awful mess all over one of my carpets."

Don't mind Brett. He was going to lay on the floor here and gurgle some.

"Pam did it," Cheryl said with the remorseless immediacy of a tattling third grader.

She glanced up at Pam, and added, "...what? It was kinda hot. Rawr."

Pam was kneeling next to Brett and trying to use his jacket to mop up the floor. Ms. Archer got seriously pissed when her carpets got ruined.

"A little club soda'll get this right out," she insisted. "Good as new."

"Is there club soda that will make any of my employees into partially competent human beings?" Malory asked, taking a sip from her whiskey. "I'd happily buy a few gallons if it meant not being surrounded by the utter depths of ineptitude!"

"Whatever," Cheryl said, discreetly slipping her glue jar into a drawer because Ms. Archer would probably take it away if she saw it. Which was like, so dumb, because Cheryl was a way better employee under the influence. "It's just some dumb class. Who needs to learn like, gun safety anyway?"

See? Great employee.

"Underprivileged kids," Pam answered. Most of whom probably knew gun safety already, but that sounded kinda racist to say it out loud. "The boss lady makes us go because she's getting some kind of tax write-off for educational purposes."

Brett moaned again, and Pam sighed. "Oh, quit'cher whining. This isn't half so bad as last time you got shot."

He was losing a lot less blood. Unless it was all internal bleeding. That'd probably be bad.

Did Malory Archer look displeased? Because she was. Very.

"The class requires two instructors," she hissed. "Presumably with all of their body parts intact. That's why I didn't send Miss Gillette down there to nance about like a demented fruit!"

Ray was out and proud. Malory Archer never let the opportunity go by, to give him shit for it. Not because of the homosexuality, which she was indifferent to overall. But because Ray had an attitude and there was only room for one bitch in this office.

"I'd rather be a ripe fruit than some dried-up old raisin!" Was there any doubt Ray could hear them down the hall in his office? "You know what happens to raisins? They sit in the corner of the shelf and no one ever eats them."

Surely they could all see the similarity. Ray wasn't going to spell anything out for the audience anyone. He wasn't Archer.

"I'll have you know my raisins are perfectly delicious," Malory said, ignoring the shudder going through everyone else. If they were going to ask about her sex life, she was going to answer. And the old girl still had it, thank you very much.

Now where were they? Oh, right, Brett's little melodrama.

"Gurgle all you like, mister," she said, "but you will be back on whatever stumps you have left and teaching young hooligans how to fire semi-automatic weapons by tomorrow afternoon, or you can find yourself a new job."

Oh, right.

"Oh, right," Cheryl said, having honestly forgotten until right this second. "Um, they called? And they don't want you to come back to teach. Like ever?"

She shrugged and added, "Something about the students taking the firearms home or something. I dunno, she was talking really fast and I couldn't find a pen."

Ignore the jar of pens on her desk. Just ignore it.

"I told you they'd count," Pam insisted, triumphantly, to Brett, who was starting to look a little gray. "I said, hey, we're two short, we oughta tell somebody, but you said, hey, what are they odds they count 'em?"

Nobody ask why they hadn't been extra-sure to get the guns back in the first place. The kids had outsmarted them, okay? This was what happened, when you made office drones teach gun safety.

"Ha," Cheryl snorted, wheezing slightly. "Oh my god, I change my mind. It's Brett's fault now."

Yeah. It was Brett's fault he got shot. By Pam.

"It's going to be everyone's fault if I don't get that tax credit," Malory said ominously. "Do you know what I paid out last year?"

Far, far less than she should have.

"I am not leaving money on the table!" she snapped. "Someone had better fix this, and fast."

(Warning: this post contains homophobia, racism, drug use, a guy getting shot, people making fun of a guy for getting shot, and terrible people being very, very terrible. If any of that will offend you, run. Backstory post 1 of 2, written with the awesome notmysupervisor. NFI, NFB, OOC is love.)


2014-01-03 05:44 am (UTC) (Link)

Holy shitballs, this is fucking amazing.