So I’ve got a few minutes, and figured this was a good time to finish up this paperwork.  As soon as I downloaded the form template, it filled in most of that crap above, so don’t go thinking I got all sentimental about my job or anything.  Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get this over with:

I don’t need this crap.  I’m not here because I want this crap.  I’m here due to the unavoidable press of life having its wicked and inappropriate way with me.  Consider:

( I did really well in grade school because I wanted to impress Suzy Stratham.  Her little sundresses and pigtails were to die for

( I did passably well in high school, in spite of the fact that I spent much of my time trying to get in Suzy Stratham’s pants

( I opted out of college and instead joined the military since it seemed the fastest legitimate way out of town.  Keep in mind, Suzy was harping on and on about how she didn’t want the baby to be born a bastard and all that, which was getting really old, really fast

( I left the military under circumstances I frankly do not recall very clearly, as I was drunk on cheap wine and shacked up with the Colonel’s daughter

( Finally, I enlisted with the Knight Slobbers not out of any compelling urge to right the world’s wrongs, but for three different reasons:

1. because I’m trained in power armor combat thanks to the military

2. the pay is enough to keep me well and truly soused

3. chicks dig superheroes, now that the whole unitard fad is over

4. I was enticed by the anonymity, and by the prospect of living in a headquarters that is so super secret it only boasts a PO Box number, and no street address.  Keep in mind, I was being dogged by a paternity suit and a special forces team doing some crackpot army commander’s bidding, so dropping out of sight seemed well-advised.

So you can see that I’m here, and I’m stuck with it.  But that doesn’t mean that I’m fool enough to jump up and clap my hands like some apoplectic seal when the damn alarm klaxons started screaming at me.  But everybody else was getting up and making no effort to be considerate and quiet, so I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and headed to the Control Center with the other chumps who were on-call.  Let’s see, that would be:

Pickles: he’s the guy with the big dark suit of power armor.  He’s like me, a PAC specialist.  He’s not like me, though, in that he’s got a real bug up his ass about always being good, and helping people out, and handing out ice cream sandwiches at the children’s hospital, and dumb things like that.  What a waste.  A half dozen ice cream sandwiches will guarantee you a full night of funky fun with your cheap floozy of choice at the halfway house down on Second and Liberty.  

Brenda: she’s the brainiac with the hoverbot entourage.  One time I tried to convince her that I could show her a good time that would make her forget about ever wanting to stay up all night tinkering on inanimate objects.  She laughed, went over to one of her multitude of cargo containers, and pulled out this hoverbot shaped like a long lozenge.  It mostly just hovered there and quivered like it was overdosing.  Obviously, she had misheard me, but she pointed to the ‘bot and told me that she was all set.  I considered trying to explain that she’d never know true happiness until she’d been with me, but she was clearly off her rocker, so I booked it out to get some ice cream sandwiches.  Outside of her incessant tinkering, though, she’s always looking out for the underdog.  Ugh, what a martyr.

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