62. Operation Superlesbian


The Shadow was interviewing people for jobs in the mailroom.
He was on the board of directors.
He didn’t have a soul.
He was sly, sneaky, underhand, ruthless.
Nothing made him happier than screaming at a member of his staff until they cried.
Job well done.
*Knock knock*
“Come in.”
A short, stocky man with a crew cut stomped into his office and sat down.
He sat down without being asked.
He wouldn’t get the job.
Still, thought The Shadow, I’ve got to go through the motions.
“Name?”
“Ermintrude.”
The Shadow had been sketching in a pad, doodling pictures of stick men becoming trapped in printing machinery, when he suddenley stopped and looked up.
“Ermintrude?”
The man glowered at him.
“Ermintrude.”
He quickly sifted through the C.V.’s on his desk.
He found the one he was looking for.
Ermintrude was single.
Experienced.
Late twenties.
No kids.
And he was a woman.
Interesting.
“So, err.. Ermintrude. By the looks of your C.V. you seem to be perfect for the job! When can you start?”
Ermintrude looked shocked, and suspicious.
“No disrespect, but you’ve not even interviewed me. How come I get the job?”
The shadow laughed quietly, his hands laced behind his head.
“There’s two answers to that question, Ermintrude. One is, quite frankly, bullshit. The other is the truth. Which do you want?”
She sat back in her chair, eyeballing him.
“Better start with the bullshit, Mr Shadow.”
Ok. Your credentials are perfect, you are the right age, you have good experience in the role and you come across as a positive, upbeat, team player. Happy?”
“Not really. Let’s have the truth.”
“Ok. You’re a bull dyke.”
Ermintrude growled and started to get out of her chair.
The Shadow patted the air, indicating for her to calm down.
“Keep your wig on, love. No need to take offense. I meant it as a complement. As a matter of fact, you are just what we are looking for.”
Ermintrude cracked her knuckles.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’ve got a quota of women employees I have to fill, and to put it bluntly, your lot won’t fuck off for six months at a time on maternity leave. Got it?”
Ermintrude still glowered.
The Shadow smiled at her.
“Don’t look so cross. You’ve got the job! And here’s another little proposition. If any more of your lot want a job here, tell them it’s in the bag. I’ll even bung a little sweetener your way for every dyke you point my way. Deal?”
Ermintrude shrugged.
“Ok. Deal.”
They shook hands, and she left the office.
The Shadow cackled to himself.
This was perfect!
No more maternity pay, no more useless part timers to train up. Just a workforce of superlesbians, steadily working away without fear of them getting knocked up.
He picked up the phone and spoke to his secretary.
“Marjorie? Is their anybody else waiting for an interview?”
“Yes Mr Shadow. There are eleven young men waiting outside.”
“Right. Tell them to fuck off.”
“Oh!”
The Shadow slammed down the phone.
Yes, this was perfect.
Nothing could go wrong.

Things had started to go wrong.
He was six months into Operation Superlesbian, and he was getting steady stream of complaints.
He had hired a dozen or so women that Ermintrude had recommended, but now they were getting out of hand.
They had been aggressive and intimidating to other members of staff.
They kept hitting on the straight women on his staff, even managing to turn a couple of them.
Their husbands were furious.
What’s more, they kept fucking each other in the toilets.
God only knows what they got up to in there, but it sounded like a Roman orgy.
On top of all that, explosive arguments had been erupting over who was going with who to the Christmas party.
The Shadow was at the end of his tether.
Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do about it.
He was stuck with the lesbians.

It had been a good year at the factory, and God decided to push the boat out for the Christmas Party.
For the first time ever there was a respectable venue, superb food, and free wine on every table.
Some of the older workers had gone so far as to hire tuxedos for the event.
The air was buzzing with excitement.
Not everyone was happy though.
Tensions were running high in the lesbian camp.
Some of the bull dykes didn’t get the girl dykes they wanted for the evening, and they were far from happy.
Ermintrude slouched against the bar, staring daggers at Clarabelle and slinging back Jack Daniel’s.
She wasn’t happy.
Clarabelle had come with Vicky, but Vicky had been seeing Ermintrude on the side and Ermintrude has wanted Vicky to come to the party with her.
Instead she had been forced to come with Roxy, who still was technically her girlfriend, but everyone knew that Roxy was shagging Yvette, and Denise too, if rumours were to be believed.
They could all fuck off.
Ermintrude only wanted Vicky.
She slammed back another whiskey…

The party was in full swing when things came to a head.
Dinner had been cleaned away, and everybody was enjoying a dance.
The Shadow sidled close to where God was dancing with Mrs God.
“This really is a super do you’ve arranged this year, God,” he greased. “It will go down as a most memorable event!”
“I only hope it’s memorable for the right reasons, Shadow,” he growled back. “Mrs God has just been telling me that those short ugly men you’ve recently hired were having quite a row outside the women’s lavatories…”
Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit!
The Shadow abandoned his wife and made his way across the dance floor.
Too late.
It all kicked off.
“Bitch!”
“Slag!”
“Cunt!”
People screamed as snarling lesbians started punching the living crap out of each other, throwing chairs and smashing glasses.
No hair pulling for these girls.
You can’t grab a crew cut.
A couple of printers tried to separate them, but staggered away with blood pouring from broken noses caused by well placed head butts.
Spilled beer sloshed onto the dance floor, turning it into an ice rink, and frightened wives fell like nine pins as they tried to flee the bloodshed.
“Ladies! Ladies!” screamed The Shadow, desperate to halt the mayhem.
A chair shattered across Ermintrude’s broad shoulders, but she shrugged it off and planted firm right hook to Clarabelle’s jaw.
Clarabelle staggered backwards, spitting teeth and foul language, her hand scrabbling across a bloodstained table cloth in search of a weapon.
She found a wine bottle, gripped it by the neck, and hurled it with all her strength at Ermintrude.
Who ducked.
The Shadow wasn’t so quick.
The bottle of Chateau neuf du Pape struck him square between the eyes, sending him reeling to the floor among the blood, glass and beer, the sounds of battle and Boney M fading, fading…

The jolt of the stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance brought him briefly back to consciousness, and he squinted his eyes against the painful flashing blue lights of the police vans.
He saw a copper sitting on a tail gate, nursing a bleeding nose.
A regional news van was parked on the grass outside the hotel, and the lurid orange anchorwoman was interviewing a grinning Dogsbody who was still holding a pint.
There was no sign of God, or Mrs God, or Mrs Shadow, for that matter.
He closed his eyes.
That hadn’t gone well.
Not well at all.
He wondered what the Hell he was going to do for staff on Monday morning, now that Operation Superlesbian had been scuppered.
He’d have to call the agency, see who was available short notice.
As he drifted back into unconsciousness, he wondered if he could specifically request only really hideous women apply for the jobs.
That way nobody would want to fuck them.
Not even the bull dykes.

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One Response to 62. Operation Superlesbian

  1. CYOA says:

    “The bottle of Chateau neuf du Pape struck him square between the eyes, sending him reeling to the floor among the blood, glass and beer, the sounds of battle and Boney M fading, fading…”

    One of the best sentences I’ve read in a long time. Mainly for the Boney M.

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