Personal Jesus
Hey finally! I have a story to tell!

This happened in February. I'm still not over it.

You know Hot Wheels, yeah? Little toy cars, fun to BBQ and generally torture. I'm not sure if you realize that there's men out there who meticulously collect the little things, line up when cases are newly opened at the local Wal-Mart, and generally get over-zealous about a kid's plaything. They will pay seveal hundred for a single customized piece.

My boss founded a little company that strips the paint off existing Hot Wheels, has them retampoed and repainted in China, and sells them for around £18. We sell out every damn month. About half of the collectors out there have purchased from our little company at least once.

At one of the conventions in Las Vegas, crazy fanboys of the toys are queued up, wanting the signature of one of the main Mattel designers, Larry Wood. I'm mucking about, trying to get our booth set up while fighting this mass of massive people. There's some buzz among the nearest gaggle of men about the new Diecast Hall of Fame inductions going on later that night, and I'm generally not paying attention.

The mention of my boss's name *does* catch my ear within the sentence, "Well, it's a good thing Ray Parker* isn't going to be inducted anytime soon!" I snap my head up to see the white-haired cunt that uttered the defamation is staring right at me, issuing the challenge.

Now, my boss can drive me batty at times, but I'm insanely loyal to the man. He is definitely my hero and is the closest thing to a dad that I'll ever have.

With the feeling of hot electricity in my blood, words just tumble out of my mouth. I don't remember hardly any of my banshee screams, but I know it was something about how Ray is the industry's finest business man to ever be born and this old todger should feel honored to be in the same building as him. I may have overdone it; all the old men standing around probably got the impression that Ray is my personal Jesus or someother.

The mass of people are silenced, awed by my sharp-tongued berating that has put this old guy in his place! Bathed in the warm glow of anger and vengenance, I start to realize that the look on the people's faces is more akin to horror. The target of my rage is looking down on me like I've just been caught with my hand in my panties in the confessional booth.

And then the other details start to fall into place. The people aren't really queued up any longer, the autograph session has ended. And that old guy wasn't looking at me when he'd slandered my boss, he was looking over my shoulder. At my boss. Who is apparently a good buddy of this old guy.

I turn to see that my boss is giving me the same sort of disapproving look. "Trillion, have you met Larry Wood?"

Why he didn't fire me for overzealously defending his honor by cursing out the convention celebrity really is beyond me. But I still get paychecks every other week.




*name changed, though he's far from innocent. I know more about this man's sex life than I do about my own! But he's a really private chap who doesn't like his name out there too much.
(TrillionGrams, Sat 18 Apr 2009, 9:27, Reply)