I Quit

For all who will remember, this is the creep who used to be my boss.

Now, of course, yours truly managed to rid her beautiful self of him by transferring to the political team of Crazy Gorgeous Hottie Senator Petrelli, which didn’t work out so well either.

Ahem. Yes.

But, as part of my ongoing crusade to share with the world the loveliness that is me, I realized that I would need a media outlet in order to broadcast my beauty to all those in need of it. And, unfortunately, I neither own nor can easily buy a media outlet, mostly because I depleted most of my ready cash sometime ago as I was evading the government by revamping my wardrobe.

Fugitive fashion. Oh yes.

So, I went to the Dirty Old Man.

“Tracy!” he exclaimed, staring at my chest.

“Robert,” I drawled, pretending to be attracted to him. “How are you? You’re looking well-off – uh, I mean, well.”

“Ogle ogle ogle?” he asked, a thin stream of drool leaking from his chapped lips. I briefly thought of freezing it, but then realized it would make him look like he had a single long, protruding tooth, which would enhance his ugliness to the point of physically blinding me.

“Well, darling,” I said, batting my eyelashes prettily, “since you’ve missed me so much, how about giving me that television channel you always said you were going to give me?”

“Ogle…” The Dirty Old Man paused thoughtfully. “Ogle, ogle ogle ogle?” he offered.

“Get rid of the previous owner? That’s all?” I snorted disbelievingly. “All right then, point and shoot, baby.”

I hated calling him “baby.”

He beamed, showing his cavity-riddled teeth, and handed me an address. And because my Super-Gorgeous Water Action allows me to travel through sewers without so much as dirtying my hair, I soon found myself at the decrepit, ostentatious doorstep of my intended target, attached to an equally decrepit, ostentatious house.

I rang the doorbell. “Ding-dong,” it said, hideously.

The door creaked open, and I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was the most pathetic old bag I’d ever seen, so misshapen and malformed that I couldn’t bring myself to kill her – not out of pity, you understand, but because the ugliness of her fleeing soul would’ve ruined my clothes. It was pathetic, really.

“Squawk?” she asked, vulture-like.

“Madame, I just want to tell you, you are very ugly,” I said politely, and slammed the door in her face.

Flush with anger, I stomped away from the hideous creature’s house, finally realizing what a fool I’d been. Of course I couldn’t work for Dirty Old Man Malden – he was too weak to even get rid of a wingless vulture-woman on his own. That was why he’d needed me.

But no more.

I resolved, then and there, to put an end to ugliness on my own terms. No more working for geriatric politicos with limp, flaccid platforms, no no no. I would be a solo act, a vigilante, a lone glamorous voice in the dark wilderness of mediocrity.

I would be America’s Next Top Model.

So Malden, baby, if your senile old eyes can even still read this…

I quit.