posted on Nov, 28 2020 @ 10:18 PM
You know that guy : the one that always needs to ask you, in the first few seconds : "What do you do?"
I used to dispise meeting those dolts, at cocktail parties, meet-and-greets, or whatever social occasion.
Their question was met, with a mental 'rolling of the eyes', like : " oh geeze : here we go, another boring paternalistic putz !"
Then one day : I became that guy, asking that stupid question.
But you see : I figure I have a good reason.
Don't know if some of those dolts had the same reason, or they were just dolts. But it raises some questions in my memory.
The reason ?
It's because I don't really want to tell people what I do for a living.
So instead of answering in a way that may be perceived as elusive : I take the offensive by asking first.
That way : when they return the question, I'm able to choose a fake profession, as unrelated as possible, to theirs.
Over the years : I've found a few job-titles, that end the inquiry, and let the convo move-on to something else.
Like : candle-maker ; futures-market speculator ; municipal clerk, Uber driver, etc...
But mostly because : the first time I told someone what I really did for a living, well, it didn't go so well...
It happened, despite my will, you see ?
She wasn't a dolt. Perhaps a doltess, but a really nice doltess.
I got nervous. I wanted to impress her, somehow. Maybe a glass of champagne too much...
So I just blurted it out, that I'm a procurement agent, for the ultra-wealthy.
Oh : she seemed impressed alright !
Big money, and famous folks, are intoxicating to some young dames.
Her interest was piqued, and she just had to know more.
So now that the
fish, oops, dame, was hooked : I could play it cool, enjoy the reeling-in, and just groove on the feeling.
Playing it cool, went to get some more drinks for us, confident that she was just hanging-on, waiting for me to come-back.
Maybe played it too cool, or had too much to drink, but over the course of 15 minutes or so : she went from enthrallment, to sheer horror.
She asked if I knew any royalty, presidents, or famous people. Her facial expressions went through a few contortions, as I explained that those folks
were only the meagre figureheads, and that they held those positions, only at the behest of the real leaders : my employers.
I explained to her how my employers were all unknown to the public-at-large, and were beyond any type of 'Forbes list of the world's richest people.'
She was still keen at this point, wanting to know who could be richer than the supposed richest families in the world, and why nobody knew who they
Somewhere between the extra drinks, and the racing hormones : my consciousness slipped into a deep fog, as my mouth just kept-on motoring, and
spilling all of the details of my work, none of which had ever been shared with another human soul.
As my consciousness began to regain some focus, I slowly, groggy as a grogg, began to understand what I was doing.
As I tried to control the words, spilling mechanically out-of my mouth, I began to notice that her face had changed.
Her left eye was twitching, her right eye was glassed-out, her body was shaking precariously, and her quivering lips were turning blue.
She hit the ground, and I just backed-away.
Nobody seemed to notice me, as they were all staring at the poor convulsing dame on the floor, by now.
Next thing you know, I'm stuffing jars of caviar, a loaf of bread, and two bottles of champagne into my coat, and heading for the exit.
Passed-out at home, before even putting the champagne in the fridge.
Awoke in a haze, had no sense of what time it might be.
Slowly remembering what had happened, what I had said, what about that dame ?
I got a call from the agency : I was to meet somebody, at midnight, out at the old power-plant.
Much to my surprise : it was her !
I asked her how she was doing.
She said she was doing fine, and asked me the same, as she grinned.
Told her I was doing alright, but questions were arising in the back of my mind, about the connection, between her and the agency.
She then told me, that there was an agreement, with The Council, that my work was never to be spoken-of, and that I had broken that contract.
I tried stalling for time, I could no longer stand, and fell to my knees.
Nothing but babbling, stuttering, slobbering. Tears falling freely.
She quickly changed her face back to the last image I had seen of her, just before she had fallen to the floor.
Then in an instant : back to her regular face, as she cackled mockingly.
I was the fish. I had been reeled-in, and played.
I pleaded with her, that she had obviously drugged, and tricked me : but to no avail.
The Council expected more from their agents.
I had broken the contract.
And I'll never do that again.
edit on Tue Dec 1 2020 by DontTreadOnMe because: (no reason given)