Session One: Existence
Why are we here? I mean, what is our real purpose? Are we, as humans, just a big experiment; that God got up one morning and said to Himself, "hmm I'm feeling a bit bored. Perhaps I should see how creatures would evolve if they were given freewill." Well probably not, maybe it was more like,"oh bugger, Gabriel forgot to put the kettle on. I'm expecting the Pope today!" In any case it's not my lot in life to figure it out, although I often come back to questions like these. My lot in life usually amounts to manning a comm station, being used as a decoy, doing the dirty work for superiors and being a wheelman. That's usually the best part of my day. Oh, and trying not to get shot.
You know the old saying, "Don't shoot the messenger" and how stories are told about the people doing just that and nobody really cares if the messenger does live? Well, I'm that messenger, the only stories you'll find me in are the ones where I give Mr. El Presidente an important letter or something. Most of the time it's the wrong sort of letter, given on the wrong day, written by the wrong person.
Always delivered by me. Almost got my head severed off once, but that's a different story.
I guess it's safe to say whom I work for, I'll probably end up dead later, in a ditch. I was secretary to Mao Yen-Rei, God rest his soul. He was a damn fine man, never a better gentleman, well in his profession at least. The day he died was the day I finally began considering a way out, especially after I heard I had become secretary to Vicious. I also started hiding small bottles of gin in my desk drawer for those really nasty cases that pop up. This is the reason why I keep thinking of existence. How or better yet, why was such a man created in the first place? Is he a test of my will not to kill the creepy bastard with a rather sharp letter opener? Maybe I should kill myself; nobody in this damn syndicate really cares about a lowly secretary with a penchant for fast cars. No, no bad thought; somewhere deep down I know that it isn't time yet, that I still have things yet to do, things that God only knows.
Although I'd wish He'd give me a hint, sometime.
My job leaves me in a strange predicament. On the one hand I can write (AKA forge) letters, manage a comm system and send notifications faster than anybody. That's why I'm still around. On the other hand my superiors (and everybody else, for that matter) think they can push me into doing their dirty work. Usually there's a legitimate reason, such as needing an extra hand when a job goes awry or as an occasional barside psychologist for those who are losing it while drinking themselves into a stupor. More often then not, I do the dirty work because of a bet. Most of the boys don't think that a woman, much less a humble secretary, could pull off a job. I try to discourage that by threatening to shoot their toes off. I hit the second and fourth toes, on either foot. I've discovered that you don't really need them to walk.
They find this out two days after surgery and nobody questions my abilities again. Until the next round of free drinks.