A brief history of waiting room chairs: Long, long ago, long before television (gasp) and flush toilets, though in truth it was well after Adam and Eve, a hideous torture device was invented. A dread instrument which could be used to cow and vex, an awful contrivance which would someday be loathed by all. I am referring not to the small sized laser pointer, bane of school teachers and theatre owners world wide (watch you don't poke out an eye), or shrink rapping which is impossible to open without a very sharp pair of scissors, no I am referring of course to that most dreaded of office appliances, the waiting room chair. This miracle of ancient construction is specifically made so that no matter how you twist, turn, and shimmy you'll wish that you were getting that colon oscopy, or confessing those sins to the police officer right this very moment. That's right for only $32.95, you too can torture friends, family, and hated acquaintances with lower lumbar problems and badly cricked necks. Order now and receive a free supersized enema bag.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
My ass hurts like hell. For once it's not been caused by Max kicking said appendage, but rather by nearly an hour of torture on this iron maiden on which I'd been directed to sit. Max stretches beside me, lithe as a cat, and extends her body so much that I could swear that I almost here the vertebrae popping. Eyeing the stiffly superior looking secretary at the desk in front of us she smiles wickedly and begins deliberately to pop each and every one of her fingers. "Crack." Index finger. "Crack." Ring finger. "Crack." Pinky.
"Behave yourself kitten." I pitch my voice low so that only she can here me. The scent of her so close to me awakens the animal instincts lurking just below the surface and I lean in nearer to her and nip delicately at the edge of her ear. A shiver runs down her spine and her face flushes softly. I chuckle at her sudden show of shyness. A voice clears itself loudly in front of us and we turn with twin expressions of cat-who-ate the canary guiltily to look at the young male secretary who has circled his desk to stand in front of us.
"Senator Burnhart will see the two of you now." Refusing to be cowed by the officious little prick I lift Max off her chair with one arm and drop her to her feet and then swagger towards the rather imposing dark wood door that closes Burnhart's office off from the waiting area. Putting on my most ingratiating smirk I lean against the door and eye him casually.
"Sooooo." I drawl out the first word because I've suddenly realized that I don't know the man's name. My enhanced eyes zero in on the papers on his too tidy desk. "So Johnny, does she just want to see us or will talking actually be involved? Because honestly this feels more like a sitting and posing day than a working day."
"Now, now, Alec. You may be extremely pretty, but I unfortunately didn't have the sense to hire you on as a demimonde. That sadly means that work will be involved in our current arrangement." Damnit, I'd been so caught up in teasing the tight-ass that I hadn't heard the door beside me creep open.
"Good afternoon Senator." To my great surprise it was Maxie and not the little piece of bureaucratic twaddle that spoke up to smooth things over.
"Hello Ms. Guevara, please let me be the first to congratulate you on your spectacular victory over the Familiar forces. I believe that it isn't exaggerating to say that the whole world owes you quite a debt of gratitude." Regaining my normally unflappable sense of center I reapply the patented smirk.
"But not so grateful as to let us off these errands I suppose?" Quite irritatingly the Senator's smirk is if anything more gloating than my own.
"I must remind you that a deal is a deal, particularly in the world of politics. Besides, you might find yourselves actually enjoying these little projects. I think you'll find that they provide the right amount of mental and tactile stimulation. Now if you don't mind Mr. Alec, Ms. Guevara, I'd deeply appreciate the two of you stepping into my office."
The place reminds me inimitably of Logan and his super posh bachelor pad. I suppose that the subtle but obviously expensive décor could be considered a sign of breeding. Secretly, I'm torn between sniffing in contempt over all of the refinement, and mentally calculating how much I could take in by fencing some of this stuff. Probably enough to keep me in scotch and hair gel for a few years.
As if sensing my evil thoughts, Max smacks me on the arm and half shoves me into another goddamn chair. At least this one has some kind of padding on it. After the small shuffle of rear ends settling on seating and women readjusting clothing, okay I admit to some manly readjusting of my own but do you have any idea how uncomfortable those damn chairs are? Anyhow, after the shuffling died down, Senator Burnhart leaned lightly on the desk and fixed us with her most politically earnest expression of concern.
"I'm sure that it's no secret to the two of you that many of my fellow politicians have, in the years since the pulse become somewhat corrupt. In a society where toilet paper is often a precious commodity one can hardly blame some of them. However, a few recent transgressions by one of my colleagues in particular, have come to my attention. Unlike the usual petty embezzlement and fraud, this issue could have a very serious impact on the health of the country at large."
"He started up a mayonnaise worshipping cult? Ouch!" Max elbowed me sharply in the ribs and motioned for the senator to continue.
"Actually, for once Alec isn't that far off. About fifteen years ago, when I was just a junior aid to the undersecretary of the Whitehouse, some of the upper echelons of power were rocked by some rather bizarre cult killings. We probably wouldn't have ever heard of it, but the secretary of states daughter, with whom he'd been estranged years before, was one of the victims. Feeling horribly guilty for abandoning his child in her time of need, he launched an all out search for the leaders of the cult pooling all of the resources of the FBI and CIA. A, a friend of mine in the FBI special crimes division was involved in the search and he kept me up to date on the affair. The folks running the inquiry determined that the murders were the work of some little religious cult out in the South Pacific, which had decided to pick up stakes and try their luck up north in the states. A special team of commands were sent to round up the cultists, and as they say, that should have been that."
"Gee, why am I guessing that the story doesn't end there?" I brace myself for another elbow to the ribs but Max is too wrapped up in the story to dole out punishments.
"Yes, quite right. The military team was sent to Texas, our research showed that that was where they'd set up camp, but the team never returned. A second team was sent in to try to find signs of the first men, but they found neither traces of their own men nor the cultists. After that debacle I thought I'd heard the last of the issue. That was until five years later when a second round of murders occurred. The cult members managed to hide themselves well after the second incident." I barely noticed but her voice hitched softly as she spoke the next words.
"One team of military specialists did track them down. They'd apparently had some kind of smuggling trade in religious artifacts going by that point. They were never apprehended though and our team unfortunately did not leave very good information behind. The team was found three weeks later. A set of ancient African symbols carved into their chests and faces." She hands both of us a dossier with typed sheets and photos. My heart plummets to my stomach as I glance down at the first page.