Free Battle of the Network Zombies by Mark Henry Page B

of Birch’s voice and the shimmer of sound that filled the room in sensual warmth, brought on by the cold air pumping into the space. “He has his merits.”
    “Oh, Amanda. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for his little song and dance.”
    I shrugged. “Of course not. He has an interesting voice, is all I’m saying. There’s a reason why people are drawn to him. It’s not his charm, I can tell you that much.”
    “Like a swarm of locusts stripping a field. Vile sounds from an even more contemptible being.” Elizabeth scraped a fresh French manicure across the subway tile; they squeaked and ticked like a needle on a broken record. “I should have…” her voice trailed off and the long hall was silent for a moment.
    I glanced at Marithé, who mouthed, “What the fuck?”
    “Elizabeth?” I asked, stepping toward the woman, the part-time goddess, and the scariest lawyer I knew, not sure whether I was seriously attempting to soothe her, or otherwise bond, in any way. Karkaroff wasn’t exactly the bonding type. 25
    “Nothing. Nothing.” She spun around, flipping her hair over her shoulder and the remnants of a sad smile from her otherwise stony face. “Shut the door and sit down. We have much to discuss before you leave for the set of American Minions .”
    “And when is that exactly?” I asked checking my watch.
    Elizabeth thumbed through a stack of papers on her desk. “Here it is. Principal photography begins…tomorrow.” She smiled pleasantly.
    “Tomorrow?” My mouth dropped open. Wendy’s sources were definitely on the ball. Despite it not paying, the gossip blogging thing did produce some interesting and accurate blather.
    Marithé joined me on the couch, smoothing her skirt under her ass and sneering at me for monitoring her, presumably. Karkaroff leaned against her desk and continued, shrugging off my horror at the heightened timeline. “I don’t need to tell you this agency is on its last leg. The show’s going to help, but we’ll need to make some cuts to keep us afloat until then.” She accentuated the statement with a dramatic scissoring with her fingers.
    I spun on Marithé. “We could get rid of your personal assistant.”
    She smooshed up her face around her nose, as though someone had thrown a turd into the room. Of course, that’d be me. “Well, I don’t see how that would—”
    On cue, Cupcake buzzed in like a horsefly to catch a whiff. An ill-proportioned little pixie who favored crocheted berets in odd pastels like creamsicle and puce to anything resembling an actual hat and an unnerving habit of spraying sparkles from her fingertips as she typed—like that’s useful.
    “I have your raspberry-scented oxygen set up for your beauty break, ma’am,” she said, eyes batting in adoration of Marithé.
    Her boss simply rolled her eyes and seethed, her ability to defend the use of a company employee for her own luxury treatments (not that she could even breathe, so the whole thing was just weird) neutered by the girl’s lack of tact.
    “You’re right,” Marithé said and then turned to Cupcake, her hands clasped pleasantly. “Cupcake?”
    “Yes?” More eye batting.
    “You’re fired.”
    Cupcake’s mouth dropped open.
    “You heard me. Pack your knitting needles, drawers full of Pez dispensers, office birthday charts and don’t forget that row of troll dolls congregating on top of your computer monitor. If I see that you’ve left them, I’ll blowtorch them into a rainbow puddle of plastic and mail it to you with your final paycheck.” Marithé scanned her palms, perhaps for her conscience. Finding none, she looked up. “Such as it is.”
    “But?” A glittery tear slid down Cupcake’s cheek.
    Marithé reached toward the pixie, and for a second I thought I’d be witnessing a rare moment of tenderness—that is, before she curled her finger under the salty drop and slurped it up like the monster she was. The monster I created…well, with the help of whatever