A conversation in an office…
Sitting at her side of the desk, Puddles spun her favorite interface pen for the hundredth time. Down time bored her, waiting for clients bored her, wondering how Whiskers trip to the SCPD keep her awake. Another spin, the interface point swung past her slowing down to point at her empty “Mom’s Favorite Kitty” cup. Letting out another bored sigh, Puddles went to get a cup of coffee; at least that might keep her awake.
Coffee in hand, she remembered her need for a new frying pan. Firing up the desk interface Puddles began to shop and surf. Swipe, swipe, pinch, swipe, close, open…a weak knock, so weak Puddles did not hear the first five. A weak shuffling, halting gait to the desk. A weak voice, a whisper barely heard and she was sitting across from Puddles. Weak clothing, brown, non-descript wageslave uniform of whatever corp employed her.
Puddles recalled yesterday’s conversation after noodles, “We need more clients,” Whiskers said.
“We need to find who screwed us and get our isstas,” she responded.
“Until then,” Whiskers replied while handing her his tablet, “we have a list of potential clients. We need the isstas.”
“Be on your better behavior around the clients.”
“I’ll try,” Puddles responded with a smirk.
Camile Harowe, the first potential client on the list, continued to irritate Puddles with her very presence. Thankfully, Whiskers returned and she gave Whiskers the particulars of her case a second time. Wringing her hands, eyes pooling with tears, and that pungent odor of perfume didn’t mask her stench of desperation.
“Gathering evidence of your husband’s infidelities, should take us a week,” Whisker said while consulting his data-pad. Sliding the data-pad across his immaculately clean side of the desk, “Sign at the bottom and once the issta transfer is confirmed we will take the job.”
Puddles stifled an irritated grunt, catching cheating spouses-so low rent.
“Thank you so much,” the woman replied, “I hope I am wrong. I love him so much…”
“But you have a hunch,” Puddles interrupted as she snatching the data-pad back.
Whiskers grabbed the data-pad out of Puddles paw before the data-pad got lost in the mess of her side of the desk, “Thank you Camile. We will be in touch.”
As soon as the door closed, “What nickname did you give this client?”
“You don’t want to know,” Puddles dismissed the question with a wave and returned to shopping for a new frying pan.