Blonde Joke Chapter Twelve by Jeffrey M. Mahr   Why don’t bosses let blondes take lunch breaks? So they don’t have to retrain them if they find their way back.

---

“We’ve got visitors,” Katrina called out as she peered out through the crack between the slats of the blinds in the living room. Karen and Barbie squealed and ran for the bedroom. They had been lounging in their nightgowns and were not going to be seen without clothes and makeup. Maggie just laughed and adjusted her robe around her flannel pajamas.

“Girls; come out of there. They’re not those kinds of visitors.”

The bedroom door opened a crack and Karen’s head peeked out. “What?”

“It’s probably reporters of something. Someone’s parked a camper across the street and periodically I see something that looks like binoculars looking our way.

“Son of a...” Karen strode angrily back into the living room. “Aren’t those bastards ever going to let us be?”

“I doubt it,” Karen opined, “at least as long as we’re news. And we can’t really do much about it; we need them on our side. This is as much a public relations battle as it is legal action.”

“But I’m not sure these folks are from the press.” Katrina observed pensively. She was still at the window, watching the people watching their loft. “Except for the folks from tabloids like the National Enquirer, the paparazzi, everyone from the press has been very straight forward. These folks keep hiding behind the shades of the windows in that camper.”

“Well,” Maggie noted with a smile and an arched eyebrow, “if they’re paparazzi, we don’t need their help girls. Anyone interested in a little relatively harmless fun?” The others waited while she ran to her room and returned with a bag of balloons and some aerosol cans of shaving cream.

“What?” she asked when they looked at her askance. “I had them for the party I was planning–for after we won the case.”

About half an hour later, a very pretty girl in a very small halter-top and a very short, very tight pair of shorts strode up to the camper and knocked tentatively on the door. “Excuse me?” The voice oozed innocence and sex appeal. “Is anyone in there? My car won’t start and I was wondering if you could help me.”

The door opened and two middle-aged men peered myopically at her through the screen door.

“My car won’t start,” she repeated as she pouted prettily. “I turn the key, but nothing happens. Could one of you big strong men help me?”

There was a brief pushing match at the doorway as each tried to be first to the aid of the lovely damsel in distress. The taller and slightly thinner one won.

“Where’s your car, Miss?”

“Yeah, maybe I can help you,” the other man said as he pushed in front of the first man.

“Hey, get back in line. Besides, you’re a computer nerd. What do you know about cars?”

“It’s right down the street, just past that big deliver truck,” the damsel in question interrupted their battle. She was already walking in the direction she’d pointed. Still jockeying for position, the two men followed, paying more attention to her dancing butt cheeks than anything else. As she passed the truck, the girl suddenly turned into the street and disappeared. The two men followed and, when they got to the street side of the truck, they heard a woman’s voice yell “NO!” just as they were struck with a dozen balloons filled with shaving cream.

Franklin Brodsky was not a happy man. He had spent most of the day looking for a way to break the heart of Isseksen’s alliance, but so far had been unsuccessful. The bitch could tie him up for years if he didn’t stop her. Of course, he had been able to plant a few seeds that might come back to help later, but it was not enough and he knew it. The IRS could be an irritant, but Isseksen’s folks had as many accountants as he did. As a result, the ride home was not pleasant. Franklin was seriously considering hiring someone to kill the bitch.

“I’m going to my room. Have dinner ready in an hour and a drink on my desk in five minutes,” he snarled as he stalked through the kitchen entrance at White Wood from the garage where Talker had parked the car.

“Y…yes Master,” Renfrew stuttered. “What about the woman?” But Brodsky was already out the other door leading to the “upstairs” section of the house. Renfrew was uncertain if he had heard and was not going to seek him out to confirm whether he had.

In his dressing room, Brodsky undressed and put on a bathrobe. A moment later there was a tentative knock on the door. Then a maid entered. She silently placed an extra dry martini with an olive on his nightstand, curtseyed and left as quickly as she could.

Strolling through a passage door, Brodsky entered his bedroom, the Rose room, and saw the woman lying face down on the king-sized bed. She was a blonde, which made Brodsky smile. It would be nice to get even with at least one blonde. She was wearing his favorite outfit, a red leather confection that displayed her breasts and crotch while draping itself diaphanously over her shoulders, buttocks and a miniscule portion of thigh.

Brodsky strode to the Mahogany nightstand. Smiling contemptuously, he pulled several articles from the drawer, a ball gag, a whip and a slim dagger with a very sharp point. He could no longer punish his wife Jacqueline for leaving him, nor could he punish Isseksen for the trouble she was causing him, but this bitch would do for the moment.

He picked up the whip first, snapping it twice in the air to make certain of his control. Turning to the woman on the bed, he growled, “Turn over bitch.”

“Nnnn. Wha?” the woman struggled toward consciousness and nearly made it. The pillow muffled her words.

The whip snapped.

“Ow! Shit, that hurt.” The woman jerked. She was fully awake now.

“I said, turn over bitch, and speak politely,” the senior Brodsky demanded.

Tommi turned over and glared up at her father.

Franklin Brodsky sat back, engulfed by his leather chair, surrounded by the trappings of what was important to him. A life-size portrait of his wife was on the far wall, encircled by white wall, just above the dark mahogany wainscoting and positioned so that she was always watching him with her “Mona Lisa”-like smile as he sat at his desk. On one sidewall was a trophy case with a mixture of awards won by various family members. The rest of the room was barren, devoid of ornamentation, excluding a thick, rich Berber rug and two smaller versions of the desk chair. Tommi Brodsky sat, on the edge of one of the guest chairs, legs primly crossed at the ankle, back rigidly straight and proud as she tried to stare down her father.

“So,” the elder Brodsky sneered. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you? Just because you used to be my son doesn’t mean you’re anything to me know. You’re certainly not related to me by blood.”

“Whether I’m your son or your daughter is irrelevant,” Tommi responded with practiced ease. “Whether you think of me as your blood or not is also irrelevant. What is relevant is that you need me.”

The only response was a snort of disbelief.

“I expected you to feel that way and I’m prepared to prove it. Aside from the obvious knowledge of Brodsky family holdings and a better knowledge of the way you think than any other living human being…”

“That makes you qualified to compete with Miss Smalling for her job. You’re welcome to call my office for an interview.”

“…I also know the intimate details of every project initiated by GenTech Industries in at least the last five years.”

“What is this–extortion? Are you going to threaten to threaten to sell that information to the highest bidder?”

“I’ll never understand how mother put up with you,” Tommi snapped as she glared back at the man across from her. “Will you please shut up for a moment? If I wanted to sell company information, I wouldn’t have bothered to stop in to visit my loving father.” He accented the word “loving” just enough to make his father scowl, but the reference to his father’s wife was enough to silence him, at least for the moment she wanted.

“As I was saying, I can give you the inside scoop on all the legal and other maneuvering going on in the Isseksen camp.” Realizing she’d been leaning forward in her rush to get the words out before being interrupted again, Tommi leaned back into the soft chair and crossed her arms under her breasts, daring her father to make another snide comment.

Tension seemed to fill the air, a cloying thickness that grew even more intense as the silence dragged on. Finally, the silence was broken, first by the squeak of one of the wheels on Franklin Brodsky’s desk chair, then by peels of laughter. “Welcome back son,” he laughed.

“Your Honor, I must object. These witnesses have already testified and been cross-examined, yet here they are offering new testimony in conflict with prior sworn statements and testimony. At the very least I would request they be charged with perjury.”

“Please your Honor, now counsel is trying to tell you how to rule. He called these witnesses and opened this line of questioning. This is merely redirect.”

“Redirect? What did your clients do, bribe these men? Threaten them with ‘blacklisting?’”

“This coming from the attorney of the biggest union-busting company in the biochemical industry?”

The gavel stuck repeatedly. “Gentlemen! Approach the bench! This instant!”

The judge leaned forward and whispered with a barely concealed snarl. “My court room is not your personal soapbox, Mr. Shapiro. And Mr. Johnson, if I hear one more potentially slanderous remark, you’ll be spending time behind bars. Do I make myself clear gentlemen?”

They both nodded.

“Good. Then we shall proceed, but with decorum.

“Mr. Shapiro, your objection is denied. You introduced the testimony of these men. If you think what they have to say now is perjury, we can deal with that in a later hearing.

“Now, Mr. Johnson; proceed–but be very careful to limit your questioning to topics relevant to the initial testimony.”

“Thank you your Honor.” Charlie Johnson turned and walked to the jury box and spoke to the jury. “I think this will help you to decide who is actually innocent or guilty in this case.”

“Objection, your Honor. That’s not a question and he’s not addressing his remarks to the witness.”

“Sustained. Mr. Johnson, address the witness.”

“Yes your Honor.

“Mr. Walton. Do you remember the conversation we were talking about prior to this interruption?”

“Yes, sir. The one two days before Mr. Brodsky disappeared.”

“Do you remember the topic of conversation?”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Isseksen came into the lab and Mr. Brodsky told a blonde joke.”

“Yes, Mr. Walton. Would you please share that joke with the Court?”

“Yes sir. Mr. Brodsky asked, ‘What was the blonde psychic’s greatest achievement?’ Then, when we didn’t answer, he gave us the punch line. ‘An in-body experience.’”

A couple of the women on the jury shifted uncomfortably. A couple of the men and a larger group from behind the rail chuckled.

“Objection. Mr. Johnson has not shown relevance.”

“Mr. Johnson?”

We are attempting to prove that this was a hostile workplace, your Honor.”

“Sustained, but if that’s your case, it would be better tried in a federal court.”

Charlie Johnson cleared his throat and continued. “And where was Dr. Isseksen at the time?”

“In the lab, working.”

“What color is Dr. Isseksen’s hair?”

“Blonde.”

“Is she a natural blonde?”

“Objection. Counsel stipulates that Ms. Isseksen is currently blonde. There has been no prior testimony regarding hair color and I again ask relevance.”

“This one would seem obvious, Mr. Shapiro. Overruled, Mr. Johnson, but I expect to see some relevance to this overall line of questioning very quickly.”

“Thank you your Honor, but now that opposing counsel has stipulated that Dr. Isseksen is blonde, the question is unnecessary.” Turning back to the witness, Charlie Johnson, senior partner in Johnson, Johnson, Whett and Wilde, continued.

“Mr. Walton, did Mr. Brodsky tell many blonde jokes?”

“That’s mostly all he told.”

“Just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ please.”

“Yes. He told a lot of blonde jokes.”

“Did he tell those jokes at other times in Dr. Isseksen’s presence?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did he tell blonde jokes when Dr. Isseksen was not around?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Can you tell me another time when he told a blonde joke in your presence, but not in Dr. Isseksen’s presence?”

“I can’t recall.”

“You can’t recall? Did he or didn’t he?”

“I’m not...I don’t think so.”

“Did Mr. Brodsky tell other jokes, beside blonde jokes?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell any other jokes besides blonde jokes in Dr. Isseksen’s presence?”

“N...no.”

“So Mr. Brodsky only told blonde jokes around Dr. Isseksen. Is that correct?”

“As far as I know.”

“What was Dr. Isseksen’s opinion of the blonde jokes?”

“At first she took them with good grace.”

“But?”

“But after a while then began to annoy her.”

“Did she tell Mr. Brodsky that she was annoyed?”

“Yes sir.”

“When was that, Mr. Walton?”

“About two weeks after Dr. Isseksen arrived. About two years ago.”

“Where did it happen?”

“In the lab.”

“Were you present during that conversation between Dr. Isseksen and Mr. Brodsky?”

“Yes.”

“Was any one else present?”

“Dick Baldwin, the other lab assistant.”

“And what was Mr. Brodsky’s response?”

“He laughed and told her she must be joking. Then he said that if she wasn’t joking she was being thin skinned. Then, he told another one.”

“Another blonde joke?”

“Yes.”

“Was it your opinion that Dr. Isseksen was joking?”

“No sir. She was quite emphatic.”

“Was she being ‘thin skinned’?”

“Objection! Counsel is asking for opinion, not fact. Additionally, he has not demonstrated that this witness is in any way competent to offer a professional opinion in this area.”

“Your honor, I’m asking Mr. Walton for his personal opinion. He is the best person available to offer such an opinion.”

“But your honor, counsel is asking for an opinion regarding someone else’s opinion and as such it’s inadmissible.”

“Reword your question Mr. Johnson.”

“Yes, your honor. Mr. Walton. Was it your opinion that Dr. Isseksen was being thin skinned?”

“No.”

“What is the basis for that opinion?”

“Because they had begun to bother me too.”

“Did you say anything to Mr. Brodsky?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not, Mr. Walton? If it bothered you, why didn’t you say anything to him?”

“Because I had no idea how to tell the man who hired me, and could fire me, that he was being an ass.”

“Your honor,” the attorney for Brodsky Holdings was again on his feet. “I ask that such scurrilous language be stricken from the record.”

“Clerk, remove Mr. Walton’s answer from the record. Mr. Johnson, I suggest you ask the witness to reword his answer.”

“Yes, your honor. Mr. Walton, were you afraid that you would lose your job if you told Mr. Brodsky that he was acting in an insensitive and harassing manner?”

“Your honor. No one has established anything here except that Mr. Brodsky told a few off color jokes, certainly no one has implied that Mr. Brodsky has done anything as inflammatory as Mr. Johnson is alleging.”

“Sustained, Mr. Johnson. That will be one hundred dollars. I warned you. If this continues you can soon expect to be looking forward to some personal time in one of our fine penal establishments.