Blonde Joke Chapter Nineteen by Jeffrey M. Mahr   A one armed blonde is hanging from a tree. How can you make her fall? You wave at her.

“Harry?”

“What, Dick””

This was the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

“You’re right.”

Both turned back to the wastebaskets by the foot of their beds and vomited yet again and both wondered why it had not occurred to the other that transitioning was going to be a painful process. The only good news was that it was more than half done and, if they could trust from the experience of Katrina Isseksen and Tom Brodsky, they would be asleep for the next two days until it ended. Both were fervently praying for the bliss of sleep.

“Maggie?” Karen sat on the side of Maggie’s bed while Barbie stood on the other. Both were clearly worried and upset.

“Come on, Maggie. You’ve got to talk to us. You’ve missed all your classes, were a no call, no show at work, and haven’t left your bedroom, except to go to the bathroom, all week.”

Maggie lay curled in a ball, even her head under the covers, crying and stubbornly refusing to answer.

Waiting for an answer, Karen gently rubbed what she was fairly certain was Maggie’s back through the bedspread.

Finally, there was a muffled, “Go away.”

“Not going to happen,” Karen answered.

“No way,” Barbie chimed in.

After several minutes of silent rubbing, there was a noticeable shudder from beneath the covers and a hollow-eyed face peaked out, squinting and blinking from the light.

Several ragged breathes later, she croaked, “It’s Kat.”

“What about Kat? Where is she? Why hasn’t she or Tommi been here in more than a month?” the questions rushed out as the worried roommates hugged Maggie, who was now sitting upright on the bed, but still crying.”

“Come on, Maggie. You’ve got to tell us what’s going on or we’ll have to go to the cops. I know we’ve said that before, but this time we mean it. It’s been way too long. Something’s clearly wrong. Something must have happened to them. Spill the beans, girl.”

“All right,” Maggie haltingly replied. “All right, I’ll tell you. Just don’t call the cops. Okay?”

William Henry Smith rocked back in his overstuffed red leather office chair. With the exception of the huge dark mahogany desk, the two now occupied chairs and the onyx tiled floor, the office was surprisingly sterile. The walls and the door were chrome and the window wall behind Smith’s desk gave a tremendous view of the city below since it was on the twenty-third floor of the First Manufacturer’s Trust building. The two women seated opposite him were quite beautiful despite wearing ill fitting jeans and oversized men’s shirts with barely combed hair and no makeup.

“Mr. Baldwin? Mr. Walton? Assuming those are your real names, you’ve presented me with an interesting video which purports to be your transition into duplicates of Dr. Isseksen and her twin, the alleged Ms. Brodsky, but given all the duplicity that has occurred to date, what reason should I have to believe that video was not created by some special effects wizard in order to further some complicated fraud?”

The two women looked at each other and shrugged. Finally, the one on the right, who had introduced herself as Harry Walton said, “I told you this was a bad idea, Dick. We should have had Mr. Smith and the others have a witness they trusted present during the transition.”

“Come on, Harry. I can’t think of everything and you didn’t suggest anything like that until we were more than half done.”

“Ladies? Please,” Smith interrupted. “I don’t have any more time for this. I only let you in because you had enough information about the ViTaGeSeM project to peak my curiosity. Why don’t you take this tale of yours to the other members of the group? Maybe they’ll be more accepting of your alleged evidence.”

“We’ve been to them. You were the last one,” the woman on the left responded dejectedly.

“Well, then if there is nothing else I can do for you, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.” Smith stood to escort them out the door.

“Wait. You were our last hope,” they both said at the same time. The one on the right continued, “Can’t you at least help us. We’re out of work and almost out of money. None of the others would pay what was promised for the production of the additional supplies of ViTaGeSeM.”

“That’s probably because you haven’t produced any yet, just come in here and wasted my time with your cock and bull story.” Smith’s polite façade was clearly wearing thin. “But, I’ll tell you what,” he added while rummaging through a drawer in his desk and producing a business card. He wrote an address on the back and handed the card to the woman who had spoken last. “Go to the address on this card and give them the card. I think they’ll be willing to offer you employment.”

With that, he gently but firmly escorted the two women out of his office where two security guards met them and immediately escorted them out of the building. It wasn’t until they were on the sidewalk outside the building that they had a moment to look at the card. On one side it said:

On the other it said:

The one holding the card cursed. “Shit! That son-of-a bitch gave us the address of the Cravat. Now what do we do?”

“Ready, Kat? They’ll be changing shifts in less than five minutes. Are you sure you know what to do?”

“I’m ready, Tommi. Let’s do this.”

One last hug and Kat hid behind the door while Tommi boldly strode out the bedroom door. The guard, looked up from his magazine, saw it was Mistress Brodsky and gave a nod and a smile, careful not to glance too long at her breasts.

Turning toward the guard, seated in a Queen Anne chair beside the door, she gave a cold glare and said, “Come with me a moment. I want you to help me with something.”

“Uh, I’m sorry, Mistress. I’ve been instructed not to leave this post, but if you’d like, my replacement will be here shortly and then I can help you.”

“Nonsense! The bitch is tied up and you know it. She’s not going anywhere, now come with me.”

“I’d rather wait just a few more minutes to be relieved, Mistress.”

“I said come with me, now!” The woman glared down at the seated man, impatiently tapping a high-heeled shoe again the oak wood flooring.

Grudgingly, knowing that this woman could make his life a living hell if he didn’t comply, the guard slowly stood up. “Yes, Ma’am. What was it you wanted moved?”

The woman instantly turned on her heel and strode purposefully away. The guard followed, but just as he was about to round the corner his replacement rounded the corner at the far end of the hallway and he called out to him, “Everything’s fine. I’ll be doing something for Mistress Brodsky.”

The arriving guard waved an acknowledgement and strode to the chair to get comfortable. Through the door, he could hear the muffled sounds of the Mistress yelling at her captive, but did nothing to intervene, knowing that it was better to be able to deny any knowledge of possibly illegal activities if things went sour.

A few minutes went by and he was comfortably perusing a Playboyâ„¢ when the door opened as the Mistress stormed out, slamming it closed behind her. Scowling, she turned on the seated guard and railed at him, “Why didn’t you bring it in to me? Where the hell is the…”

Stopping for just a moment she stared intently and said, “You’re not the one I sent. Where is that man?” Then, muttering imprecations, she stormed off in the same direction the guard had gone.

The new guard just kept muttered “plausible deniability” over and over to himself as he returned to his magazine.