Job Interview: The Interview (1473 hits)
Category: Humor -> Dirty HumorRating: 2 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by <suburbanator350.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2005-12-02 21:52:35 EST
We pulled into a large warehouse in the industrial area of Denver known as Commerce City. Like the commercial and industrial sections of most of the large cities in the U.S., Commerce City had that nice pungent smell of everything bad all rolled into one. Something along the lines of rotten eggs, wet dog and beer farts wrapped up in a pile of used toilet paper. Fortunately it's one of those smells you get accustomed to quickly, but those first few minutes of trying to get used to the smell suck. Along with such pleasant smells comes noise. Lots and lots of high decibel noise. Trains, trucks, heavy equipment, factory noise, all the kinds of things that add to my already fading hearing.
"Let's get out and see what we can see," Stones said as he opened the door and got out.
I got out of my side and looked around. We moved to the front of Stones' rig. This was your standard empty warehouse: big, open floor, some sort of office building in one corner, and a catwalk around the top. Honestly, I didn't think these places actually existed except in movies.
A large door at the far end opened up automatically, flooding the dark warehouse with the late afternoon setting sun. With a loud roar of twelve big bore cylinders, it entered. Sleek, stylish, and stream lined, the Lamborghini Countach doesn't just come into an area, it makes an entrance like a Hollywood celebrity. Suddenly everything stops, and all eyes are focused on it, time seems to stand still, its aura consumes everybody.
In this case it was only Stones and I that were consumed, but hey, it's a Lamborghini Countach. My dream car. There's only 600 some odd of these running around in the entire world, I'm gonna give it pretty much all my undivided attention.
And I'm glad I was giving it my undivided attention as the Italian super car approached us at a very high rate of speed. Too high if you ask me, but nobody asked. Stones bailed to one side as the car went into a perfect power slide on the slick warehouse floor. I, on the other hand, couldn't dive one way or another because where I was standing bisected the car and I knew I couldn't dive far enough either way to avoid being hit. So I had three options: jump up and land on top of the Lambo, which, quite frankly, was unthinkable, I couldn't scratch the paint or cause any damage to such a beautiful automobile; I could jump back and land on the hood of Stones' ride, better than option one, but still not entirely doable, Stones is pretty anal about anyone touching the car, so that just left 'stand there.'
The car came sliding towards me and stopped within two feet. One more loud roar of the beefy engine and it was shut down.
Me? I shit myself, and passed out as it finally hit me that I was almost killed by my dream car.
Actually, I stood my ground, but had been ready to leap on the hood of the Caddy.
Ok, truthfully it was a mixture of both; I did stand my ground, but my butt cheeks clenched so tight that, well, you know that thing about black holes in space being so gravitationally tight that not even light gets out? That's a pretty good comparison.
The left side scissor door raised forward and she stepped out. As cool as the entrance of the Lamborghini was into the warehouse, this entrance was even better. As I said, the entrance of a Lamborghini is like the entrance of a Hollywood celebrity, but the entrance of the person driving said Lamborghini, is even better, especially when they look like this chick.
The first thing I saw was her long, shapely leg, clad in black stretch pants with heeled boots. Next came the rest of her; a white tank top surrounding her curvaceous upper torso and large breasts and a lovely face, and topped with dark auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail. I found her quite attractive.
Now, what I found almost instantaneously unattractive about this woman were the two Sig Saur P40 pistols she was pointing at my face.
"And you are?" she asked, her cool blue eyes staring, slicing right through me, unwavering, unblinking, cold, and calculating. She wasn't just holding the guns to look pretty; I could tell she knew how to use them.
I stuck my hand out and smiled, "They call me 'The Otter,' and you might be...?"
"Lacey," She said, her voice steady, the guns never flinching, her eyes still focused on me.
Realizing she wasn't going to take my hand and shake it, I retracted it, but very quickly reached into my jacket and pulled out the Uzi holding it between her two pistols, aiming it at her.
"You're quick," she said.
"Yeah, a lot of women tell me that," I told her, "but it usually sounds more like a complaint than a compliment.
"I have always been told that you never draw a weapon on someone or something unless you are willing to shoot. So why do you want to shoot me?"
Lacey smiled, withdrew the pistols, spun them on her fingers like a cowboy and dropped them down to her sides. I slowly dropped the Uzi, keeping an eye on her making sure she made no sudden moves.
"I don't want to shoot you. I want to hire you. Stones has brought me many people in the past, and some have panned out. Some haven't. Why don't you and I go have a drink, and we'll see if you have what it takes to work for me."
Stones came up beside us, "I think he'll do just fine for you Lacey. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got more taggers to, uh, defile."
I grabbed my backpack from the passenger seat of Stones' truck as he fired it up, the country blaring through his speakers, his chrome spinner rims spinning, and just to show off, he activated the hydraulics, making it dance to the music. It might seem crazy, but I think he actually got those things to make the truck do a two-step. Sickening.
Lacey reached into the Lambo and popped open the trunk. She pulled out a black brief case and placed the pistols inside, put the brief case back in the trunk and asked for my Uzi, which she also placed in the trunk and then closed the trunk lid. Tossing the keys to me, she said, "you drive, let's see how well you do."
I walked around to the passenger side and opened her door. She looked impressed. "Hey, my mom taught me well, I can't help it."
I sat down in the car and let the soft leather seats envelop me. I reached up, closed the door and let it soak in that I was driving my dream car, and if I impress this woman, I might get to do this more often. I'd driven a Countach one time before, many years ago, and only for about ten miles, but now that I have honed my skills as a driver, I feel like I can appreciate the car. A car designed for speed, sharp corners, and high g-force accelerations. A high horse power engine run through a transmission geared to take you from zero to sixty in just over four seconds.
With my height of five foot eleven, the car was fairly comfortable for me, but my head was right in the corner of where the door and the roof met. If I was any taller, it might be a bit more uncomfortable. The layout of the dashboard retains the seventies look from the original, everything is very basic and right in front of you. The gear shifter is designed in a way that it requires very little arm movement, and the four point seat belt harness reminds you of what kind of car you are driving.
I fired up the engine and sat, just feeling the engine run. A woman might describe this as orgasmic, and well, I guess I'd have to agree. I released the parking brake, put it in gear, and let it go. I tried to pull a burn out in the turn towards the doors, but the traction control device in the rear axle did its job flawlessly and we took off like a bat out f hell. The gears meshed perfectly with every shift, the car responding to my every command. I'd always felt that sports cars were the most unpractical vehicles ever made, as they really serve no purpose, but man, you just don't get this type of feeling from an SUV or station wagon.
Lacey gave me directions to a bar she wanted to go to on the other end of town and we made good time getting there. Finally, I was one of those assholes you see on the interstate weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off and receiving, rather than giving, the ol' one fifth of a wave.
We pulled up to the tavern; the line of Harley Davidson motorcycles parked outside gave a clue to the type of clientele.
"A biker bar?" I asked, "Seems like an odd choice, but I know I can fit in at these places. I've ridden with the Hell's Angels before."
"It's not a full fledged biker bar, but I have a reason for choosing this bar, I'll tell you why later."
We walked into the bar; the lights were dim, the music was loud, the beer was flowing. My kind of place, save for the thick cigarette smoke. There were quite a few bikers drinking, playing pool and carrying on the way bikers do, but the bar seemed to be divided into two sections, the other section being full of people who weren't bikers. Not preppies or business types, just not bikers. There seemed to be no animosity between the two groups of people, they seemed to keep to themselves. Lacey and I took a seat at a table at what seemed to be the dividing line between the two groups of people. The waitress came by and took our orders.
"Rode with the Angels, huh? How'd you manage that?"
"A buddy of mine is a former member, and he hangs with them from time to time. Just after I got my bike they asked if he and I wanted to go on a ride with them over a long weekend through California. It was a lot of fun. I came to realize that the Angels, most bikers in fact, are some of the best people you'll ever meet. If they like you, they'll take care of you, and you return the favor to them. I made some friends there and I know I can still call on them to help me out, should I run into a situation and I need some, uh, help from some folks with, shall we say, lower moral character than me, less conscious than me."
The waitress brought our drinks, a draught beer for Lacey, a bottle of MGD for me. Some girl got up on the stage and started singing karaoke very off key.
"Interesting. How did you get into trucking?"
"Ever since I was a little kid, it's what I had always wanted to do. After I got out of the Marines, it's what I've been doing." With all of these questions, I figured this was some sort of an interview; she wanted to know about me and what I've done in my life. I'll indulge her, but not let her know too much.
"What did you do in the Marines?"
"I started out as a truck driver, driving Humvees, five ton six-bys, that sort of thing, then I moved into intelligence."
"Like special forces?"
"Special Forces is the Army, and it's the wrong term to use. What people refer to as Green Berets are actually Special Forces. Rangers, Delta Force, even Navy Seals and Marine Recon are 'special operations units.' And no, I wasn't anything like that. I worked with those guys, providing the intel, and went on a few missions out into the field, but I never went through the intense training they did. But I am a Marine and well, you know, we are just a bunch of bad-asses as it stands."
She smiled, "What would you consider your other skills? What kind of credentials do you have?"
"I can drive anything with two to eighteen or more wheels. I've had several driving courses; escape and evasion, offensive, defensive, cold weather and the like. When I worked with the Recon Marines, they sent me through their marksmanship training. I was never formally trained as a sniper, but I know the basics and can shoot pretty decently, both long range and house clearing type stuff.
"I took a bit of college, nothing serious, no majors or anything like that, and in high school I was voted 'most likely to be seen in the background of on the spot news reports.'"
"Well, you can handle a car, and you can handle a gun, can you handle your alcohol? Let's make a bet. We'll chug these drinks and who ever wins picks a song for the other to sing on karaoke, my reason for choosing this bar."
Well it seemed the interview was over and she was starting to lighten up a bit. We lifted our respective beers, clinking them together and before I was even half finished with mine, her glass was empty. I never was any good at chugging beer. Oh, sure my record is beer-bonging to 40s, totally kicked my ass, I was able to take my time there, I wasn't racing anyone.
Lacey got up and walked over to the D.J. running the karaoke system. She looked through the songbook, smiling slyly as she made her selection, turned and pointed towards me a few times and dropped a gratuity in to the D.J.'s cup. After five or six more off key singers, my name was called. The D.J. handed me the microphone and told me that he was instructed not to tell me the name of the song, nor could I see the lyrics monitor until the song began.
While I was speaking with the D.J., Lacey had gone to all the tables, including the bikers in the back and asked them to all come and watch me sing. A large group of people, some standing, others sitting where possible, were gathered around the stage. Fortunately for me, I have no stage fright, I have no problem getting up in front of a crowd to speak or sing or do what ever else is asked of me. So the crowd didn't bother me.
Then the music began. A somewhat upbeat tempo, something you might find coming from the musical score of a Broadway play or musical. How right I was. My favorite teacher back in school was my choir teacher, she gave me a real appreciation for music and inspired me to maybe one day pursue a career as a musician or a D.J. or something else in the music field. Along with her influence was my mom in one-way or another. Mom always enjoyed musicals. Every time they would come on TV when I was a kid, mom would watch them, so I got to know the songs real well. Including the song that Lacey had chosen for me.
I waited for the cue and I began to sing:
"I feel pretty,
Oh so pretty,
I feel pretty
and witty,
and bright!
And I pity
Any girl who isn't me tonight!
La la la la la la la la la la!"
West Side Story was one of my mom's favorite musicals.
Looking out over the sea of bar patrons, I could see they were having a good old time. I looked at Lacey, sitting there with a smile on her face, laughing along with everybody else, but with a certain look, sort of amazed, sort of horrified, but mostly pleased.
The D.J. ran the song through a second time for me to sing, blending it so smoothly I barely noticed, but by the second time around, I was joined on stage by five or six big burley looking bikers, all who joined along in the singing. When all was said and done, a good time was had by all.
After a hardy round a back slaps and a bunch of "Dame dude, yer alrights," I finally returned to the table to join Lacey, and a fresh beer.
"Not bad, Mr. Otter, not bad." It was at this time that I had never actually formally introduced myself, but I felt at this time that her just knowing my nickname was sufficient enough.
"Well I always felt that it doesn't matter if you're laughing with me or laughing at me, as long as you're laughing, that's all that matters."
"Good philosophy," she replied, lifting her drink to her mouth and taking a big swallow. I did the same. "You don't take yourself too seriously, I've noticed. But what about when it counts?"
"Well as you saw earlier today, when I need to be serious, I can be. Like when some woman I've never met before introduces herself by pointing a pair of pistols in my face," I said with a sideways smile. I took another log draw from my beer.
"Yeah, uh, sorry about that, a girl can never be too careful. Finish your beer and come with me" she said with a flirtatious smile.
I guzzled the last of my beer and followed her down a hallway in the back of the bar. With a quick glance around to see if anybody was watching, she dragged me into the women's bathroom. Damn dude, you still have it, I thought slyly to myself, what ever it is. And did I ever really have it?
She pushed me up against the counter, rubbing her body against mine, her hands going everywhere at once, "You ready for a little excitement?"
Like a dumbfounded schoolboy who just got to see his first bra, I couldn't muster an actual answer just a stupid grin on my face and a nod of my head, everything just short of drooling and ogling her body.
She reached into one of her pants pockets and withdrew a small tube. It was roughly four inches long and about half an inch in diameter. "Do you know what this is?" she asked, her voice suddenly a little deeper, a little huskier. I shook my head no. "This is what keeps me from getting pregnant." Some sort of birth control I figured.
She unzipped her pants, sliding them down to her ankles. She was wearing black lace panties; slightly see through with a butterfly on the front. She slid the tube shaped object between her legs, a smile of pleasure on her face.
She reached into a pocket inside her coat and said, "I want you to put this on." The package she withdrew was way bigger than any condom wrapper I have ever seen, I think she was expecting a bit much. Hope she's not too disappointed
I took the package from her and read the label. "Pantyhose? You want me to put on a pair of pantyhose? Why?"
She pointed at her crotch and said, "I have this, so I make the rules."
What the hell, I've done kinkier things with a woman than wear her under garments. I took my boots off and dropped my trousers. I pulled the stockings out and started to feed them over my feet.
"Take your underwear off," she said, "Nylon feels good against your bare ass."
I slid my shorts down and looked up at her. She had a funny look on her face, like she was trying to stifle a laugh. "Just get out of a cold pool or something?" She asked.
"Huh?"
"Never mind," she said smiling, still stifling the chuckle "put the pantyhose on."
I slid the hose on and noticed she pulled her pants back up. "Get dressed," she said.
Confused, I put my pants back on and tied my boots. The pantyhose were starting to ride a little funny, I can see why women hate these things, but man, the slimming affect they have! I looked easily five pounds lighter!
I followed Lacey out of the bathroom and we returned to the table, wondering if I was going to be able to relieve myself at some point, or am I doomed to the painful effects of blue-balls?. She sat a little closer, leaned over to me, and whispered, "are you ready for the final part of your interview?"
Still confused, I nodded. "When was the last time you were in Las Vegas?"
"I passed through there about two weeks ago, why?"
"How long does it take you to drive there from here?"
"The last time I did it in a car, it took about twelve or thirteen hours."
" Interesting. May I see your cell phone?"
Ok, things were a little weird here. First the questions about my past, which seemed normal for a person if they were going to hire you, but what was with the pantyhose? And now my cell phone?
I reached into my jacket's inside pocket and pulled out the cell phone and handed it to her. She flipped it open and started pressing some buttons. Next, she slid the keys to the Lamborghini across the table to me.
Suddenly her voice became very serious, "Fourteen hours, huh? You've got six and a half."
"Six and a half? Wha...what are you talking about?"
"You will meet me on the north end of the tarmac at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas in six and a half hours."
"Wait, I'd have to do a hundred and fifty miles per hour! I can't do that!"
"More like one hundred fifteen miles per hour. It can be done. And you will be in my car, no flying. Well not through the air at least."
"And if I refuse?"
"You'll be dead," she replied as I felt the muzzle of a pistol pressed into my side. "That last beer you drank had some poison in it. It will kill you seven hours after you drink it. However, if you meet me in Vegas, you'll get the antidote. You know what it looks like, a small vile, about four inches long, and a half-inch in diameter. I'm keeping it in a very safe place. When you get to Vegas, I'll even let you retrieve it yourself." She leaned in and kissed my ear, giving it a small bite. "A hand full of men have been through this test. Let me put it this way: I'm still a virgin."
"You fucking bitch! Give me that antidote, now!" I am against violence towards women, and I have never hit a woman before, but I think this was justifiable; I grabbed her by the throat and started to squeeze. She was a cool character alright, no sign of panic or fear.
She slid my cell phone to me. The buttons she had pressed earlier were to activate the timer. It was counting down from six and a half hours.
"You can make the run to Vegas, work for me and make a lot of money, but possibly die trying in six and a half hours, or you can die right now in a matter of six seconds. Remember, my car only, no planes. You show up without my car, and the antidote won't do you any good, it'll only cure the poison, not a bullet. The clock is ticking, Mr. Otter."
"Don't call me 'Mr. Otter,' " I said through gritted teeth, "I'm not a fucking Disney character."
Although I didn't get a whole lot of formal education after high school, I do know that she could pull that trigger faster than I could get away from her to get the antidote. And grabbing her by the throat wasn't helping, people were starting to look at us and she could just as easily say it was self-defense. I grabbed the keys and my cell phone and released her neck. She still had the pistol in my side.
"Six and a half hours. North end of the tarmac. Have that antidote ready." As I ran out the door to the Lambo, it occurred to me what she had meant when she said that the vile kept her from getting pregnant was because no man had met this challenge, and also the vile was between her legs and that's what she had that made it so she made the rules.
User Reviews
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2006-01-18 14:48:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by simple_catalyst (user info) at 2005-12-05 11:02:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
fair enough.
Submitted by peternorth (user info) at 2005-12-04 01:10:04 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
If you have the half hour to read this long ass post, you would eventually think of over things you could have done in that time, like jerk off.
Submitted by Calios (user info) at 2005-12-04 00:54:09 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Serious_Melvin (user info) at 2005-12-03 14:53:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good stuff. I too don't understand the pantyhose. Explain!
Submitted by partisan (user info) at 2005-12-03 13:11:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Fuck that's long.
I'll be back to read it after I've taken my ritalin.
Submitted by HighVoltage900 (user info) at 2005-12-03 10:12:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I understand everything in this....except the panty hose.
It was good. But unless you have something going with that, I don't know why you included it.
Submitted by Draqus (user info) at 2005-12-03 09:18:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good story, but you spell it "vial".
Submitted by Blinkish (user info) at 2005-12-03 00:12:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Whoops! Need to check your history to find it .. I'm sure it kicks ass too
Submitted by Otter (user info) at 2005-12-03 00:02:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-12-02 23:19:05 (#)
Ranking: 2
Wait a minute - pantyhose?
wtf?
Yeah, that's what I was thinking too.
stay tuned...
*************************************************************************
Submitted by Blinkish (user info) at 2005-12-02 22:13:41 (#)
Ranking: 2
Good fucking story!
Cannot wait for the second part!
Actually, this is the second part.
Again, stay tuned...
Submitted by Required_Reading (user info) at 2005-12-03 00:01:17 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Yeah who IS this Otter?
Submitted by LilBastard (user info) at 2005-12-02 23:42:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
DAMN IT! WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?????
Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-12-02 23:19:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wait a minute - pantyhose?
wtf?
Submitted by garcon_fou (user info) at 2005-12-02 23:12:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is getting cool, keep it up.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2005-12-02 22:22:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
you should be around more otter dude.
even though i have no idea who you are.
you can write.
hit me up some time, apollo88.at.gmail.com
Submitted by Blinkish (user info) at 2005-12-02 22:13:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Good fucking story!
Cannot wait for the second part!