Congratulations Slutty Diplomat!

North Korea hasn’t really been pulling its weight on the world stage for a long time.  Sure, they’ve been acting as a sort of global focal point, allowing people to agree that the crazy person at the end of the bar is a pretty big fucker, but they haven’t really been “making the world more peaceful” or “encouraging people to work together” in any real manner.

Today you’re going to fix all that.  You are North Korea’s first female diplomat, and you, in an attempt to alter the course of history, are going to let everyone at the U.N. fuck you.

“This doesn’t seem like a very good plan,” keen minded readers might announce to their screen.

“Well,” you’d reply, just before flashing your cooch at said readers in order to deflect their attention, much as you’ll be deflecting the attention of U.N. negotiators away from their petty bickering and into one of the less visually pleasing gangbangs in human history.

In two weeks, the polish will wear off your weird sluttiness, but for two weeks you’ll have the U.N. united around trying to bang you, so during that time we hope that you get some arms treaties and aid plans worked out.  We’d also recommend getting a lot of bottled water – people tend to need that during lengthy orgies and/or long form negotiations.

Congratulations Slutty Diplomat!

Congratulations on Setting Up Shop!

On your first day business will be slow.  The glass storefront will be gorgeous, like every other glass storefront on the Champs Elysses, and, as such, there will be nothing to really distinguish your store from any other boutique shop selling something people really don’t need on Paris’ main thoroughfare.  You’ll light a cigarette and sit behind the counter, curious, for a moment, if the people who are born in Paris understand the romanticism that people imbue their city with, the frivolity that the outside world perceives in every block of France’s most populous urban area.

You’ll sit there for three hours, alone, nursing a rapidly cooling cup of coffee, wondering if anyone will ever try to buy authentic Navajo jewelry, when she walks in.  Her face will be partly covered by a bandana, to mask the acid scars, but you’ll know her by her walk, the easy movement of her hips and her eyes, sliding along the course of the store, taking in every detail, every inch of your new place of business, your new home.

“You’re getting sloppy,” she’ll slur through her ruined jaw.

“I was already sloppy,” you’ll retort, tapping your jaw while you look at her.

She won’t seem amused, but she will relax a little, striding up to where you’re standing and laying her hands on the counter.

“This is really what you wanted?” she’ll spittle into her bandanna.

“No,” you’ll say, laying your hands over hers.  “But I had to know.”

You’ll reach across the counter into her coat and take hold of her pistol.  Then slowly, easily, you’ll draw it out and let it rest on the counter between you. While you disarm her you’ll draw down her bandana with unexpected ease.  The skin underneath will be pockmarked and cratered.  Her lips will be slivers of what they once were, her muscle tissue barely concealed by skin grafts.  You’ll wonder, for half a moment, where she had the work done, before the realization of who she is and what her presence her means, before you slide your mouth over hers and kiss her the way you wanted to on the day you ran.

“I’m sorry,” you’ll whisper into her ear.  “I had to be sure it wasn’t you.”

She’ll push you back and look you in the eye.  Her eyes will be fiercely indignant, but a moment’s consideration will soften them.

“I know what you mean,” she’ll say as she slides the gun over to the cash register and hauls her weight up over the counter, stripping off the bandana as she hurls herself on top of you.  The feel of her weight on you, the sudden overwhelming presence of her scent will make your mouth water.  For the first time since Reno, you’ll feel truly alive.

Congratulations on Setting Up Shop!

Congratulations Mister Oops!

As you descend from the skylight, the rope will bunch along your leg, constricting the flow of blood and interrupting your descent.  You won’t even have a chance to act surprised – you’ll just yelp and then clatter to the floor in a sudden rush of gear and rope.  Your leg, pinned underneath you, will have lost some of its feeling, but you’ll have enough control over it to rise to your feet and stretch.  You’ll test the leg cautiously, then look around to see if anyone’s heard you.

No signs of alarm will be apparent.

You’ll walk on your leg gingerly, tentatively at first, but after a favorable step or two, your numb leg will give out underneath you and you’ll tumble to the ground.

“Ugh,” you’ll mumble to yourself, struggling to rise.  You won’t get more than halfway up before a stiletto heeled boot stomps on your chest, leaving you gasping for air.  “Oh my,” you’ll murmur, looking up the boot to the thigh to the groin to the torso to the face of the gorgeous woman attached to the boot.

“You are here for spies activity?” she’ll demure in a Russian accent you could cut with a butter knife.

“What?” you’ll ask, unable to decipher her accent.

She’ll interpret this “what” as a romantic oeuvre of some kind, leaning in and grabbing you by the front of your black turtleneck before hauling you to her feet and pressing her mouth against yours.  Her tongue will slither through your lips and into the back of your throat.  When she finally pushes you away for breath she’ll be panting and rubbing her crotch.

“I have been wait for person-man like you to come for person-lady like me and take me out of this place, da?”

You’ll cock your head to the side for a few seconds while you translate her words into English, then nod.

“Okay,” you’ll say, licking your lips.  “Can I steal the defense passcodes before we go?”

She’ll throw back her head in a silent moan before dropping to her knees and unzipping your fly.  “That’s a yes, then?” you’ll ask as she crams your penis into her mouth.  She’ll nod, an unfortunate gesture under the circumstances, but even as you wince you’ll smile.  It’s good, after all, to be the best spy on planet Earth.

Congratulations Mister Oops!

Congratulations on Visiting Canada!

The border guard will look you up and down, then shake his head.

“Where your parka?” he’ll ask in what you’ll presume to be jest.

You’ll shrug and say “Left it in Hartford.”

He won’t smile.  He’ll just stamp your passport and, before handing it back to you, lay his hand over yours.  His face will go grave, his eyes dark.

“I’ve got no way to legally prohibit you from entering this great land, but I’m begging you, go home, go to a sporting goods store, go anywhere but north and get a winter coat before you cross that border.

You’ll laugh.

“It’s August,” you’ll smirk at him.  “I think I’ll be okay.”

His eyes will begin to tear, but you won’t pay him any heed.  You’ll be over the border before you have a chance to think of how strange it is that a stranger would weep while making such an elaborate and dedicated joke.  You’ll chuckle, not because it was funny, but because you won’t know exactly how to feel.

Ten minutes down the road, you’ll begin to feel a chill.  You’ll roll your window up, but that won’t help.  You’ll flip the heat on, but still, no avail.  You’ll stop your car on the side of the road and step out to see if maybe it’s something wrong with your AC, but outside it will be just as cool as inside.  When you try to re-enter your car your fingers will be frozen into claws.  You’ll struggle to unlock your door in vain, clawing at the handle to no avail.  Weeping, your tears will freeze as they fall down your face, burning your skin.

Your corpse will be found the next morning by Mounted Police, frozen stiff.

“Looks like a southlander came up here without a proper coat, eh,” the first mounty will announce.

“Winter is coming,” the other will reply.

Congratulations on Visiting Canada!

Congratulations on Bringing the Word Figurative Back to Prominence!

The word literally is literally misused with great frequency in contemporary language.  People who like precisely constructed language find this uniformly infuriating.  These people, people like you, have simply been sitting back and taking it for ages and ages, but today you’re going to begin the process of taking back literally the only way you know how.

Violent countervailing force.

You’ll begin by walking into a coffee shop and waiting for someone, anyone, to strike up a loud conversation where they use the word “literally” incorrectly.  It won’t take very long.  Less than half an hour will go by before a young woman in a cockney cap talks about how she literally couldn’t even look at a guy’s dick without vomiting the other night.  She’ll follow it up with some bullshit about starsigns and how she literally has never met a Libra she hasn’t loved and she’s literally felt like a billion times better since she started eating vegan.

Roughly halfway through her passionate description of how pooping is now literally the best thing she does with her day you’ll step up from your chair, sending the table you were sitting by cascading forward, spilling drinks cinematically across the room as you rise.  You’ll close the distance between you and the young woman in two quick strides, knuckles white around your wrench.  You’ll strike her twice before her friend seems to know what’s going on, denting her skull with the first blow, splitting it open with the second.  Then, bloody wrench clutched in your hand, you’ll scream at the ceiling of the coffee shop.

“I BELIEVE YOU MEANT FIGURATIVELY!”

The young woman’s friend will begin screaming uncontrollably.  She’ll run for the door, horrified that you’ll pursue her.  But no, you’ll simply sit down next to the corpse of the young woman who misused literally so flagrantly and fold your hands in your lap, awaiting the police.  You’ll confess readily and, during a brief, moderately publicized trial you’ll explain yourself with an air of calm that the judge will, given the violence of the crime you committed, consider a sign of serious mental illness on your part.

You’ll be sentenced to eight years of supervised care at a mental health institute in the country.  You’ll accept your sentence with a smile, and when you’re released within a year based on the judgment of your attending physician, the first thing you’ll do is check the comments section of the Youtube video of your murder.  The vast majority of them will celebrate your actions, and a handful will contain links to websites dedicated to “taking back literally.”  You’ll have built your future kingdom with two sharp blows.

Congratulations on Bringing the Word Figurative Back to Prominence!