Like Lambs to the Slaughter

They never look me in the eye on the way out.

Oh sure, they come up to the desk all haughty, all high-and-mighty, all look-at-me-I'm-a-published-writer, woo! But after the Butcher Queen is done with them, hah. They're all downcast and slumped over. She breaks their spirits like a bull breaks china in an antiques store.

No one calls her the Butcher Queen to her face, or to my face because they know what that would get them. But I hear everyword, one way or another. Its a talent. A useful talent that means I'm the highest paid secretary/assistant in the biz. And I like it thay way.

One-by-one they stalk up to my little oasis like their shit doesn't stink and flounce around waiting for the Butcher Queen to see them. They're always sure this story is the one that will make her cream. That this story is the one that will make their puny little career.

And they're always wrong.

Its Thursday afternoon and we put the issue to bed by Friday at 10 a.m. - There's a cue forming. Its my favorite time of the week. So what do I see before my pristine oak desk with the exotic teal orchids on it?

Lambs lining up for the slaughter. Delicious!