The Dame Knows Robots

The rain spilled past my window like it had a personal grudge against my leaky roof. I had several buckets set out, but they were overflowing. I couldn’t be bothered to empty them: I was bent over the reactor, making the necessary final steps. I had my goggles pushed up, the metal husks of my future minions scattered around the lab.

She didn’t knock, and when I looked up, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut with super strength. She had legs like a Martian spaceship, all curves, in tight stockings that disappeared into a skirt that clung like a giant mutant leech. Her hair was like frozen fire, and I could smell her perfume from there. I’ve met less mesmerizing wizards.

“I’m from the IRS.” Her smoky purr let me know she was anything but. “There are irregularities in your filing. For instance, you listed a BF9 laser cannon as a ‘work-related expense.’”

“Baby,” I said, smearing grease from my cheek, “That’s just the line of work I’m in.”

She walked closer, a smile curling those ruby red lips. “Do tell.”

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