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|Whirlwind (standard:humor, 1495 words)|
|Author: Julia McGinty||Added: Oct 04 2001||Views/Reads: 2005/1408||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A satire of American disaster movies... just the beginning of a short novel, would very much appreciate feedback...|
Biff Johnson downed the glass of ‘Mega Muscles Power Powder’ and let out a large belch. He always finished his sweaty, three minute daily workout with a jumbo energy drink and a peanut butter sandwich. The tough, just-divorced, father-of-one, ex-taxi driver was pushing forty, but had the body of a well-tanned and oiled elephant seal. His tough job at the American Bureau of Universal Meteorology was frequently demanding, but provided the money to support his six-year-old son, Randy. A thin, high-pitched bell told him the phone was ringing. Picking it up, he sighed. It was probably that bitch of an ex-wife trying to offload their angelic but intellectual son onto him again. “Yo?” “Yo, Biff, man, you gotta get down to the bureau pronto. There’s some heavy shit goin’ down here. The guys need you.” “Whassup?” “Can’t say, man, just get your ass down here!” “Right. I’ll fly if I have to.” Two hours later, Biff opened the big glass doors of ABUM. A resounding cry of “Biff’s here!” echoed through the spacy glass and chrome building. Two pretty, young assistants tottered up on their high heels and gracefully removed his overcoat. Phones rang loudly, and over two dozen frenzied receptionists hurried to reach them. A big, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling satellite screen beeped disconcertingly. Biff considered the swirling weather formations for not more than three seconds, then yelled. “Wilfred! Get your fat ass over here now!” Wilfred, who had made the all-important phonecall to Biff, was already at his side. “Biff, my man, I’m ready for action! The Cruncher’s cranked up, three hundred pounds of the best ordered fresh from Brazil - and it’s coming airmail!” “Good stuff, Wil! It looks like we’re going to be in for a long, steamy ride. Now, get on the phone to my EX-wife and let her know that Randy can’t come and stay this weekend.” “Right on, Boss.” “Mirabelle?” “Yes, Biff?” “Go upstairs, get me ABUM’s top meteorological scientist, down here, pronto.” “Yes, Sir.” Biff charged through the mass of desks, brimming with ringing phones and silver letter openers. Relaxing in his office, he became engaged in an exciting game of Solitaire. Presently, Wilfred lumbered in, his glasses fogged up with sweat. “Biff, your lady says it’s too late. Randy’s on his way here already. The train’ll be arriving in three quarters of an hour.” “Shit. You’ll have to look after him, Wil. I’m too busy.” Biff turned back to his rigorous game of Solitaire. “Alright, Boss. Oh yeah, Little Miss Mirabelle has the scientist you asked for.” “Tell her to bring him in.” As ABUM’s top meteorological scientist stepped through the doorway, Biff had to gasp. The scientist, it turned out, was not a he, but a she. Her suede suit tightly hugged her fabulous figure, her shapely legs Click here to read the rest of this story (184 more lines)
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