“Listen up, you wimps!” the sergeant said, walking along the line of trainees. “Welcome to literary agent boot camp! My name is Sergeant Bat Segundo, and my job is to find out whether you’re literary agent material.”
Two trainees at the end of the line shot a competitive sneer at each other.
“The first thing we’re gonna do is go for a little run,” the Sergeant said. “You’ve gotta build your stamina if you wanna be a literary agent. You’ve gotta carry mail to and from the post office. You’ve gotta muddle through queries. You’ve gotta put in long hours schmoozing with editors when you’d rather be home in your jammies. So, when I say ‘go,’ I wanna see your asses move, not putter around like some pack of promenading poodles! Got it?”
“Yes Sir!” the trainees shouted in unison.
“I don’t know how you expect to run in those stilettos,” one of the trainees hissed to the other.
“Yeah?” the trainee wearing stilettos said. “Well, even though your mother wears Army boots, you’d never know it looking at you, you little weenie. Oh, and how’s that bunion on your left foot?”
“You bitchy little snark—”
The trainees began to run—all except for the trainee in stilettos. She merely walked confidently as the others drew away.
“Hey, you, you at the rear!” the Sergeant shouted. His face began to flush as he blew his whistle. “What do you think you are, a terrapin? That’s a turtle, in case your vocabulary isn’t up to snuff. You need to pick up the pace! I said move it!”
The trainee in stilettos stopped, tossed her hair, and approached the Sergeant. She stopped a few feet in front of him and placed her hands on her hips.
“What did you say to me?”
The Sergeant’s jaw dropped and he began spluttering. “You, you insolent little—that’s it! Drop everything and give me ten—”
“--books? Sure, I’ll give you ten books. That’s the number I’ll sell in the first month after I open my agency. And, for your information, poodles are killer.” The trainee in stilettos raised her hand in disgust and began to walk toward the edge of the training field.
“What? Where do you think you’re going?” the Sergeant yelled, running after her.
“Back to the 212, of course,” she said, turning to face the Sergeant again. “I intend to have a long swill from my gin pail. Then, I’m going to see “Roar of the Greasepaint, Smell of the Crowd” on Broadway with the will of the wisp, the delicious George Clooney playing the role of Sir. That’s the character who goes his own way instead of following the crowd, but I suppose you wouldn’t know much about that. Oh, and speaking of vocabulary—do you know what a ‘galleycat’ is?”
The Sergeant opened and closed his mouth without saying a word.
“Hmm,” the trainee in stilettos said. “Just as I thought.”
oh Miss Snark is vastly pleased by the idea of Literary Agent boot camp!
Scoring to come later