BOATPIG Page 31
You straighten your boob-tube, totter over on your eight inch stilettos and tell the senior ho-wrangler that you are, in fact, a chap and so will probably disappoint the prospective client.
Before you can continue the wrangler explains that as both he and the selection panel were blessed with the gift of sight they were well aware of this ‘revelation’ and are in fact counting on; there are always a few customers with specialist tastes. Taking advantage of your shocked state a pair of junior wranglers drag you towards the door and launch you towards your first client. - GAME OVER
Flying through the air your training, and the complex GPS control systems, take over and guide you towards an anonymous address in East London. Your dreams of escape are crushed as your radio headset crackles into life and the senior wrangler indicates they take a dim view of employees who breach their contracts, the threat of salt mining on the moon is mentioned. Fearful of a future of lunar salt extraction you decide to just go through with it. How bad can it be?
Would you care to try again?