Damages

I am writing this from the Queen Bee's apartment. The Queen Bee's apartment is nice. Let me rephrase that:

The Queen Bee's apartment is extraordinary.

I suppose I should clarify that I am not at the Queen Bee's extraordinary, massive, confrontationally tasteful quarters on a social call. I was not invited over to share a civilized repast-as some of the favored underlings occasionally are-but rather am here on these extraordinary premises for an equally extraordinary reason.

A bomb threat. Well, that's not entirely accurate. A bomb threat would've been more comforting. Instead of a bomb threat, we got a bomb. A real live grenade.

Yes, we were the recent recipients of a pretty volatile piece of mail. Well, "we" weren't. The Queen Bee herself was. Imagine her surprise, opening an innocent-seeming package, expecting something pleasant-like a set of napkin-holders, or a tin of expensive Belgian chocolates, or a sex toy-and finding an army-issue hand-held explosive device. The kind of device that, when detonated, sends shrapnel flying in all directions, resulting in a "casualty radius" of 30-45 meters.

(I've been doing some research on grenades, can you tell? Thank you, Wikipedia. By the way, did you know that the word "grenade" is derived from the Old French "pome-grenate," ie. the fruit? It was so named because the shrapnel pellets that exploded outward, shredding all flesh in sight, reminded soldiers of the seeds of a pomegranate. Isn't that sweet?)

So, the office was evacuated by heroic ATF agents, and we weren't given a few days off (as I hoped we might), but instead re-congregated here, at Queen Bee Central. There are worse places to set up a temp office, to be sure. And when no one's looking I've been sneaking around the joint, doing a little illicit reconnaissance of my own. Check out these surveillance shots:


Some nice family pics.


Some weird family art.


A view from the balcony.

(Unfortunately, I never got the opportunity to infiltrate the master bedroom. I would've liked to rifle through a few of those drawers, see what she and the Silver Fox have in there. Does she wear thongs? Does she hide a Pocket Rocket underneath her skivvies?)

In the meantime, there's been much powwowing on the down-low about the source of the unwanted parcel. Who could it have been? In case you're wondering, it wasn't me. I'm self-destructive, remember? I don't lash out so much as lash in. But given the Queen Bee's talent for alienation and aptitude for making enemies, it could have come from anyone in a long roster of possible suspects. Is it current events or ancient history? Someone smarting from the $150 million settlement a month back? Someone holding a grudge from a decade ago? Her ex-husband? Or maybe just a distraction from our friends over at Denninger/Phillips? Who knows?

For now, though, I'm going to raid the Queen Bee's pantry. See what kind of provisions she keeps in her hive...

So last month we settled a case for $150 million. According to the standard recovery agreement, that means that the firm should receive a cut of approximately one-third of the settlement. That's $50 mil, people. Now, I know a dollar doesn't go as far as it once did, but I haven't seen evidence of that influx in any way around the office. No bonuses, no beautification, no bonny flower arrangements. Which makes me worry...

Where has the money gone?

Don't get me wrong: I'm certainly not suggesting that the Queen Bee is hoarding the proceeds or adding a wing to her Hamptons manse. The Queen Bee, for all her shifty legal tactics and Machiavellian gameswomanship, is generally on the up-and-up when it comes to matters financial.

What worries me is that the money is only going to stanch the raging flood of expenses gushing forth from the Big Case. We're hemorrhaging operating costs and failing to replenish the coffers with anything resembling income. That's because it seems the Queen Bee has deposited every one of her eggs into the Big Case basket. She's got the full payroll working single-mindedly on it-no supplementary casework, no pro bono, nothing. So, it's sink or swim.

Unfortunately, at the present moment, it feels like we're trying to tread water with 75 lb. weights attached to our lower extremities. We sink, and we continue to sink. Yesterday our best-and, currently, only-hope of a bombshell witness exploded into a million little blonde freckly pieces at her regrettable deposition, when the Vampire, our dark adversary, shredded her credibility to tatters. I wonder how this will reflect on the New Girl, as it was the New Girl herself who reeled this perjured train wreck in. Depends, I guess, on how charitable the Queen Bee is feeling, or whether or not a scapegoat is necessary. Either way, I'm sure the New Girl's walking on eggshells.

For now, though (as Sinatra might say), we're nowheresville, baby. That once-scorned, long-gone $100 million settlement offer now seems like pie in the sky. It may be time to start sending the ol' C.V. around again...

He's baaaa-aaaaaaaack.

That's right, after a month or so of wandering about in the wilderness-foraging for berry smoothies and sustaining himself only with the finest raw fish his favorite sushi chef could provide-the home office's prodigal son, the incomparable #2, has returned.

Particulars are sketchy, but a couple credible details have emerged:

1. #2 was offered a big ol' tasty package from the Chopshop uptown, something like a cool mil base a year and untold dividends from reaping equity-partner-profit-sharing points. Plus, a name on the megafirm door, which would have made Mrs. #2 so very, very proud.
   
2. The clients in the Big Case, apparently not very happy with the Queen Bee's prosecution of their rights and pursuit of their restitution, gave her a vote of no-confidence and opted to throw the ball to #2, very much in clover at this point.

And yet, at the end of the day, what happens? #2 ends up right back where he started, in the very same dinky office down the hall from the Queen Bee's corner spread. She fires him-for no good reason, except for it being, perhaps, that time of month-he gets a job offer that any sane practitioner of the law would lop a limb off for, and he still comes crawling back to the Center for Co-Dependence and Underappreciation. #2 just can't take enough of the Queen Bee's #2.

(Note: when I say "that time of month," I don't mean to imply the clichéd euphemism for the fairer sex's menstrual cycle. Being at the far end of the menopausal spectrum, I'd be surprised if the Queen Bee's river was still a-flowing. When we say "that time of the month" around here, it generally refers to the phase when the gibbous moon is waxing, and odds are that someone on the home team is about to get their walking papers. Who knows why. Some have speculated that the Queen Bee has tendencies toward lycanthropy, but I think that's a little farfetched. Who sees werewolves in the city these days?)

So #2 comes back, and he brings the clients back with him. Everything in its right place, except we're just as screwed as we were before. The Queen Bee gets what she wants, but at what expense?