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...
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...
Comments (2)
what kind of car does philip drive (and crash)?
Posted by sally | August 15, 2007 12:26 PM
When does the new season begin for DAMAGES? What month and day? Hurry it up...
Glenn Close is dynamite!
I would never work for Patty Hewes!
Posted by Sister Jean Kenny, S.P. - Chicago | February 5, 2008 7:27 AM