Project Overview: Untitled Document is a serial comedy novel dealing with the sort of topics that we so frequently make fun of here at Something Awful.
This Chapter: Raylene Conchita LeVeaux IX is the 147 year old head of the New World Order, but she's young at heart! In a blistering conversation-packed chapter that is over half flashback Raylene pays a visit to an alien trade delegation and hammers out an agreement that smacks of intrigue. Also featured in this chapter; a submarine, lesbian sex, and a tree that wears reading glasses. If we were charging you by the awesome sentence we would be dozenaires!
It was seventy eight degrees below zero in the shade, not that shade was easy come by on the blistering ice plains of the artic. Raylene Conchita LeVeaux IX had an umbrella to keep the sun from her back and the intolerably cold wind at least slightly diverted from the fur-lined collar of her red whaleskin duster. Raylene was almost a century and a half old, but to the casual observer she looked a healthy fifty on a bad day. It was most definitely one of Raylene's bad days. She had shoulder length hair dyed a deep cherry red to conceal the growing threads of grey. Raylene's facial features, though attractive in an academic sense, bore the scars of many brutal conflicts. They could have taken those scares away from her - they had offered to many times - but she liked the way her nose was slightly flattened and misshapen by two breaks and thought the trio of pale white scars running from her hairline to her jaw added character.
Her lips were pursed and discolored with frost and Raylene swore she could feel her whole face going numb. Even the bleeding edge regenerative science flowing through her veins was proving incapable of maintaining circulation to all of her extremities. That was unfortunate because she was really enjoying her current set of legs and did not want to have them replaced again with someone else's. Despite the tall tales of her lab teams she still had great difficulty finding a zero rejection donor among her staff and vat-grown was right out because of the rapid degeneration.
The wind howled and gusted louder than usual and tried to tear the umbrella from Raylene's gloved hands.
"Up yours!" She shouted at it, following up with a very unladylike gesture.
Raylene had been called to meet with the delegation three days earlier and it was the one responsibility that she could not assign to subordinates. The Galactic Trade Commission of Imperatrix sent a delegation to earth only once every five years and they insisted that such meetings be attended by the head of the Earth Trade Alliance. Raylene, as the current head of the New World Order, was the only person capable of representing the fictional Earth Trade Alliance. In her dealings with the delegates she pretended to represent the governments of the allied nations of earth, an alliance that even the NWO with all of its power could never hope to achieve in reality.
For two decades the thorn in Raylene's side at the five year meetings was Magnus Uusitalo. He was a tall and muscular man with steely blue eyes and sandy blond hair, a quiet but strong demeanor, and powerful chin only partially concealed by his full beard. She hated him, because he represented failure. Somehow the upper echelons of whatever passed for a government in Finland had discovered the alien delegation and every five years the Finns sent Magnus to represent them at the trade talks.
For whatever reason Magnus had never revealed Raylene as an imposter or even implied that she might not represent all of the governments of the world. He spoke briefly and made simple arrangements for a small but steady stream of advanced alien technology to be sent to Finland in exchange for whatever generally worthless good the Finns were producing. All dealings were closed-door, so Raylene was not entirely sure what deals were brokered between Finland and the Galactic Trade Commission, but she suspected they were minimal compared to her own arrangements.
When Magnus had emerged from the isolation chamber, straightening the knot of his tie and with the faintest hint of a smile on his face, Raylene had sneered. He had seemed not to notice and nodded politely as he donned his fedora and strode back to the waiting area. Raylene was next and in a burbling hiss of alien tongue her name was called over the intercom. She picked up her briefcase, straightened her own suit, and hurried with her high-heels clicking on the polished glass floor.
Did Louis C.K. jerk off in front of two female comics? And why are these ladies squandering an opportunity to learn from a comedy legend?
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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