Categories > Cartoons > Jem
Pitching The Proposal
1 reviewSometimes managing the Misfits doesn't carry a big enough paycheck. One shot.
2Funny
Eric Raymond was having a bad day. He was having a very bad day indeed. In fact, if he didn't appreciate his obscenely large paycheck, kickbacks hidden in Swiss bank accounts, and his spinny office chair, he would chuck the whole thing and go home to live in his mother's basement.
Provided his mother still had a basement or even a house of her own and they were once more on speaking terms, of course.
A piercing shriek in his ear drew him back to the current reason for dreams of a hermetic life. Coughing, he tried to interrupt the flow of irate words flowing from the raspberry-colored lips of the spoiled brat, er, the lovely lead singer perched on his desk. "Pizzazz, Pizzazz," he purred. "Honey, listen. I wouldn't suggest the idea if it wouldn't be in your best interests. Everyone is doing commercial jingles lately. I hear that Jem..."
"Don't say that name!" Pizzazz picked up his paperweight and threw it across the room, narrowly missing Stormer's pretty, curly head and putting a new dent in the wall. Right next to the one she made two weeks ago, he thought with growing exasperation. "I told you never to mention that pink-haired brat to me again!"
"Yes, yes." His hands up, he soothed her, back-pedaling wildly. "But it's still the thing to do and the Misfits could use the publicity. It's free," he added somewhat weakly. As if price ever mattered to Phyllis "Pizzazz" Gabor.
"And what's it for, Eric?"
He fought the urge to cringe. When she wanted to, Roxy could make her voice sound remarkably like nails on a chalkboard. He also fought the urge to hesitate; he already knew they wouldn't like the subject. With the Misfits, it was always best to barrel through as if you were a steamroller set on squashing the thought process in their Technicolor heads. "The proposal, of course, features your music. Creating an aggressive background for a gripping tail of a lady trying to get home."
"A lady?" Pizzazz had softened a bit, her curiosity peaked, and he risked a breath. "What kind of lady?"
"A blonde."
"Why not just use Pizzazz? She's prettier than any no-name trash that a commercial could get."
Once again, Eric Raymond cursed the existence of Constance "Clash" Montgomery. The Misfits were hard enough to handle without her irritating little voice stroking their inflated egos and poking at all of his beautiful plans. Here is the part of the game where he lied fast and hard. "She's too talented. They wouldn't know how to direct her. Besides, it's a very, er, specific part. Totally below Pizzazz's level."
"What is it, Eric?"
Welcome to hell, Eric, my boy. Think about the paycheck. "Alpo."
As pandemonium broke out - an unholy mix of Pizzazz's shrieks of outrage and Roxy's low taunts and Clash's gasps of indignation - he closed his eyes and focused on Stormer's happy coo about how adorable puppies were and could she play with them? At least he had one happy little willing participant.
Provided his mother still had a basement or even a house of her own and they were once more on speaking terms, of course.
A piercing shriek in his ear drew him back to the current reason for dreams of a hermetic life. Coughing, he tried to interrupt the flow of irate words flowing from the raspberry-colored lips of the spoiled brat, er, the lovely lead singer perched on his desk. "Pizzazz, Pizzazz," he purred. "Honey, listen. I wouldn't suggest the idea if it wouldn't be in your best interests. Everyone is doing commercial jingles lately. I hear that Jem..."
"Don't say that name!" Pizzazz picked up his paperweight and threw it across the room, narrowly missing Stormer's pretty, curly head and putting a new dent in the wall. Right next to the one she made two weeks ago, he thought with growing exasperation. "I told you never to mention that pink-haired brat to me again!"
"Yes, yes." His hands up, he soothed her, back-pedaling wildly. "But it's still the thing to do and the Misfits could use the publicity. It's free," he added somewhat weakly. As if price ever mattered to Phyllis "Pizzazz" Gabor.
"And what's it for, Eric?"
He fought the urge to cringe. When she wanted to, Roxy could make her voice sound remarkably like nails on a chalkboard. He also fought the urge to hesitate; he already knew they wouldn't like the subject. With the Misfits, it was always best to barrel through as if you were a steamroller set on squashing the thought process in their Technicolor heads. "The proposal, of course, features your music. Creating an aggressive background for a gripping tail of a lady trying to get home."
"A lady?" Pizzazz had softened a bit, her curiosity peaked, and he risked a breath. "What kind of lady?"
"A blonde."
"Why not just use Pizzazz? She's prettier than any no-name trash that a commercial could get."
Once again, Eric Raymond cursed the existence of Constance "Clash" Montgomery. The Misfits were hard enough to handle without her irritating little voice stroking their inflated egos and poking at all of his beautiful plans. Here is the part of the game where he lied fast and hard. "She's too talented. They wouldn't know how to direct her. Besides, it's a very, er, specific part. Totally below Pizzazz's level."
"What is it, Eric?"
Welcome to hell, Eric, my boy. Think about the paycheck. "Alpo."
As pandemonium broke out - an unholy mix of Pizzazz's shrieks of outrage and Roxy's low taunts and Clash's gasps of indignation - he closed his eyes and focused on Stormer's happy coo about how adorable puppies were and could she play with them? At least he had one happy little willing participant.
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