I hereby post my intent to answer.

I cannot do it until tomorrow evening. That’s Tuesday, the 10th, and I am in the Mountain Time Zone.

Can’t promise it will be great, only that I will post 😉

**EDIT**

Okay, here we go, but first you need to read this so you know what’s going on:

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AplqC91.Pg2OEuOKRLmweurty6IX?qid=20070518162449AA7GRT7&show=7#profile-info-AA11728993

Los Angeles, CA

1948

I sleep late, and it’s just after 10:00 when I get to the office. It’s strange being here alone, without the sounds of Mack moving around in his office. I open the mail, sorting the junk from the good stuff.

There are a few checks, one for the exorbitant sum of $1500 signed by a Miss Lucy Davidson and postmarked from Reno. I pull her file out of curiosity, and look at the copies of the pictures Mack would have sent to her. They show a small, corpulent man in a well-cut suit, squiring a tiny blonde on his arm. There are pictures of them outside an office building, pictures of them entering a restaurant, and two really dark shots of them kissing under a tree somewhere. According to the file, Mr. Davidson is the owner of a financing company. My guess is that the pictures, and what they show, account for the big fee his Missus has sent. Since she’s in Reno, her divorce probably hasn’t gone through yet, but I have a feeling, considering how the courts look at infidelity, that being a divorcee isn’t going to lower her standard of living at all. In fact, she may just end up with her name on the family company letterhead. I set it aside with the other checks.

I type out a few invoices, strictly small stuff, and leave to go by the post office and the bank.

When I return, I hear the phone ringing as I step out of the elevator. I run to the office, fumbling with my keys, and make it to the phone before it stops ringing. It’s the hospital. Mack’s finally awake, and he’s asking for me. I tell them I’ll be there as soon as possible, and nearly forget to lock up when I leave.

I get lucky, and find a cab right away. The driver chatters about something, and I just nod periodically, but I am not listening to him at all. I am thinking about last night, and the alley, and my own personal baptism of fire. I know I should feel something: guilt, or sorrow, or anger, but I only feel a bit tired.

Mack is sitting up in bed, his eyes closed. He hears me right away, though, and opens them. “Viv,” he croaks. I guess he hasn’t had much call to use his voice. His arms are still bandaged, and there’s still blood dripping into his arm, but his color is a lot better than it was last night. “Hey Mack. How’s things?” I ask, sitting down in the chair next to the bed.

“Not good, Viv. Not good at all.”

“You in a lot of pain? I can call…”

“No,” he cuts me off, “it isn’t this,” he gestures to his arms. “Did you hear the news? The nurses were talking about it this morning. Someone did Sirena last night, left her in an alley, like a bag of garbage.”

I fumble for words, not sure what I should say, and afraid my face may be saying plenty already. I am glad he doesn’t notice.

“Do me a favor, Viv, run down and get me a paper, will you? I want to see for myself.”

I don’t have far to go. As soon as I get out the front door of the hospital, I can hear it. “EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!! (5) SOCIALITE FOUND IN AN ALLEY THIS MORNING. GET YOUR COPIES HERE.” I take one of the kid’s papers, dropping a nickel in his box, and start looking at the paper as I go back in the hospital. I don’t have to look far. It’s right on the front page, top billing. There’s a picture of Sirena at some party, looking considerably different than she did the last time I saw her. I still feel nothing.

In the elevator, a man looks over my shoulder as I read the article. “That’s just SO pathetic,” (1) he comments. “Why’s that?” I ask. “There are people starving in Europe right now. Vets trying to get back on their feet with injuries. All sorts of bad stuff in the world, and a dead socialite gets top billing.” I nod in agreement, thinking he doesn’t know just how pathetic it really is.

Despite the bandages, Mack manages to hold the paper with one hand and read the article. I sit quietly, watching his face shift as he takes in the details. His eyes keep going back to the top of the page, and I figure he reads it three times before he finally sighs, dropping the paper on his lap. “Why is it that my particular guardian angel is deranged?”(4) he finally asks, staring at the ceiling. I look at my hands in my lap, not sure how I should respond. He continues, “She wasn’t good for me, but she was a good girl. I would have outgrown her sooner or later.”

I feel my face reddening, “Yeah, right Mack, sure you would have. ” He’s looking at me with a funny look on his mug now.

“What are you saying, Viv?”

“I’m saying sure you’d have outgrown her, you fool. Right after they buried you. She wasn’t a “good girl”, Mack, and you know that as well as I do.” I can feel the tears starting, but I continue, “She wasn’t a good girl at all, Mack. She was bad, she was really bad,” my voice is getting shrill, and I try to bring it down a bit so they can’t hear me in the hall, “She played with men like little boys play with tin soldiers. For God’s sake, she’s why you’re here, and you’re…you’re…you’re sorry about it!” I’ve got my voice under control, but I can feel the tears running down my face.

“Viv, Viv, honey, calm down. I’m just saying…”

“Oh stop it, I know what you’re saying,” I snap. “She was poison, and you’re living proof, and you’re sitting here feeling bad about her. I’ll tell you something, friend, she wasn’t any better than something you’d scrape off your shoe, and you can take that to the bank.”

His face looks funny, like he’s just waking up from a long sleep, and I realize I’ve said something to give it all away. “Wait a minute, Viv. How do you know about her? How do you know anything?” He’s getting angry now, I can see it in his eyes, but he’s trying to stay calm. He’s not doing a very good job. I get up and close the door.

When I turn back to the bed he looks furious. “Vivienne, you know something, don’t you?” he demands. “Tell me what’s going on.” I stare at him, shaking, feeling like a fool, feeling the tears leaking out of my eyes, and hating myself for it. “Yeah, Mack. I know plenty, and I’m going to tell you the truth. (2) I know all about it because I met with her last night.”

“You…you..” he’s trying to put it together, but he’s stumbling on the only logical conclusion he can reach.

“Yes. Me. Me. Your .38. Three times, if you want to know. I don’t think it mentions that in the paper, does it?” I want to go to the bed and slap him. “And you know what? I did it for you. So that she couldn’t hurt you anymore.” I wondered about not feeling anything before, but now I feel plenty. I feel sad. I feel hurt. I feel angry. Most of all, I feel dirty. Really dirty, like I crawled out of a sewer somewhere.

He looks at me for a long time. I don’t have to look up to know it. He’s breathing funny, and I can feel his gaze on my downturned face. I feel so tired. I just want to sleep, but I stand there like a stone.

He clears his throat. “Vivienne, I don’t think…”

My head snaps up as I cut him off. “You’re damn right, mister. You don’t think. You don’t think about anything. It’s not me. It’s you. You could be great if you weren’t such a faithless, thoughtless, disorganized, undisciplined s***!” I am getting loud again, but I don’t care. “You got involved with a woman who eats men, and it almost killed you. And you’re too damn stupid to see it!” I grab my handbag off the table by his bed, and head for the door.

I turn to look at him as I open it. I suddenly feel cold, cold as the dead. “You can’t fire (me)! I quit you! (6) You idiot.” I take off down the hall. I can hear him calling me, “Vivienne! Vivienne!” but I don’t turn back. I am never turning back. Not for him, at least. Never again for him.

‘Why is it that my particular guardian angel is deranged?’ asked the boss of the Garden Shop. ‘That is just SO pathetic.’

‘Alright, I’m going to tell you the truth,’ said his worker. ‘I did it.’

‘YOU’RE FIRED!’ roared the boss. Then, with a touch of sadness in his voice, he added, ‘You could be great if you weren’t such a faithless, thoughtless, disorganised, undisciplined ••••.’

‘You can’t fire! I quit you! I didn’t like working for a cheat anyway.’

The next morning, the paper boy ran around, shouting, ‘EXTRA! EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT! MAN WAS FIRING FROM gARDEN sHOP FOR DERANGING A GUARDIAN ANGEL! It was a hit and the boy made a fortune.

Why is it that my particular guardian angel is deranged? it’s suposed to protect you–i mean, it isn’t called a GUARDIAN angel for nothing. so, okay, i was walking down the street with him at my side, and i heard a newspaper vender holler “EXTAR!EXTRA! READ ALL ABOUT IT!” i bought a copy and was shocked to see on the front page that i was wanted for publicly impersonating a cheese shop owner. i was going to a costume party, okay? and the party was food-themed. and the cheese i was selling–i bought it with my own money. and i just had so much of it (given the crane it took to transport it to my home; i had to keep it in the garage when i ran out of room in the fridge), i had to sell it (also, the neighbors were all cheese haters and complained of the smell). and, okay, so it did give fifty people food poisoning (and half of them ended up in the ICU at the hospital), but i SWEAR i did not see the mold–the cheese was green and fuzzy to begin with so how could i tell? and when they tried to give me my money back, i told them i couldn’t take it because i wasn’t a real cheese seller. that makes sense, right?

suddenly, a man across the street saw me and yelled “hey, it’s that phony cheese seller! get her!” a whole bunch of other people saw me too and started chasing me. “i’ll protect you!” said my gaudian angel. he said to the irate pursuers, “hey look, a unicorn!” and pointed in the opposite direction. of course it didn’t work, except for a few in the middle who were wearing dunce caps and had “kick me” signs taped to their foreheads anyway. this only served to make my pursuers angrier. they wre waving their fists and screaming insults at me. i ran as fast as i could, but they were gaining. “that is just SO pathetic! help me! REALLY help me this time!” i shrieked to my G.A. he said,” well, okay. we must consider the situation at hand. i’m going to tell you the truth. it doesn’t look good for you. however, i think we can make an escape if you just–Popsicles!” “WHAT?” “no, wait, i’ll get a Popsicle in the popsicle shop, and then i’ll tell you!” “OH MY GOD! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU!” i was on my own now.

but wait!–what was that among the crowd? it looked like–could it be?–a unicorn! it galloped through the crowd and reached me before all the others. it impaled me on its horn and tossed me into the air. i crashed through the front window of the popsicle shop, spraying shards of glass everywhere. i spotted my G.A. and the expletives flew from me like birds escaping a raging wildfrie. “you could be great if you weren’t such a faithless, thoughtless, disorganized, undiscipleind ****.”, etc. dying, i ended my rant with “you’re fired!” he said, “you can’t fire! i quit you!” “faithless *******” i muttered. then i died.

p.s. DON’T listen to the haters. i think your questions are awesome, and you likely are, too.

I’m going to tell you the truth.

Which is that this is SO pathetic.

You could be great if this wasn’t such a **** question.

Deranged angels for deranged people.

There is nothing extra about this.

You can’t quit I fire you.

How about: Do your own homework? What a concept eh?