Target Rich Environment

  The Balrog was thirty feet tall, on fire and, frankly, kind of a dick.

  But right before it could squish the rest of the attendees, Tom Stranger appeared. He’d gotten his fancy laser pistol back, and used it to knee-cap the Balrog. The monster roared as lava blood splattered out of the hole, setting the carpet and the panda furry that Jimmy was still wrestling with on fire. FOOOM! And there went the other knee.

  The Balrog toppled, hitting the floor so hard the whole convention center shook.

  Tom Stranger walked around in front of the crippled monster. It glared at him with flaming eyeballs.

  “Holy crap, insurance agents are awesome! So what now? Are you going to exorcise it, or cast it back into hell or something?” Larry the Writer was taking notes. This was fiction-writing gold.

  But instead, Tom Stranger holstered his pistol, approached the beast, and pulled out a pen and some paperwork. “We need to exchange insurance provider information.”

  The Balrog tried to act offended. “Hey! I’m not at fault here. Someone fired up my hell gate, and their dimension just came out of nowhere right in front of it! I couldn’t stop my Legions of the Damned in time.”

  “This dimension clearly had right of way . . . Let me guess. You’re uninsured?”

  The gigantic demon looked away sheepishly. “Well, this is embarrassing. Yeah.”

  That confession seemed to sadden Tom Stranger. “You can’t just go blundering around the Multiverse uninsured.”

  “I had liability, but Conundrum & Company dropped me. I was only late on one payment!”

  “Conundrum?” Tom snorted. “There’s your problem right there. A greater demon obviously requires full coverage for his hellish armies. This collision is really going to cost you.”

  “Darn it,” the mighty beast rumbled. “I can’t afford any more points on my realm.”

  The flames started by the Balrog’s lava blood were spreading up the convention center’s walls. “Excuse me, Tom?” Larry the Writer called out. “The place is burning down.”

  “Of course, Mr. Correia. One moment.” He turned back to the Balrog. “Listen, get your hellspawn back to your dimension, free the damned souls from their eternal torment, and then call my office.” Tom handed over one of his cards. It immediately caught on fire when the demon pinched it between its massive claws. “Once you’ve paid for this mess, let’s set up a consultation. Stranger & Stranger offers a Nether Realms Protection Package that’s not only a great value but also covers inadvertent possession.”

  “What about locust plagues?” the demon asked as Tom Stranger walked away. “Or ravens made of congealed blood plucking the eyes from infants?”

  Tom Stranger put his thumb to his ear. “Call me.” The insurance agent paused long enough to pick up Jimmy the Intern by his belt so that he could carry him like a suitcase. They began to flee through the flaming wreckage. Once they were far enough away that the Balrog couldn’t overhear, Tom looked over at his client and scoffed. “Liability only? That is so irresponsible.”

  “Yeah, demons are cheesy.” Larry the Writer coughed as he was overcome by smoke. He managed to croak, “Cheap bastards,” before passing out.

  Tom sighed as he was forced to carry his temporary intern and his client. A giant flaming beam almost fell on them as they escaped. It was all very dramatic as Tom carried them both from the ruins of KhanQuanCon XIV.

  Tom left Larry the Writer in the parking lot with the other stunned survivors, gave him some forms to fill out, and then disappeared as mysteriously as he arrived. The Interdimensional Insurance Agent had just saved their lives, and probably the whole planet. Which was why, later, Larry the Writer gave Tom all tens on his Customer Satisfaction Survey.

  CHAPTER 5:

  Tom and Jimmy’s Big Call Center Adventure

  IT HAD BEEN an extremely busy day. Tom had already been able to provide quality customer service twice, but he’d also been forced to postpone his other appointments. He needed to get this intern mix-up taken care of so he could get back on schedule. According to his directions, they would be landing at their destination soon. Tom could get his proper intern, and Jimmy could get on with . . . well, whatever it was that Jimmy did.

  “We will reach your correct employer shortly, Jimmy. Do not worry. I will explain the mistake to them so that you do not get off on the wrong foot with your new insurance masters. Some firms can be rather harsh. It was not uncommon for rookies to commit ritual seppuku back when I was but a lowly intern at Mifune & Eastwood.”

  “Wow. Really, Mr. Stranger? You were an intern? That’s hard to imagine with you being such a bad ass and all.”

  Tom had to check his infolink to see why Jimmy was comparing him to a disobedient donkey. It turned out it was meant as a compliment. “Thank you, Jimmy, but all insurance agents must start somewhere. It takes decades of rigorous training in order to become proficient at Interdimensional Insurance. It is a solemn calling, meant only for the most stalwart of souls.”

  “How did you get into this?”

  Tom’s home reality had been underinsured, and had paid a terrible price. “For some, there comes a time when the Multiverse needs help, and then you must peer deep into your soul and discover your inner Insurance Agent.”

  “Do you think I could ever be an Interdimensional Insurance Agent?”

  “No!” Tom had turned around and said that so fervently that he nearly crashed their battle mech.

  “Aw, come on! You just said everybody has to start somewhere. I’m somewhere!”

  Tom blinked a few times.

  “You saw the way I was kicking that panda’s ass. I had him right where I wanted him. I was all like boom, bitch! And it was like aaaaaaarghh!” Jimmy pantomimed what was probably supposed to have represented fighting moves. “It was wicked cool.”

  “In truth, it looked like you were having a grand mal seizure.”

  “Dude. Harsh.”

  Jimmy was correct in his assessment of harshness. Insurance agents should always be truthful, but never impolite. “I apologize, Jimmy. I am very sorry and did not intend to hurt your feelings. What I meant to say is that Interdimensional Insurance is an extremely difficult job, and that because of your general lack of intelligence, courage, commitment, integrity, physical fitness, character, communication skills, work ethic, and hygiene, you might not be the best fit for such a position.”

  His Temporary Intern sulked. Tom was not very good at apologies.

  “I could totally do anything if I put my mind to it, Mr. Stranger. Even be an insurance agent!”

  That was doubtful. There was a common misconception among people with pampered origins that they could coast through life carefree, but then when they actually faced a real challenge, they would somehow be able to rise to the occasion if they simply believed in themselves hard enough. It was known as Kung Fu Panda Syndrome. But in most realities, regardless of how much self-esteem someone had, the fatty still got trounced by the warrior who had spent his whole life beating up ninjas and punching boulders under a waterfall.

  Most Interdimensional Insurance Agents hailed from worlds where children had to work hard just to not be devoured by cave bears. Jimmy came from a culture that gave out trophies for participation. An insurance agent had to start out quick-witted and then further hone his mind to razor sharpness. Jimmy had a hundred thousand dollars of student loan debt and had occupied a street for weeks hoping somebody else would pay for it. When Tom was only ten years old, a horrible paper route accident had left him stranded alone on Mars, where he’d been forced to perform his own emergency appendectomy with nothing but a melon baller. Under the headline Skills, Jimmy’s resume included “Twitter.”

  Tom’s Multiverse-spanning career had left him with a keen understanding of probability. Truly, anything was possible, but some things remained extremely unlikely. In other words, he wasn’t going to place any bets on Jimmy Duquesne making the cut to be an Interdimensional Insurance Agent.

  “Perhaps you shou
ld try this call center position first, and see how that works out for you. It will be like dipping your toe into the giant pond that is insurance.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Jimmy muttered.

  Thankfully, they had reached their destination. To avoid causing any further chaos in this ignorant and backwards reality, Tom landed the Stranger & Stranger battle mech in the trees behind the call center. They would walk the rest of the way. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon. Birds chirped. The air smelled of corn. Jimmy grumbled under his breath and kicked at rocks the whole way.

  The call center was a large, unadorned, windowless concrete building. There were no signs advertising what the place was. Tom found that odd. Insurance professionals were normally extremely proud of what they did. Most insurance offices had holograms or giant inflatable gorillas. Something was off here. Tom himself was not the flashy type, but even his office at least had a sign with his name on it. His sign was white with block print. Because Tom did not like to put on airs.

  Tom checked his infolink. According to the internship records, this call center belonged to a company called Fail State. They were a relatively unknown player in the great galactic game of insurance. He activated an AI sprite and turned it loose in the universal datasphere to dredge up more information on Fail State as they went inside.

  The lobby was almost as plain as the exterior. There were a few potted plants and a security guard who was nearly as interesting as the potted plants.

  “This place is lame.”

  For once Tom was in total agreement with young Jimmy. He approached the slovenly security guard at the desk.

  “Hello, good sir. I am Tom Stranger.” The nano fabricator in his pocket instantly printed a business card, and Tom handed it over. “This is Jimmy the Intern, who I am delivering to you for educational purposes. May we speak to a member of your management?”

  The security guard read the business card, and then looked Tom over with dull pig eyes. He grunted and pointed at a clipboard. “They’ve been expecting you. Sign in here.”

  Tom signed his name and the in time. It was the only signature on the visitors’ sheet. Insurance facilities should be bustling, exciting places. This call center seemed suspiciously dead.

  “Go on in.” The security guard pushed a button, and the door behind him emitted a buzzing noise. It was dark on the other side.

  “I’m scared, Mr. Stranger.”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  Tom and Jimmy entered the call center. The heavy door slammed shut behind them.

  The fluorescent lights on the other side slowly flickered to life. The scene before them was one of abject, soul-crushing misery. Tiny cubicles seemed to stretch on for eternity. Squished between the carpeted walls of each cube was an employee, wearing a headset and staring at a monitor.

  “What’re they doing?” Jimmy whispered fearfully.

  Tom walked to the nearest cubicle. Once he got closer he could overhear the employee crammed into the cubicle speaking. “Hello, Mr. Smith? I’m calling about an exciting new offer. Yes, I know I am interrupting your dinner but it is a super exciting new offer.”

  They were making cold calls. They were harassing innocent people in their homes. Telemarketing was the greatest evil in all of insurance, and had been banned on all sane worlds. “Abomination!” Tom hissed.

  He went to the next cube.

  “This is Lisa with Fail State . . . Oh, you’re on the Do Not Call List? Well, I’ll be super happy to update our records.” But Lisa pushed no buttons on her computer.

  “Lies!” Tom Stranger exclaimed. Fail State would continue to call that poor person over and over and over and over. For eternity.

  “Oh, you’re unsatisfied and would like to speak to my supervisor? No problem,” said one of the employees. Only he didn’t pass the call to someone else. Instead he just changed his voice, made it sound deeper, and started talking again. “This is the supervisor.”

  A real supervisor—you could tell by the bullwhip in his hand—stopped at an adjoining cube. “Way to hassle those innocents, Tim, but your English is way too good. If they can clearly understand everything you say, you’re doing it wrong. On this next one, I want you to make up a terrible accent.”

  “Okay, sir,” Tim said. His computer screen read Faulkner. He pushed the button to take another call. “Ez Meester Fooook Nur home?” The accent was horrid and incomprehensible.

  “Excellent,” the supervisor crowed.

  The idea of his real intern being trapped here shook Tom to the very core of his insurance-loving soul.

  “What is this place?” Jimmy asked, terrified.

  “I think we may be in Hell.”

  Tom’s infolink chirped. The data had been heavily encrypted, but the AI sprite had found some information on the call center. Tom gasped. “No. It can’t be.”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Stranger?”

  “Fail State is a wholly owned subsidiary of Conundrum & Company.”

  Suddenly, a voice boomed over the intercom. “That’s right, Perfect Strangers! And I’ve been expecting you!”

  Hidden autocannons fired. Tom activated his personal energy shield, but he was too late, and several darts pierced his suit. Powerful neurotoxins flooded his system. To add insult to injury, they dropped a giant net on him. Tom was barely able to shove Jimmy out of the way before becoming hopelessly entangled.

  “Curse you, Jeff!” Tom shouted, shaking his fist at the ceiling. “Where is my real intern?”

  Conundrum did his best supervillain laugh. “There never was a real intern, Tom! The whole thing was my clever plot to get you out of the picture. I’m tired of you always making me look bad.”

  “You make yourself look bad, Jeff.”

  “There you go, with that holier-than-thou attitude again. Nobody likes a smart ass, Tom!”

  The nanites in his blood were fighting off the poison, but Tom was rapidly losing consciousness. This potent mix must have been genetically engineered specifically for him. It had to be strong enough to drop at least a hundred Bear Gryllses. Terribly disoriented, Tom fell to his knees.

  “Mr. Stranger!” Jimmy yelled as he futilely plucked at the net. He grabbed Tom’s suit and tried to pull him free, but Jimmy just wasn’t coordinated enough to accomplish much.

  “Didn’t your mother tell you never talk to Strangers? Guards, seize him!” Conundrum bellowed over the intercom. Several guards appeared, clubbed Jimmy hard enough to knock off his trucker hat, and dragged him away. “I made sure you got an intern so idiotic that you’d have no choice but to rush here. You walked right into my cunning trap.”

  “You’ll never get away with this, Jeff.”

  “Oh, I will. And with you out of the way this year, I’m finally going to be ranked number one in customer satisfaction!”

  “NOOOOOOO!”

  Jimmy the Intern woke up sitting in a crappy office chair inside a tiny carpeted cubicle. He was groggy, had a splitting headache, and couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but for Jimmy that was pretty normal. When he tried to get up, he realized that he was chained to the office chair. The first thing Jimmy did was make sure he still had both kidneys.

  “Whew . . .” That was a relief.

  “Hey, rookie,” said a voice. Jimmy turned around and saw a supervisor with a bullwhip.

  And then it all came rushing back to him. He was trapped in an evil insurance call center, and Tom Stranger had been captured. This day had really sucked.

  “Okay, Jimmy. Let me catch you up. You’re property of Conundrum & Company now. Beatings will continue until morale improves.”

  Jimmy laughed. The supervisor didn’t. “Oh . . . I thought that was like a meme.”

  “Nope.” The supervisor pointed at the equipment. “You’ll wear the headset at all times. If you get caught taking the headset off, that’s what Betsy here is for.” The supervisor patted a big stainless steel staple gun on his belt.

  “That sounds
like it would hurt.”

  “Getting wood staples put in your skull would hurt . . . Ya think?” the supervisor shouted. “But it won’t hurt as much as when I have to super glue your eyelids open. You can blink on your own time. The rest of the time, eyes on the screen.”

  Jimmy hurried and swiveled his chair back toward the monitor. It was covered in names, private personal information, and what would be the absolutely most inconvenient times to call and bug them. So, of course, that was when the calls were scheduled for.

  “What about bathroom breaks?”

  “There’s a bucket under the desk.”

  Jimmy shrugged. He’d Occupied Wall Street. He was good at improvised pooping. “What is that fat blue-haired guy going to do to Mr. Stranger?”

  “The boss is going to kill that goody-two-shoes. Serves him right. All day long we’re calling people, and they’re all like mew mew mew, we’re happy with Stranger & Stranger and don’t want to switch. Screw those guys! We have better commercials! Right?”

  “Right.” But Jimmy wasn’t feeling very enthusiastic.

  “Just so you know, calls may be monitored for training purposes. Ha! Just messing with you. There is no training! We just turn you maladjusted rage monkeys loose to terrorize the populace. Shake enough trees and some suckers are bound to fall out! We just record the calls so we can find little things to yell at you talentless dorks for.”

  “I’m not talentless. I have a Gender Studies degree,” Jimmy squeaked.

  “You think that makes you special? Look around you!” He gestured at the thousands of cubicles. “So do lots of these mooks! Where to you think all the people with useless expensive degrees end up after college, Jimmy?” He lowered his voice to a dangerous whisper. “Call centers.”