Being Heff, President of Playboy Industries, is hard.

 

As I ended the acrimonious, albeit successful Miss July full-spread centerfold contest I felt a certain amount of satisfaction in that I escaped with all my members attached.  The ire that my choice had arisen was noticeable on the subspace vidi, but the 27 bounty hunters from 12 regions that my bunny hunt security force dispatched left me a little weak in the tent pole. 

 

As I pulled into the port docking berth I pondered the fact that there is something about having a huge neon bunny icon attached to the top of your home station that seems to signal that you are at once the envy of all men and the object of hostilities to most women.  I guess those women just don’t get the fact that, yes, we do advertise Jovian augmented breast implants in our tasteful publication – we just don’t pick those women with them as our playmates.  This is hypocritical – to be sure.  But knowing those kooky Jovians and their untamed sense of humor I will eventually find myself in a bad way. The last thing I need is to be nuzzling next to my favorite long-haired blonde and bronze bedfellow only to have a purple tentacle holding a 440 Terredyne Gizalt semiautomatic vaporizer pop out of a recapped technically-enhanced-for-pleasure nipple.

 

I was met at port docking by my head of security, Gazille.  Her blonde hair bounced off her shoulders which were covered in the satin black jumpsuit which is standard issue for all female employees, most of which looked exactly like her,  of which there are many.  Among the seven or eight of the security detail I saw one that seemed a bit out of place.  She had a quite, well, grizzled look to her.  I assumed that she was at one point a blonde and had simply happened into a firing squad.  I thought to myself, the care that these magnificent women take of me should earn them the right to wear their pockmarks and burnt hair proudly.  Little did I know that this was not the case.

 

I made my way the master quarters, passing through the drawing room filled with correspondence on the way.  The amount of mail I get is ungodly, I thought.  Pictures upon pictures of some of the most unholy flee-bitten cattle trying to be sexy found my stomach heaving in an involuntarily spasm before breakfast.  I found Holly, the young perky and beautiful residence’s head of caretaking holding my head whilst I grasped the bowl until the memory of the images finally went away.  She has such a kind demeanor I made love to her as a thank you.  I don’t think she took it that way though.

 

I said good night to her and made my way to my private quarters.  As I flipped on the Amarrian trikle-lava lights, I was aghast to find someone was sleeping in my bed. I grabbed a Whammo 35 pound candlestick from the night table and grasped it firmly.  I approached the bed with my cat-like skills and searched for any signs of something that I could recognize.  There was nothing.  Found the gold plated alarm button on the floor and pushed it.  Gazille would be here any moment.  Suddenly, the figure in the bed stirred.  I raised the candlestick high above my head in preparation to smash it down upon the head of the interloper.  A face appeared from under the sheets, a frightful face, the face of a victim sculpted in scalded flesh!  In my horror I totally froze in my much lauded follow-through golf swing upon the face with the candlestick.  “What you think you do’n ya cuss”, a somewhat feminine voice said.  Startled again, I was caught off guard as she did a leg sweep from on the bed and collapsed my stance.

 

I fell to the floor and immediately swung the candlestick at her mutilated face.  I connected solidly with her jawbone.  No effect.  I didn’t even phase her.  I finally got a good look at her.  That face.  That face was the face of the guard in my entourage.  “Cut that aout, ‘fore I make a sausage outta yoo”, she said with a gutsy sloppy southern drawl.  Petrified I froze.   “I had to cull foura Hos ta get tos this sack.  My name is Brutilda.”  Then she made this sound like Godzilla.  It was tastelessly unnerving like a mOo birthday party.

 

Brutilda (File Photo)

 

“I want to be in ya dang magazine.  Let me show ya whata reeel woman like.”  She pounced upon me and started to disrobe me.  I tried to stop her a few times only to have me hands slapped away like cotton Q-tip swabs.  “Wait.  Why would you want to be in my magazine?”, I said.   “Cuz then BillyBob will know I beautiful”, she replied.

 

I’ve seen this before.  It is always a tragedy when young women, especially ugly ones, think that just because they get in a magazine or wear clothes that are sexy on others – that they will be seen as attractive.  The sad truth is that they will forever be damn to live the life of an repulsive, revolting, hideous, ugly puss with no prospects for a bright future.

 

So, I had sex with her.  First the normal way, when the Armarrain way, then the Minmitar way, and lastly the Caldari way.  I have to say that she did know her way around a man, and strangely, all the ways were bearable except for the normal way.  Luckily I didn’t waste time with that way very long.  Just as I left her limp on the floor there was a crash at the door.

 

Gazille burst open through the huge oak double doors and, looking like a jealous girlfriend, drew her firearm.  I pointed at Brutilda.  She looked like a jealous girlfriend at her, and fired.  Extinguishing the poor soul I had just made love to four times.  I felt such terrible sorrow.  This poor misunderstood …..girl was now dead….in my perfectly furnished bedroom…..with me wearing fine Amarrian silks....and having a bent candlestick at my feet.

 

“And what was that all about”, Gazille said putting her hands on her hips and looking at me very annoyed.  “uh…I had to subdue her somehow.  Look, look at the candlestick.  Even that didn’t work.  And where were you anyway.  I could have been killed!”, I said with a mixture of fear, giddiness and fake anger. 

 

Her eyebrows arched up and her hands dropped to her side.  “Oh, Heff, I am so sorry.  I came as fast as I could.  I am so sorry.”  Seizing the opportunity, I looked devastated and disappointed in her and turn my back.  I felt her hands slowly go around my front as she pressed her body against my spine.  “Is there anything I can possibly do to make up for this.  It would kill me to know anything had happened to you”

 

“I don’t know”, I said.  “I think I just need to be held.”  And she did.

 

So, I had sex with her.  I must say that it is awkward having sex with a model of a perfect, vibrant woman in the presences of a wretched, horrible dead one.  But, hey, it made me feel better.

 

The next day I entered the publishing offices of Playboy Enterprises to begin the search for our new Miss August.  The search would have to be done in earnest because … I had a hair a appointment, mud bath, and facial schedule for later that day.

 

As I entered my office to start fielding the many phone calls I get, my executive assistant secretary Ms. Rama came in and announced a unexpected visit from the head of the Hell's Cheerleader, Ms. Daphne Moon.  I didn’t know how she got in here, only that she was here and I’d have to make do.

 

“Yes, Ms. Moon, want can I do for you?  I am a very busy man.”

 

“I was wondering if I could provide you with the service of Centerfold for your next issue”, she said with intensity.  It wasn’t that she was bad looking; I just don’t like the whole ‘intense’ scene.

 

So, I had sex with her.  While she was still riving in ecstasy I rang in Ms. Rama on the rap rod and had her drag Ms. Moon’s naked convulsing body from the office.  Ms. Rama, gave me a dirty look.  I shrugged back, “What?!?”

 

 

 

Daphne Moon, Gallente, Hell's Cheerleaders

(File Photo)

 

With this rude interruption putting a crimp in my croissant, I found myself needing to walk the promenade in the station proper.  I can’t understand why people insist upon asking for the autograph of a man clad in silk PJ’s and a smoking jacket surrounding by a phalanx of beautiful partially naked women.  What is it with people anyway.  During my tour of the PB station I stopped by the AK-47 shoeshine bot to have my Frette slippers fluffed.  I could have sworn that it gave me a dirty look, but it is just a machine, right?  I gave it a tip, because after all, I don’t know it he smirked or not, do I?

 

The latest copy of the rag, The Scope was out.  A terrible waste of time and an invaluable source of muckraking, I picked one up.  I flipped through it quickly when a most tantalizing picture stood out on page three.  A girl.  A beautiful girl.  A gorgeous girl  The story extolled about her having the most expensive coming out party in the history of the know clusters.  But that didn’t matter, she was a knockout.  I immediately got on the phone to Ms. Rama.  “Arrange an introduction”, I said.  “But Sir, she is the daughter of Rangar, the president of TTI,” she said in a huff.  “So what”, I said.  “Uhhhhh,” in disgust, ” yes, Sir”, she replied.  Ms. Rama can be a pain in the arse, but she looks gooood in a mini.

 

I arrived in Venal the day after.  Venal, is the literal crack in the hairy ass of the universe, which explains why it should be so enthralling to TTI – not to mention SI, the Skulls and some of the other lesser gutter rats that line the putrid sewers of Eve.  There station isn’t well furnished, the air is recycled methane and denizens of the place are desperate fatties with little on their minds but were the next smoke of Camel is coming from.

 

I found a young scared girl sitting on a cut-rate Starbucks, right were Ms. Rama said she would be.

 

“Hi, my name is Heff.”

 

“Oh, hello, it is a pleasure to meet you.  Thank you for this opportunity,” she said in a childlike way.  The pureness of her personality was just so attractive.  The glow about her made the hairs on the back of my neck spike!

 

She explained how she returned her shares of TTI stock and ran away from the family dung heap to seek her fortunes in dignity and honor with other corps.

 

“But, Teen, your Father is a wealthy man, why would you want to be a centerfold in Playboy?”, I said.
 

“Because, he is an asshole.”

 

I didn’t have a response for that.  So, without further inconvenience I bring you the new unsoiled  Miss August, Teen!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sorry about the delay in getting the story to the press, I was held in custody in Venal for awhile.