Emma Watson

Just your luck. Today's gig is something about feminist theory. You don't care much for that kind of thing. That's not to say you're a misogynist, but you don't feel like listening to people telling you how everything is your fault for the simple reason that you have a certain combination of chromosomes. Of course, money is money and since you can't exactly afford to skip a day, you said you'd go. Mister Wye-Bodder sent you on your way, not even bothering to help you load the van. After longer than it should have taken you finally got the last box inside and sped off to the theater, a small place about an hour's drive away from your workplace.

So now here you are, unloading every last fucking box while parked in the back alley of a crappy theater. You smirk. At least you get to gouge these rich fucks. If there's anything mister Wye-Bodder knows, it's marking up his food. Cheered up by this prospect you get to work, putting the refrigerated boxes down in the kitchen where you get busy preparing plates of hors d'oeuvres for the rich fucks to devour. It takes you about an hour to get everything ready, from plating the hors d'oeuvres to pouring glasses of champagne. You watch as the waiters carry your food out into the lobby where the attendees are gathered, wondering if anybody you know of will be here.

With some time to kill before the vultures pick clean everything you made and you have to get out more, you consider your options.