Rather show you instead.

You walk into the hospital with the air of someone who owns the place. The better part of getting into places you don’t belong is acting like you do. Showing no hesitation you enter the elevator and take it to the second basement level, adjusting your glasses and false mustache as the elevator descends. You straighten your tie and casually walk out of the elevator just as the doors open, pausing only slightly to allow a man in scrubs pushing a cart loaded with supplies to enter it.

Records offices are so predictable. They’re always buried somewhere far away from any light, the clerk is almost always bored out of their mind, and usually of about average intelligence. The odds of the clerk being female are about 2:1, with age skewing to a median of 45, unmarried, possibly single mother. In other words the perfect mark.

You’re self aware enough to know that things shouldn’t be going quite this well for you, and are beginning to suspect that you may be the result of a bad fiction writer on a pornographic forum, so you decide to determine whether or not you actually have Plot Armor. If you are the main character then the laws of narrative causality will ensure that the clerk is a **** victim, easily ensnared by the web of lies you’re so capable of weaving. This, of course, won’t prove anything, but the only other way you can think of to test it out would be destruction testing; to wit jumping off a bridge or in front of a car. Not quite ready to go there yet.

The Plot Gods are with you, and the clerk is a cute forty-something brunette with intense eyes and wavy hair that somehow compliments her beige scrubs. Small perky tits, about 5’ 5”, slim, and a pretty **** case of RBF, with what looks like a permanent frown creasing her thin lips. Time to get into character.

“Hello,” you drop the pitch of your voice so that it hits the sub-sonic tone that experience tells you will start her knees quivering. “My name is Bill Nelson, and I’m here doing research on a story for the Trib about twin birth rate trends in Duluth over the last two decades. I was wondering if you could help me?” You toss a leather pocket folder with almost legitimate press credentials onto her desk.

The woman, who according to her badge is named “Tammy” looks over your credentials, copied a couple years back from a real staffer’s with your generic mug replacing the rather pathetic looking man who rightfully belongs to them. “My supervisor didn’t say anything about this.”

“But the intern said... damn. Look, Tammy, is it? My office should have called two months ago about this. We have all the paperwork filed... hell we even got a confirmation from... aw heck, I can’t remember what the name was... I guess I could go back to the office and get a couple printouts of the emails, or you can check with your boss.” You pause and pull your phone out, “The other option is I call my intern, she finds the information for you, and then when we get this done she gets promoted to customer.”

Tammy looks you up and down. The look she gives you is what the kids these days call ‘thirsty’. “I’ll tell you what. If you’re sure the paperwork is in order, you can do your research,” she licks her lips, “if you treat me to coffee.”

“I would be absolutely delighted to enjoy some... coffee with such lovely company.” Your manner is joking, but your eyes smolder with lust, and you can see the color begin to rise in her cheeks. “So I’d like to start with September of 2001.”