Ancillary didactics

Paul frankly had had it with Simone and her theatrics. Stupid Simone. Wirey, wired to the tits on prescription meth and wired literally to the tits - by the FBI, who rigged her with a recording device - she walked awkwardly, stiffly trying to pretend there wasn't $15,000 worth of electronic gear strapped to the sweaty small of her back. Trying desperately to appear like the innocent secretary going about her business. Trying like hell to act like she wasn't in the midst of selling her boss down the river and pretend she had no idea about the insurance fraud, the underage animal sexual abuse or the Colt .45 in her desk drawer, just itching to be used if things go south. Paul knew hiring Simone to pull off the deed was a stretch. He could have gone with Nora, the heavyset black lady in Accounting who he knew held a deep grudge against Amalgamated Dynamic Corp. and its fetid stench of corruption. Thing is, he ilked Nora though and didn't want to put her life in danger, let alone ruin her future with what was sure to be nonstop litigation and potential Congressional subpoenas until she was near death. So, Simone it was. Simone, of little self-confidence yet an overwhelming sense of self-importance. The kind of woman who bosses her underlings around rudely just because she can. The kind who brags to her friends about her work by augmenting her actual duties - that of secretary - with the completely fictitious title of "Administrative Coordinator." The only thing Simone coordinated was the color of her stockings, and that was about it.