"Super models."
"Super models, sir?" Marty Figgins' wrung his hands, nervously questioning his superior's statement.
"Super models." He repeated. "It's genius. You, me, a few other blokes we like - like that idiot down on the second floor, what's his name? Big nose, short hair? Always goofing around?"
"Dave, sir? From accounting?" Everyone knows Dave.
"Yeah, Dave! Love that guy. You, me, Dave from accounting, and, uh, Mark Jones. Good chap. The four of us and a ship full of super models!"
Marty pinched the bridge of his nose, incredulous. "So your solution to literally saving the human race is to fill the ship with four blokes, and - and I can't stress this enough - and literally 99,996 super models? Sir, I don't even think there are that many super models in the world, let alone this side of the country."
His boss waved his hand dismissively, grabbing on to the railing of their three-story office building. He stared out across the city, likely going for dramatic effect with the sun in the background. It probably would have worked, too, if he had realized that the railing had been baking in the sun for hours. As it was he had to instantly let go and shake the heat out, ruining what, at least to Marty's estimation, would likely have been a very cool, very dramatic pose.
The moment ruined as it was, he turned back to Marty in an attempt to salvage the drama. "We're talking about the salvation of the human race here, Marty." He said seriously, as if that had anything to do with the previous conversation. "Fine. Let's add some sexy librarians in the mix, then. We need book smarts too, right?"
Marty just shook his head, still disbelieving what he was hearing. How this man ended up as the manager of a multi-million dollar team in the company... "Sir, it's exactly these kinds of things that got you in trouble with HR."
He just laughed - a deep sort of laugh, from the depths of his abdomen. The infectious sort of laugh that you can't help but join in. Despite himself, Marty found he was smiling. "HR can kiss my hairy white ass, Marty! They ain't getting a spot on this ship, now are they!?"
"Sir, you just cracked a joke about the deaths of hundreds of people. I'm not sure that-"
"Lighten up, boy! The world's ending, people gotta die. You want me to mope around about it? No. I take action. That's why they call me Action Jackson!" His cackle continued, mirth etching every inch of his body. The wind caught in their little alcoved balcony, whipping his tie into his face and the lapels of his too-big suit jacket inside out.
"Nobody calls...you know what, nevermind."
His boss went on, unimpeded by his current state of dress or Marty's half-comment. "Super models. Sexy librarians. Let's throw in a few tennis and volleyball players for athletics. Me, you, Dave from accounting, and Mark Jones. That's...24,999 women per man. Hmmm. Marty! Do you know any good-natured, hard-working, butt-ugly men?"
"Excuse me, sir?"
"You know. Dogs. Work horses. Men who can perform physical labor but won't hurt our chances with the ladies? Men who would be grateful when we throw them a metaphorical "bone" here and there? Nearly 25,000 ladies would tire even me out, we need to even the odds."
"Sir, did you just double-entendre "bone" to mean what I think you meant?"
He just smirked.
"I don't...I don't even know what to say to that, sir."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I wasn't inferring that you hang around that kind of lot, Marty. Don't go getting all butthurt on me now, boy!"
"That's not what I mea-
"Super models. Sexy librarians. Hot female athletes. You'll get the work horses. What am I missing?"
Marty just sighed, clearly this was going nowhere. "Your wife and children, sir?"
"Oh. Yeah. I guess they can come along too."
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