Darius and Yvette's Note: Again, thank you so much to everybody who's read and reviewed. I (Yvette) had a customer that really got on my nerves, so I wrote this on my break Monday. It's very cathartic. I hope you enjoy, and sorry it's kind of a convoluted pile of cow crap.

Sarah vs. the Tango

Entry #12

You bastards down in Psych are a bunch of sick puppies, you know that? I heard about the picture you've got pinned up in those tiny little cubicles you morons call an office, and I am NOT pleased.

And how do I know about it?

I'm a field agent. I know all, I see all, and maybe if you'd actually been competent at SOMETHING in your lives, you wouldn't be sitting in some pathetic excuse for an office, debating if the CIA cafeteria has the chicken fingers you like today or if it's going to be another day of vegetable soup because you have to watch your weight because of your fat ass, and you could actually contribute something USEFUL like I do.

But since this journal is a freakin' psych journal, and I've already received two reprimands on my pristine record (which, by the way, I WILL be dropping by to see you about, so you'd better fucking run and hide), time to talk about my feelings. Specifically, my feelings about the boys in the home supply office.


I mean, seriously, I understand that the store's got the best sight-lines in the plaza so that I can watch the front doors and make sure the Asset is okay (he is, thank God), but I can't help but wonder what sick fuck dreamed this place up. I look like a Bavarian FRUITCAKE.

And who the hell's idea was it to make a SKIRT part of the uniform? You know how high I can kick in that skirt without showing my hoo-ha to the entire world? NOT VERY FUCKING HIGH. Let's just ignore the fact that it's so damned short, I regularly break nudity laws. I am a fully trained, fully functional officer of the Central Fucking Intelligence Agency. I have an Asset to protect and the Asshole to back up.

You know how much I can do in that skirt? I can do seduction missions. And who the hell wants to do those with the As—

What the fuck was that, Sarah? You know what? I don't know, and I don't care. Suck it, Psych.

Anyway, like I was saying, it's pretty much impossible to do anything in that skirt. Oh, sure, it's got all of the benefits of regularly distracting people with my fabulous legs (and they are fabulous, if I do say so myself), but then what?

And let's talk about the rest of the uniform. The blouse, I can handle. It's got buttons, I can open them and shut them as needed in case I need to flash the boys and distract some male (I keep them mostly closed as the Asset always feels bad about drooling and the Asshole may very well be a eunuch) or other, but what the hell is up with the girdle? No, seriously, it's a girdle. It's this black…thing…and it goes around my ribcage. Sure, it silhouettes my awesome abs nicely, and it does gives the fellows a bit of a boost that they won't ever need because I have the Walker genes that regularly make regular humans weep…

But seriously, what the fuck?

Is there a purpose to the girdle? Or did somebody in the home office sit and think to himself, "Let's see, how many ways can I insult my hard-working agent who's stuck in a dead-end town with very little promise of action, either sexual or just violent? Ooh, let's add a girdle! Because that's a fucking great idea!"

Seriously, I am going to go find that guy and hunt him down like the son of a bitch pig that he is. I've been needing a target to test how hard to throw my knives when the end goal is human flesh, and with this girdle shit, he just fucking volunteered.

Of course, all of this aside, it's a rather fantastic place to hide my gun. So there is that.

Let's see, what else? What else? Oh, yeah, the necklace. Wearing a nametag is bad enough, the blouse is terrible, the girdle is fucking awful, and the skirt is chauvinistically pointless, but the hotdog necklace? Really, Supplies Office? Really? And to add insult to what was already a pretty fucking big insult to begin with, you put it in the employee manual that I HAVE to wear the necklace?

C'mon. You have got to be shitting me. This is the woman that has hidden compartments in every single one of my living establishments that contain some of the world's finest jewelry, and it only goes with my thousands of wonderfully coordinated outfits, and all of THAT is complemented by the fact that I am like a hairstyling NINJA. I don't have to put up with shit like the hotdog necklace, and being called "Froy-line Sarah," in Scooter's terribly nasal accent (They don't even SAY Fräulein anymore, dipshit!).

But Psych, maybe you should tell your buddies down in Supplies that even though they did try to hamstring me with the stupidest outfit on the planet, I still kicked La Ciudad's ASS while wearing that fucking skirt. You know why? Because I am Sarah Walker, and that's what I do. I kick ass, even if I smell like a fucking sausage all of the time now and the deep fryer is clearly a beast from the ninth circle of hell meant to taunt me. Even though I'm apparently doomed to spend my days in a grease-fueled oblivion of hot dog hell, at least I don't work in a cubicle like you losers.

Suck it, Psych AND Supplies.


PS – Well, the Asset did say that he liked the hotdog necklace. So it's not all bad. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook, imbeciles.

Days Since I've Gone Shopping: 0 (Bought a cute top while I was out picking up wine to meet up with Asset, sister, and gnome-like growth at the Asset's side. It's red, and it looks cute next to white shirt-gray tie combo)

Days Since I've Had Alcohol: 0 (Had said wine)

Days Since I've Killed Something: 9 (Unfortunately, my badass beatdown of La Ciudad did not end in any casualties)