Joan's last day
By Diana the Valkyrie


It was time again. Joan knew, because she could feel the need inside
her. Her hands ached with the need for a soft neck to squeeze, her
loins throbbed with wanting, and she knew it was time. But where to
find a good victim? Joan knew what she wanted; a young alpha male 
in his prime, somewhere between 20 and 45. Fit, virile and full of 
himself. Someone suitable to feel the finality of her thumbs 
on his throat. Joan smiled at the thought, her hands unconsciously
clenching and unclenching as she imagined the ultimate moment, and
she felt the sudden hot flood in her lap that told her she'd just
crushed another coffee mug. Damn.

As she cleared up the mess and changed to go to work, her thoughts 
went back to another problem. They were replacing her beloved
Remington manual typewriter with a new-fangled word processor.
She'd tried the keyboard, the keys needed barely a touch to operate.
The other girls loved it, but Joan preferred a keyboard that 
needed the strength of her fingers to work it. Her ability to type
a top copy with seven carbons would no longer be a useful skill. Now, she
could make eight copies in the same time it took the other girls
to make two, because they couldn't punch the keys as hard as her powerful 
hands could. With the word processor, any wimp would be able to run off
a dozen copies. Joan's seniority in the office would count for nothing,
the men there preferred the younger girls anyway, and without any
superior abilities, she'd soon be just another typing pool girl.

Joan had looked around for another job, but these days, no-one was using the old 
manual typewriters that she loved. The word processors had taken
over the world, even the electric typewriters were obsolete. So,
with great regret, she'd come to the conclusion that she needed to
change jobs completely, to find some other area where her unusual
abilities would give her an advantage.

As she gripped the knob of the leather strap that the bus company so kindly 
provided to help people stay upright, she wondered what sort of
job would be good for someone with strong hands. Her ideal job
would to be the strangler for a Turkish Caliph, but they'd wimped
out on that for the last few hundred years. She smiled as the bus swayed
around a corner and she imagined a traitor strapped to a strangling post
waiting for his executioner to finish checking her makeup, imagined his
neck muscles tensing to resist the pressure of her hands, imagined the
gradual constriction of his neck, his struggles to breathe against
the slow but inevitable closure of her hands, and his final convulsive
orgasm. Not many people knew about that final moment, but Joan did, and
it was the climax of the event. The Caliph, of
course, would be watching and loving every moment as his favourite 
executioner (executrix?) did her wonderful work. Oh, if only she could
get a job like that. She sighed. No chance. Even the mafia used bullets.

She looked up as the seams in the leather knob gave way to the pressure 
from the hand that she'd imagined round her victim's throat, and she 
smiled and quietly gripped another strap as she imagined the Caliph's
gratitude. "And what would you like as a reward, my sweet one?" "Nothing,
Excellency, just the chance to serve you by strangling your traitors".
Joan imagined the fear and respect she'd get as the Caliph's favourite
strangler, and then her thoughts went to the lack of respect that a
typist got in her law firm's office. Nothing as overt as sexual 
discrimination, of course. They'd have treated a man in the typing pool
with the same contempt. Except, of course, there weren't any.
"I should have lived three hundred years ago", she thought.

She sat at her desk, and fed paper into her Remington. Her fingers
attacked the keys, making a rat-a-tat like a Thompson machine gun
as they pounded out the contracts. Joan made the most of what little
time she had left; this was the last day, the day that the hated word
processors would arrive.

At lunch time, all the other girls went out to get shopping, or sit 
in the sun. Joan stayed behind; she wanted to see the end of an era.
At 1pm, some fresh-faced kid arrived pushing a trolley loaded with
small computers, and started working his way round the office, replacing
each of the old manual typewriters with a little thing as big as a legal pad,
and not much thicker. Joan's eyes filled with tears as she watched him and
she typed her final page on the Remington.

It was like killing off the Shire horses to replace them with tractors.
The old Remingtons had individuality and personality; with hers, you had
to hit the space bar exactly in the middle or it would operate twice.
When the kid got to her desk, she looked up at him, her hands stretching and 
flexing, but she controlled her anger. He picked up the typewriter, and
was about to dump it in his trolley, when she said "What will you do with that?"
"Skip" he said. They were going to throw her typewriter in the garbage! "Can I take it home with
me?" Joan asked, and smiled up at him. "Just for a keepsake, you know?"
"Sure," he said. "No-one else wants it, you keep it." Joan put it in a large
carrier bag she'd brought, and the kid put one of the computers on her desk.
"You'll love it, you really will. It's a lot easier to use that that old
thing". "I know, that's why I hate it." He gave her a funny look. "Why would anyone
hate their job to be easier?" Joan smiled back at him, and imagined her Caliph
saying "Sentence: death by strangulation" as he wheeled his trolley on through
the office.

After lunchtime, the girls returned to the office and were twittering and cooing
over their new machines. "Look it's so much easier!" Joan sat, psyching herself
up for the ordeal that was to come. Then she stood up, took the envelope she'd
just typed, and knocked on the door of the Office Manager. "Come". She opened
the door and went in. He was sitting at his desk, and after a few moments, he looked
up. "Yes?". Joan stepped forward, and put the letter on his desk. "I'm resigning".
"Pregnant, huh?" he said. "Congratulations. Best of luck for the new baby. Bye bye."

Joan thought of explaining that she wasn't married, let alone pregnant, and that
she was leaving because ... but he very obviously wasn't interested. So she just
nodded, thought "Sentence: death by strangulation", smiled to herself and left,
imagining his soft throat under her hard fingers.

Now that the deed was done, she somehow felt a lot better. The Rubicon was crossed,
and there was only one way forward. She went back to the typing pool, took the
rubber squeeze ball out of her drawer, picked up her carrier bag, and without
looking back or saying goodbye, walked out of that part of her life. And she
didn't cry. Not a bit. Not till she got home, anyway.

Next day, she went down to the shops to get a newspaper. Even if the Caliph wasn't
hiring, she needed a job. Food to buy, rent to pay. Waitress? Supermarket checkout?
Hamburger chain? Gas station? The available jobs all seemed so horrible; the thought 
of trying to deal with rude and obnoxious customers made her shudder. She checked 
the jobs vacant column carefully, and underlined anything that looked like it 
might be a possibility. Office supervisor, secretary, clerical assistant.

Then she started phoning. "How old are you, and what experience do you have?" was
the usual question. "Too old, and none" was the answer they heard, no matter 
how she phrased her answer. It seems that twenty years spent pounding a Remington made you
suitable only for the scrap heap. "You and me both", she said to her typewriter. It made
her feel better seeing it on her kitchen table. At least there was something she
was good at. And she'd rescued it from the scrap; maybe someone would rescue her?
She thought about her Caliph, and how much he appreciated her unique skills, he
wouldn't have ditched her. Where
the other stranglers used a garrotte, Joan used just her bare hands, strong and sure,
gently but insistently crushing the trachea and cutting off the air to her victim's
lungs until the only thought in his head was the need to breathe as his head turned
purple then blue. And she'd allow a trickle of air into his lungs, just enough to
keep him alive and squirming and making muffled noises for her Caliph's pleasure. 
Until the final moment, when she released him from both the sexual tension and from
the burden of life, as the semen spurted from his genitals and the soul floated
free from his lifeless body. And then she stopped daydreaming, and decided to
get out and walk round looking for a job; maybe she'd have better luck in person 
than on the phone.

After an entire day spend pounding the pavement and getting rejected ("we were looking
for someone a bit younger", "I don't think you'd really be up to this job" she was
beginning to wonder if her resignation had been such a good idea. Principles are fine
in theory, but a girl's got to eat. And as dusk fell, Joan trudged back to her apartment,
wondering how long it was going to take her to find a new job, let alone something
she'd enjoy doing. And as she had this depressing thought, she passed a bar.

Of course, the Caliph disapproved of alcohol in any form, but today had been an
exceptionally bad day. He'd forgive her, she felt sure. So she walked in, perched
herself on a stool, and when the barman asked for her order, she thought "May as
well be hung for a sheep as a lamb" and ordered whiskey. The barman gave her a funny
look, but took her money. She took a sip of it, and tried not to cough. The guy on 
the next stool said "Tough day?" Joan nodded, not really up to speaking just yet.
"Yeah, me too. I'm Henry, want another?" He ordered "Same again, also for the lady" Then he turned
to Joan. "My problem, see, I've got the worst boss in the world." "Lucky you", said Joan.
"I don't have a job."  "Oh, that's tough, have you been out of work long?" "I resigned my
old job yesterday. But it's not easy to find another one. They all seem to want some young
chick, and I'm more of a hen, really." "Hi, hen, I'm a cock". Joan smiled. "So that's what
whiskey does to me," she thought. 

"So why is your boss so bad?" she asked. "Because it's me. A real slave driver. Work all day,
paperwork at night, fourteen hour days, and where am I going? Noplace." "I've been there"
said Joan. "It wasn't so bad." "What, fourteen hour days?" "No, Noplace. That's where I was
before. A typist in a typing pool. I fooled myself into thinking it wasn't Noplace, because
I was good at it and fast, but a typist? I mean, it isn't exactly the pinnacle of 
aspiration, is it." Joan had trouble saying "pinnacle", and almost gave up on "aspiration".
"So you told them where to shove their job?" "Not exactly. They think I'm leaving because
I'm pregnant." Henry glanced down. "You don't look it". "I'm not. They just assumed that,
and I didn't bother to explain. They changed typewriters, and, well. It's hard to explain."
"Try." "Well, I was using this Remington manual typewriter, you see, and I'm really good
with it, and they brought in these computers, and they're so easy to use, all the other
girls were as good as me, so I'm not Top Cat any more, just an Old Hen, and ..." Joan took another swig of whiskey. "And I left. Stupid, huh? And now I've found that no-one wants
to hire an old has-been like me."

"You don't look old." "I'm not". "Well then ..." "I'm not twenty, either. Young chicks, that's what they want. Ornamental dolly birds. Not someone who actually knows what she's doing."
Henry nodded. "Yeah. Want another?"  "My turn", said Joan. "So what do you do?"

"Well, what I want to do, is run a cycle shop. Selling bikes, mending bikes, tinkering with
derailleur gears, center-pull brakes, mountains, racers .... what I actually do is spend
all my time on dumb paperwork. Invoices, credit notes, tax records, filling in dumb forms
for Uncle Sam who probably just files them, dealing with the bank, the landlord, the
electric company, the city regulations. You wouldn't believe how they tie small businesses
up in red tape, it's like they want us to fail. And it all has to be neatly typed, and
I type with one thumb" "I can type" said Joan. "Yeah," said Henry, not really listening.
"I can type real good", said Joan. "Have typewriter, will travel." "What?" he said, looking up.
"You just hired me. I'll bring my own typewriter. Where do I go?"

Next day, Joan arrived bright and early at the cycle shop, carrying her Remington. Henry
was already there, tinkering with a bike. He looked up and saw her, and said "Oh!" 
"Yes?" "It's you", he said, informatively. Joan smiled. "Where's the office?" "Office?"
"You know, where the paperwork is?" "Ah." Henry pointed to a table covered in paper, 
grease, coffee mugs, cycle parts, lengths of wire, an inner tube, pencils and as fine an assortment
of kibble as you'd find anywhere. 

By lunchtime, Joan had the table cleared; the cycle parts went to Henry, the coffee mugs
were purged of the lifeforms that


Gets depressed.
Goes to a bar and talks about job loss
Arm wrestles
Gets hired by bike shop
kills owner? Armwrestler?