<span style="font-weight: bold">Christina Rumbletum</span><br/><br/>“Hi Jules,” Christina burbles as he answered the phone. For a moment, she’d thought he hadn’t been going to - but it wasn’t<span style="font-style: italic">quite</span>quitting time yet. “Goddess, how did you<span style="font-style: italic">survive</span>dealing with that woman yesterday. It was almost her-or-me at one point,” Christina sighed. “She just kept interfering and making things<span style="font-style: italic">worse</span>. I booted her off her and she logged from one of the others - and a I couldn’t block her account because the lookup tables were all messed it. The disaster was twice as bad when lunchtime rolled around,” Christina grumbled. “Fortunately she ate herself into a stupor and let me fix things this afternoon. But we aren’t done with Stockton B Industrial Farm,” Christina continues, “I promise you that much. Ah,” she pauses, and you can almost hear the blush. “You were right about the food. For lunch,” she continues. “Or rather, we both were. It was a stockboy buffet, all-you-could-eat, and they<span style="font-style: italic">weren’t</span>very good… but in that way that makes you want another, you know? Like, this one didn’t satisfy me but the next<span style="font-style: italic">might</span>?” Christina burps, in a most unladylike but<span style="font-style: italic">very</span>vorish fashion. “Excuse me,” she says, which is more politeness than most vores have. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a<span style="font-style: italic">week</span>,” she half-complains. “Look, I’ve got to bring the van back anyway, so how about I pick you up and we go get some beers to celebrate surviving the bimbo-bitch-from-hell?” She asks.<br/><br/>{Yes, I know I’m evil.}