HREE DAYS LATER…

Here, in no particular order, is a massively incomplete list of things that make me twitchy:

1) Being indoors, almost anywhere

2) Places with no easy exits

3) People who promise me tons of “benefits” and assume that I don’t see right through the crapola to the stark truth that actually they want me to do a bunch of stuff for them

4) Being dressed up

So it won’t take a lot of imagination on your part to guess how I reacted to our appointment at a Hollywood talent agency.

“Come in, guys,” said the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. She flashed glowing white teeth and tossed back her perfect, auburn hair as she ushered us through the heavy wooden door. “I’m Sharon. Welcome!”

I could see her trying to avoid looking at our various bruises, scrapes, and cuts. Well, if you’re six feet away from a building when itexplodes at you, you’re gonna get a little banged up. Fact of life.

We were in a big office building in Hollywood. If you’ve been keeping up with our nutty, action-packed shenanigans, you’ll remember how manyincredibly bad experiences we’ve had inside office buildings. They’re pretty much my least favorite place to be, right after dungeons and hospitals, but before dog crates and science labs. Call me quirky.

A member of the CSM had a friend who had a friend who had a cousin who was married to someone who knew someone at this huge, important Hollywood talent agency and volunteered us for an interview, without asking us. The CSM thought we spokesbirds were doing a bang-up job of getting their message out. Emphasis onbang, given the suicide sniper. But more on that later.

“Come in! Come in!” A short, balding guy in a flashy suit waved us in, big smile in place. I ratcheted up my DEFCON level to orange. “I’m Steve Blackman.”

There were four of them altogether, three guys and Sharon with the great hair. She blinked when Total trotted in after us, a small white bandage still covering the tip of his tail. He’d gotten more mileage out of that weensy flesh wound than I’ve gotten out of broken ribs.

“Good God,” I heard Total mutter as he looked at the woman. “She can’t be real.”

“Max!” said Steve, holding out his hand. “May I call you Max?”

“No.” I frowned and looked at his hand until he pulled it back.

The other two guys introduced themselves, and we just stood there, unsmiling. Actually, Nudge smiled a little. She loves stuff like this. She’d even worn a skirt. Angel was wearing a pink tutu over her jeans. My clothes were at least clean and not blood-spattered, which is about as good as it ever gets with me.

“Well!” said Steve, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s sit down and get to know each other, huh? Can we get you something to drink? You kids hungry?”

“We’re always hungry,” said the Gasman seriously.

Steve looked taken aback. “Ah, yes, of course! Growing kids!” He was trying hard not to look at our wings, with limited success. He reached over and tapped a button on his desk, which was so big you could practically land a chopper on it. “Jeff? How about some drinks and snacks in here? Thanks.”

“Please, sit down,” Sharon said, with another hair toss. I made a mental note to practice doing that in a mirror the next time I saw one. It seemed a useful skill, right up there with roundhouse kicks.

We sat, making sure no one was in back of us or could sneak up on us. I was wound so tight I was about to break out in hives.

A young guy in a purple-striped shirt came in with a tray of sodas, glasses of ice, and little nibbly things on several plates. “They’re tapas,” he explained. “This one’s calamari, and this one’s—“

“Thanks a million, Jeff.” Steve cut in with a smile. Jeff straightened and left, closing the door quietly behind him. Then, as we fell on the food like hyenas, Steve turned to us again, looking so dang enthusiastic that I wondered how much coffee he’d had this morning. “So! You kids want to be big stars, eh?”

“God, no!” I said, almost spewing crumbs. “No way!”

Oddly, this seemed to throw a petite wrench into the convo.