Kat, you've given us another delightful read. I never fail to smile reading your stories, I'm in for a shock if you ever write a dark piece!
Smiled big time at "dodge gods". I can see that as a title also, a nice little juxtaposition for the disused tennis courts in the first para.
I've awarded myself the title of Crap Critiquer...so I'll be scuttling off now!
Thanks for an enjoyable story.

Thanks, Kat. I'm grateful for your feedback as always. The wonderful Fye also got confused as you did in 1. The point is definitely taken! Thanks for highlighting your issue in 2. You've given me pause for thought on how I could have tackled this differently.

I always find your feedback very helpful! There's a real skill in giving good feedback and crit...I just don't have it, hopefully, I'll improve and learn from people like you as time goes on. It means so much to us scribblers of words.

No, you didn't overcomplicate, the wonderful Kat also got confused thinking there were perhaps 2 characters. Of course you didn't because YTB.

Loved this story, Ginger! You had me hanging on to every word of the snappy dialogue and intrigued about where it was all leading to.
I'm crap at crit, and can't find any in this to give. What I can find is plenty of particularly delicious spots, such as:

>The seasoned detective’s hands throttled the air.
>
>....shove my hand up his metaphysical ass...

Love this. Flowed beautifully from start to finish. I liked how the "thin smile" efficiently changed gears for the story.

I chortled something wicked at this on my second read-through:

>but something caught my eye today

I wondered if it was realistic for Eddie to mention their bonds since kindergarten when he was so oblivious to the impending trouble. Then again, considering the depth of his betrayal, perhaps his guilty conscious couldn't help it. So I'm on the fence about it, which probably isn't helpful crit at all! I'm a self-confessed crap critiquer.

Good story, good characters, and good writing!

Thanks, Fye! Yet again your astute eye has picked up on some very important bits and bobs.
The Boss and John are actually one and the same, hence the use of piggy eyes twice which I thought would make this evident, but apparently not. Thank goodness you're here to help point these things out.
NYTB!

Lying for Truth

My first day on the job was finally drawing to a close. With relief I snapped the laptop closed, eager to answer the call of my personal laptop beckoning me home so my real work could begin.

The only truthful skill in my bogus resume was my talent for multi-tasking. Not that my new boss had done anything more than give it a cursory glance, his small piggy eyes had been too busy feasting upon my cleavage. The job had been mine from the moment I had left an extra button undone on my blouse. Brains need not apply.

Every office at Magenta Party HQ was adorned with the campaign slogan, “Fighting for Fairness!”. I felt my face twist with derision, not so fair for Sarah Perkins it seemed, whose chair I now occupied. I squeezed my throbbing feet back into the unaccustomed confines of high heels, time to parade my way out with their stimulating click-clacking.

“You can’t leave now!”, exclaimed John Harris, his florid face suddenly peering around the door, his piggy eyes running all over my body like slime, apparently still unable to find my eyes. “It’s office tradition to treat the new girl to after-work drinks on her first day. I’m not taking no for an answer.” Damn, he worked fast!

“Oh, I’d love to Mr. Harris!”, I breathed, all wide-eyed innocence. “Give me just a minute to freshen up my make-up and I’ll meet you there.”

“Ok love, me and the boys will have a drink waiting for you. The bar across the road.” His modus operandi hadn’t changed. Sarah hadn’t stood a chance as she had been wilfully led into unconsciousness and into the dark void where non-consent wasn’t possible.

With his sweaty presence gone, I carefully lined my oversized handbag with a heavy-duty plastic bag to pour all the drinks I was not about to drink as I distracted them with the wonders of a further button undone on my blouse.

Next, I carefully fixed the tiny microphone behind the campaign button I pinned to the bag, ready to catch the seasoned player in his nasty game as I feigned leg-opening inebriation. He’d be sure to boast to the boys about his next conquest every time I stumbled to the restroom. I’d been rehearsing for this moment fastidiously since first interviewing Sarah, and felt strangely calm, dangerous, and ready.

I reapplied my lipstick of fire-engine red, although he wouldn’t see the warning. I planned to stamp out those life-shattering flames forever. Battle-paint ready, I marched off to war. If I played this right, I would have this wrapped up by midnight and the story on my editor’s desk by morning.

Passing under yet another poster screaming “Fighting for Fairness!”, I raised my fist into the air and exclaimed, “Oh yes I am. This is for you Sarah!”. I headed out into the twilight of the groaning city and towards John Harris, whose career was about to be cast into perpetual darkness.

(WC: 499)

Burning Issue

The picket line was long. The message clear. Equality for all! Chanted the disenchanted.

Our eyes blazed with barely suppressed rage; sisters were getting real about getting a fair deal. The factory had ground to a halt, and we keenly felt our muscles flexing in the silencing of mechanical beasts that fed on our labor. Female employees dominated our workplace. Cheaper by the hour! Boasted the men upstairs with dollar sign eyes and empty smiles.

First, they sent down a junior executive; his face turning beetroot at the lie that he had come to ‘negotiate’.

“Negotiate?”, I roared at him, after being informed there would be no sackings if we quietly returned to work. But we were tired of being good girls and he was ill-prepared for an army of righteous women.

“We’re not here to negotiate, we are demanding!” I continued. Not once in his young life had a woman spoken to him so assertively, except perhaps his mother. I took pleasure in seeing his mouth hanging loosely like a barn door blown open from a freak wind. With his Adam’s apple bobbing ineffectively, anything further he had to say caught in his throat. “Go back and tell your masters, we are here to stay until we get equal pay.”

The hapless young man scampered off, confused yet responding to my order. My order! I savored the moment like an exotic treat tasted for the first time, which indeed it was. I felt a brief moment of pity for him, but as they say, it’s the 70’s man, get with the plan!

I scanned the picket line and saw the exchange had briefly silenced the chanting, then after the collective gasp, it resumed louder and more strident than before, buoyed by our audacity.

Only Mary faltered and looked as though she wanted to hide behind her placard rather than hold it aloft like a battle sword. As a single mother, the young woman had everything at stake during this gamble to make history.

“Hold strong Mary,” I said, giving her a level look. “Our fear is what will keep them winning.” Smiling weakly, she nodded. Then lifted her sign only to half-mast so it still looked like a distress signal, but she stayed. How I admired her bravery!

By the second day, no one had broken our number, and it was the arrival of the reporters that saw the Big Cheese himself come down to speak to us. Bad press was the last thing he wanted, considering women were the consumers of his goods.

We had won! Triumphant we hugged each other, then marched through the gates of the brassiere factory. Tomorrow there would be a picket line somewhere else; change was in the wind.

Not a single bra was burnt during the strike, a misnomer about this period if ever there was one. Besides, we had only wanted to bite the hand that fed us crumbs, we all had a personal stake in the humble bra.

(WC: 498)

Wow! That ending blew my mind. Loved it.