Miss Anne Thrope
Keywords: Anne, Thrope, Miss,
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"© 2004 by Thrillerauthor"
As I write this tale of woe, the sight of manicured fingers flitting over my keyboard evokes the utter misery of my situation. Not long ago, I was vice president of a major pharmaceutical firm, with a six figure salary and a corner office. Now I am sitting in a secretary's cubicle, trying to keep from snagging my pantyhose each time I escape from my pathetic little desk. How did this ever happen to me?
It all began one fateful morning when one of the geniuses in research and development came into my office with a hangdog expression on his face. I was busy packing up my briefcase for a two week road show which would launch our new diet miracle product, Metabolean. The test results had been sensational, and I sold the board of directors on an aggressive plan to market Metabolean to our target customers, overweight females, through a network of kiosks at shopping centers and strip malls throughout the country.
Because Metabolean was technically an herb, our company lawyers found a way to skate around FDA testing requirements. Our own research had shown that regular doses of Metabolean resulted in a weight loss of anywhere between five to ten pounds per week, without any significant side-effects. Or so I thought until Dr. Gefuhlgut broke the news to me that morning. "Uh, there is a little problem with Metabolean that we need to talk about," he stammered.
"Problem? What kind of problem? You're not going to tell me about production delays, are you? We're already committed to a huge media buy, the lawyers have tied up sites around the country with long-term leases, and I'm leaving for the airport in ten minutes to kickoff our marketing plan."
"No, production is right on schedule. The problem is with the product."
"What are you talking about?" I asked impatiently.
Dr. Gefuhlgut wrung his hands. "Some of our early test subjects have developed an unexpected condition."
I stopped packing my briefcase and looked him square in the eyes. "What kind of condition?"
"Well, as you know, Metabolean was given first to inmates at federal correctional facilities who volunteered to take part in clinical trials. Both male and female institutions participated in the first round of tests. Now, the good news is that none of the male inmates have exhibited any form of side-effects."
"And the bad news?"
Dr. Gefuhlgut pulled an 8x10 photograph from an inside pocked of his white lab coat. When he handed it to me, I actually laughed out loud. It was a group portrait of around twenty female prisoners. "As you know," Dr. Gefuhlgut said, "the inmates were divided into two groups: a control group who were given placebos, and the inmates who were administered doses of Metabolean."
There was no doubt who was who in the photograph I was staring at. Half of the women were enormously fat, and the other half had beards and mustaches. "My God," I said, "it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there."
"Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?"
"Absolutely nothing."
"What?"
"Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?"
"Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven't had enough time to experience the side-effects."
"Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can't expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?"
"You can't be serious!"
"Come on, what's a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don't you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys." Tears of laughter rolled down my cheeks as I inserted the photograph into the shredder beside my credenza.
Had I been thinking clearly, I would have realized that Dr. Gefuhlgut could make another copy of the photograph. What I couldn't have known was that he had a tape recorder in the side pocket of his lab coat.
SETTLEMENT REACHED IN METABOLEAN CASE
Chicago – Class action lawyers for thousands of woman made hirsute by Metabolean expressed "gratification" with the terms of a settlement reached with the pharmaceutical giant which manufactured the ill-fated diet pill. The multi-billion dollar settlement was hammered out in a mediation held behind closed doors on the eve of trial. Although specific terms were not disclosed, Aaron Thrope, the executive responsible for the Metabolean disaster, is said to have been "reassigned" to another position in the company.
* * *
Reassigned, indeed. The mediator was a tough-ass bitch who looked like Jesse Ventura in drag, and it was clear from the beginning that the company was prepared to throw me to the wolves. I watched helplessly as a parade of bearded ladies sobbed out their pathetic stories, trying to look sympathetic while the gallows was constructed around me. The feds were all over the company too, and their lawyers tried desperately to pin the whole fiasco on me. Still, my defense of ignorance was holding up well until Dr. Gefuhlgut did me in. The transcript of the tape recording he made to cover his ass was devastating.
MR. THROPE: "My God, it looks like a casting call for a freak show! We have the fat lady candidates over here, and the bearded lady candidates over there."
DR. GEFUHLGUT: "Yes, well, that is one way of putting it. What are we going to do?"
MR. THROPE: "Absolutely nothing."
DR. GEFUHLGUT: "What?"
MR. THROPE "Look, this is only the first group of test subjects, right?"
DR. GEFUHLGUT: "Yes, but you would expect any symptoms to be exhibited by them first. The other groups haven't had enough time to experience the side-effects."
MR. THROPE: "Maybe. Or maybe this is a coincidence of some kind. Anyway, you can't expect me to shitcan a multi-million dollar campaign at the last minute based on one test result, can you?"
DR. GEFUHLGUT: "You can't be serious!"
MR. THROPE: "Come on, what's a little facial hair? Just between us girls, I think the chicks with the beards are hotter than the porkers, don't you? Anyway, worse comes to worse, they can dress up as guys. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
I felt like crawling under the table as the tape recorder played on. The rest of the mediation was a blur as the lawyers shouted at each other and divvied up the spoils. I knew my job was history, but the prospect of personal liability and maybe even jail time loomed. Just when it seemed like all was lost, the mediator swiveled her guns on me. The transcript tells the tale.
THE MEDIATOR: "It would seem, Mr. Thrope, that you are the culprit in this drama."
MR. THROPE: "I was only doing my job."
THE MEDIATOR: "Do you know what you are, Mr. Thrope?"
MR. THROPE: "Broke and out of work?"
THE MEDIATOR: "You, Mr. Thrope, are a misanthrope."
MR. THROPE: "A what?"
THE MEDIATOR: "A misanthrope. It means you have a hatred for mankind. You are not fit to live amongst civilized society, Mr. Thrope. At least not as you are. Fortunately, I have had time to fashion a remedy for this situation. A remedy which is uniquely tailored to the suffering you have brought about."
MR. THROPE: "I have my rights!"
THE MEDIATOR: "Of course you do, Mr. Thrope. You have every right to walk out of this room, and spend the rest of your life paying damages in the millions. Or, you can accept the terms which I am about to impose on you."
MR. THROPE: "What terms?"
THE MEDIATOR: "When you were confronted with the side-effects of Metabolean, you joked about how your unfortunate victims could dress up as the opposite sex to conceal their shame and embarrassment. I have similar conditions in mind for you."
MR. THROPE: "What conditions?"
THE MEDIATOR: "Because of you, thousands of women were forced to endure the humiliation of being transformed against their will. The very essence of their being, their femininity, was taken from them. As a condition to accepting the monetary settlement which your employer has put on the table, representatives of the plaintiffs have demanded that you atone for your misdoings. When I shared my idea with them, they were delighted with it."
MR. THROPE: "What idea?"
THE MEDIATOR: "Just between us girls, I am going to turn you into one."
MR. THROPE: "What?"
THE MEDIATOR: "Immediately after these proceedings are adjourned, you will be required to live as a woman for a term of one year. During this period of time, you will be required to work as an entry level employee for the company which you so recklessly misguided."
MR. SNEAD: "You can't make me do that!"
THE MEDIATOR: "You are entirely right. The choice will be yours, not mine. Your employers have agreed not to seek indemnification from you for the billions of dollars which you have cost their shareholders, and to keep you on the payroll, if you comply with my conditions."
MR. THROPE: "This is insane!"
THE MEDIATOR: "Think it over, Mr. Thrope. Or should I say, Miss Anne Thrope? You will be issued identification befitting your new gender, and the company has even agreed to pay for a complete makeover and a new wardrobe for you. Of course, you will have to move into a smaller apartment, something you can afford on the salary of a working girl. Think it over, Miss Thrope."
* * *
At the end of the day, what choice did I have? That's what I kept telling myself as I signed the Consent Decree which required me to "act, dress and live as a member of the female sex until one year from the date of this agreement." Unfortunately, I didn't take the time to read the fine print in the twenty page document. If I had, there's no doubt in my mind that I would have jumped out one of the conference room windows before I signed it.
A Special Mistress was appointed by the mediator to oversee my transformation. Her name was Donna Mae Trix. Donna was about thirty, very attractive in a mannish sort of way, and under other circumstances I might have tried to get into her pants.
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Keywords: Anne, Thrope, Miss,