Perrier Masson – Yuppie Lawyer
“Della, would you please word process the Diet Pepsi case!” Perrier Masson spoke into the micro-processor controlled intercom on his expansive desk.
“As soon as my nails dry, Piggy,” replied Della Boulevard, Masson’s personal secretary. He had hunted and hunted every arcade in San Jose looking for Ms. Right Secretary, but when he saw her roller-skating in a sweat-suit wearing a Walkman on Lawrence Expressway during rush-hour, he knew she wasn’t just another pretty sweatband.
“You have a call on line one,” spoke the simulated voice of the intercom.
“Thank you,” replied Perrier.
“You’re welcome,” continued the box.
“Don’t mention it,” again replied Masson as he picked up the Mickey Mouse sculptured phone handset.
“My emulated pleasure,” squawked the box.
“Hello, this is Perrier Masson,” he spoke with a voice that rang of the confidence only being a rich lawyer can bring. He leaned back in his high technology, genuine sheepskin, executive massage chair and rested his alligator shoes on his mahogany desk. Looking around at the bookshelves filled with rows and rows of law books and vacation brochures, he thought about how great he was and what a success he had become. Pressing a button on his desk’s master console, he opened the micro-processor-driven window blinds revealing the magnificent view of the old and dirty ultra-chic buildings of the Silicon Valley surrounded by largo cement parking lots and small patches of grass without sidewalks.
“Now, let me see if I have the facts straight,” Masson replied to the person on the phone. “Your neighbor backed his four-wheel-driver four-door, pickup … with what? With earth mover tires … and what? A Peterbuilt bumper. I knows I have one just like it. Well, I usually just commute with it on Thursdays. Take it where? Why? That would get it dirty! Please continue. All right, he backed it into your Mercedes when you were backing out of the driveway. He did what?! Dumped the quiche! I think we have a case! I’ll give you back to my secretary to make an appointment. Sure, I always win. Ba-bye.”
“You have another call on line two,” squawked the intercom.
“Perrier Masson. Can I be of assistance? A class action suit? My forte. Remember the Vietnam vets exposed to agent orange? Yeah. I won it. I got each one enough to pay for the doctor bills plus a nice stiff penalty for the government for using the idiotic stuff in the first place. Yeah. Yup. Yup. Okay. Yup. Yup. Will they let you play Trivial Pursuit in any other part of the building? I see. Only in the parking lot. A security guard overturned the table … then what? With his studded boots? And what? With his billy club? I think we have a case! I’ll transfer you to my secretary to set up an appointment. Who did what? I think it’s George Plimpton. A piece of pie? All right. Okay. Ba-bye.’
“You have another call on line three. It is an emergency,” said the intercom.
“Put this one on the speaker.”
“Go ahead,” commanded the box.
“Perrier, this is Lieutenant Skagg, homicide.”
“Good morning, Lieutenant.”
“Not a very good morning for the curator of the High Tech Museum.”
“No, the San Jose High Technology Museum!”
“Oh. I got those amusement parks confused. What about the Curator?”
“He’s been murdered by one of your clients. He says you helped him get his citizenship. He won’t even give us his name until he talks to you.”
“I’ll be right over.”
As he entered the cathedral halls of the High Tech Museum, a sense of awe gripped Masson. Then he realized he was standing over an air conditioner vent. A large crowd of people had gathered around the slain man. Flashbulbs flashed. Perrier spotted Lieutenant Skagg and Milton Hamburger, the District Attorney, and walked over toward them.
“Well!” sneered Milton Hamburger. “If it isn’t Mr. Hotshot Lawyer. Your client doesn’t have a prayer this time.”
We’ll see,” replied Perrier, unscathed by the fire breathing D. A. “I would like to see my client now, if you don’t mind?”
“He’s over there,” said Skagg, pointing to the corner.
Perrier left the crowd and walked up to his client who turned to greet him. Reaching out his hands Masson said, “I’m terrible with names but I never forget a face. What was that name again?”
“Mr. Robotto,” spoke the automaton.