Well. This wasn’t, uh… Exactly the most formal way to go about this sort of thing, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Or something like that.
Rick had a gradually worsening problem. Over the last couple of months, this homegrown entrepeneurship that he’d started on a whim had taken off like a goddamn shot. Really, it was insane. By now this operation could be qualified as a full blown enterprise, since it reliably brought in the cash faster than he could spend it on all of the unnecessary shit that stitched together his manic lifestyle.
Sure, that might’ve been exactly what he’d hoped to arise from this shady, black market businuess practice - to gain a constant buzz of clientele consistently entertaining his otherwise distraught days, but…
It was making him crazy. Day in and day out, he was getting hundreds of phone calls and texts, a never ending source of demanding noise. He couldn’t even look at his phone without the thing screaming at him, notification banners at the top of his screen blinding out social media pages.
He didn’t have a fucking second to relax. No official days off where he could kick up his feet and chill without being blown up –
It was too much for one person, even if he was equipped with instantaneous wormhole travel. Plug Rick couldn’t deal with this on his own anymore.
So he did the thing that he didn’t really want to do, but was becoming a necessity:
He put out a help wanted ad on Interstellars’ List.
Help wanted. Assistant in distribution services. Pay goes as high as you get the customers. Must have portal gun. No bullshit. Snitches get stitches. @ (666)-420-6969
It was simple, sweet, to the point. Rick figured that he could sift through spam mail and obvious replies from the galactic federation cops trying to set up a sting - he could see right through their ploys, after so much experience dodging being caught - but he hadn’t expected to get a serious response this fast.
