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Ben Franklin: Elizabeth the Stripper

Elizabeth was bored. There really wasn’t much to do in the office and answering the phones was not killing time. Plus, she felt a little hot. She had on too many clothes. She wasn’t used to wearing this many layers while she worked.

She casually got up from her chair and made her way towards the break room for a soda. She already had binged on some jellybeans, diet soda wasn’t going to kill her and she loved diet soda. She could always throw it all up later if she needed to.

As Elizabeth entered the kitchen, she noticed that the tall salesman, whose name she escaped her at the moment, was staring out the window, his eyes fixated at receptionist where the guy dressed as Ben Franklin looked to be hitting on the mousy girl behind the desk. Elizabeth watched for a moment amused as the receptionist looked at the sad impersonated in disgust. She let out a laugh and looked back to the salesman to share the moment but was surprised to find that he was frowning.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Elizabeth said simply.

“Huh?’ the salesman turned his attention to her for the first time. He had been startled by her presence. “About what?”

She watched as Ben Franklin didn’t let down and leaned, almost comically, further in towards the receptionist. She scooted her chair away. “Ben Franklin trying to get with your girl,” Elizabeth replied.

“What?” the salesman blushed. “No, she’s not….that’s my girlfriend.” He pointed to the tiny brunette sitting at the clump of desks closet to them. “Pam’s just…” he let the sentence die.

“Right,” Elizabeth responded, completely not convinced. “Well, I have a little Ben Franklin trivia for you. Ben Franklin? He had syphilis.”

“Really?” the salesman said slightly interested.

“Yup.” Elizabeth nodded. “That guy out there…does not. In fact, I’m gonna guess that Ben Franklin got laid more in a month then that guy has ever has in his life. I wouldn’t worry about it man.”

The salesman threw his head back with laughter as Elizabeth headed back to get her soda.

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