The Return of Agent Zlerich

After eight months of smelling like bacon after work, the local restaurant/hotel consortium took over the reputable 1950's-esque establishment where I worked. Or, mostly reputable. Save for our inability to wear proper pants in the eyes of the consortium. Management decided that the guys on line had to wear checkered pants instead of the mishmash of individualistic expression present pre-buyout.

I dutifully paid my $15/pair and ordered two pairs for work. We paid extra (management mandated) for our names to be added, figuring that it'd prevent mixups. Two weeks later my two pairs arrived. They fit well and stank much less of bacon than the newly retired ones. That no one answered to "Zlerich" made the company's interpretive interpretation of my last name forgivable. I put in my notice at work shortly thereafter.

It's been years. One pair of pants went to Goodwill during some closet consolidation. The remaining pair serves primarily as pajamas these days. My lady invented "Agent Zlerich" as a joke alter ego for when I tool around the house sporting them.

After much foot dragging on my part, it feels like the right time to begin posting inane things. I suppose that's motivation enough once it's married to a not-completely-psuedonym. As far as the Internet can tell me, no one uses "Zlerich". I call dibs.