How to Collect Bad Debts
By Wanderer
My wife Janice uses innovative collection methods.


This is adult material. Please do not read if you are under age 21 or laws in
your country forbid you to do so. Any similarity to actual persons, living or
dead, is unintentional and purely coincidental.

Earlier parts of this story may be found on the Wanderer bookshelf. They
should be read in the following order:

Who's In the Closet Now? (Parts 1, 2, and 3).

We're Back In the Closet Again (Parts 1 and 2).

The Engagement Party (Parts 1 to 5).

The Engagement Party-Epilogue (Parts 1 and 2).

The Engagement Party-Epilogue Two (One part only).

My Big Deal Social Wedding

Marriage Can Be Fun? (Parts 1 to 4).

The Board of Directors Meets My Wife.

Janice-An Anecdote.

How to Collect Bad Debts.

Copyright 2004 by Wanderer

Janice fired the previous Human Resource Department director and threw him out
on his ear, literally. He had to say goodbye to all his goodies-stock options,
health insurance, profit sharing, pension fund, and she promoted his executive
assistant, Ms. Anders, to take his place.

"Ms. Anders," Janice said, "I want everybody that asshole fired to be brought
back to my company. They made the Witherington family what it is today, and
they made me one of the richest women in America. I won't stand for having
them treated like dirt. I want them all back and they're to have their full
back pay. And please see to it that Mr. Madison, the production line employee,
gets his health benefits restored immediately so that he can have his three
year old baby girl operated on before she dies. And if there's too much
paperwork to have his health insurance restored immediately just get the
baby's heart operated on and send me the bills. I won't have any of our
employees treated as shabbily as Mr. Johnson, the previous HRD director,
treated them.

"Yes, ma'am," the new HRD director responded, gleefully. "And is there
anything else I can do for you?"

"Just see to it that Mr. Madison gets promoted to supervisor of the production
line. I'm not going to have someone with Mr. Madison's experience of
twenty-seven years at the company be stuck in a basic job on the production
line. I'm sure he knows more about the company than I do, and I don't want
someone with his vast store of knowledge relegated to some basic entry level
task. Move the present production line supervisor up the ladder, and if you
find some other old experienced employees not being properly acknowledged for
their contributions to the company please call it to my attention. And that
means women, too. Nobody at this company is going to be overlooked and not
properly acknowledged, at least as long as I am president and CEO of the
company!"

"Yes, ma'am," Ms. Anders said. "It will be my pleasure!"

Well, all the previously fired employees were back within a week. The economy
had been very slow and many were still unemployed and were in dire financial
straits. Even some of those who had found jobs, and they were very few, came
back to our company when they found out their old jobs were available again.

Janice said to me over the dinner table one night, "Listen, Frank, I don't
need twelve cents a share added to profit, as Mr. Johnson, the old HRD
director, said he was doing. He was doing it by getting rid of good people.
People who came to work on time. People who did their jobs properly. People
who took very few sick leave days. The family owns most of the shares in the
company, and I am already one of the richest women in America. Besides, if we
need more profit I'll just cut your salary at the company," she giggled.

Well, I wasn't too worried. Being married to one of the richest women in
America had its advantages. Besides, she didn't beat up on me too much, just
when I disobeyed her or when she was feeling out of sorts. She had given up on
anger management classes, that was now a lost cause. So what's an occasional
ass whipping now and then? I probably deserved it, anyway.

Mr. Madison, the new production line supervisor, was a popular guy, and most
of the production line workers knew of the health problems his little baby
girl was having. So when they were rehired and Mr. Madison told them the story
of what Janice had done for him, and how she had thrown the old HRD director
out the door, they all felt great about being with our company again. On their
own volition they increased production dramatically. Product quality
rejections declined to almost zero, and because of that we were able to lower
prices which led to increased sales. Profit increased startlingly, and instead
of greedily taking it all for ourselves we shared most of it with the company
employees who were responsible for our success.

Demand for our product was so great worldwide that we couldn't meet the demand
with production in the United States, so we built plants overseas, and we
employed the local labor in those countries. But not a single job in the U.S.
was shipped overseas even though our labor costs would have been a tenth of
what they were in the U.S. We priced our product for sale in foreign countries
according to the cost of production in each country, not what the product sold
for in the U.S., and the result was a tremendous increase in sales and in
profits.

So one night Janice says to me, "Frank, what are we going to do with all the
money the company is making?"

"Well, let's give it to charities," I said. "There are an awful lot of needy
people out there."

"But I don't need the extra deductions on my income tax. Tell you what. Let's
distribute it out among the employees, they can give it to charity and then
they can get the tax deductions, not us."

"Hell of a good idea, Jan," I said. "You're getting positively brilliant."

"Thanks, honey," she giggled. She came over to my chair, picked me up out of
it, and carried me up the stairs to our bedroom where we spent the night
pleasuring each other. See, it never hurts to pay a woman a compliment.

But Janice wasn't that kind to everyone. We were the type of company that
extended credit for ninety days. That would let buyers buy our product, sell
it, and then pay us from the proceeds. But some foreign purchasers would say
"Ha-ha, they're in the United States, let them try and collect in my country.
We hate Americans anyway."

After six months we began to worry about those accounts, and because of the
times, both economically and politically, those delinquent accounts began to
build up to a sizable sum. I, as the chief financial officer, began to worry
considerably. Maybe Janice would fire me. Janice required performance
excellence, at work as well as in the bedroom, and I needed to show results.
In the bedroom I had no problem. At work I was beginning to worry.

"Woe is me, woe is me," I said one night at dinner. I don't usually talk that
way, but tonight I was feeling woeful. "Do you realize how much companies
around the world owe us? And it's getting more every day. What are we going to
do? What are we going to do?"

"All right, honey, I'll take care of it for you. I don't want your anxiety to
affect your performance in bed," she giggled.

"What are you going to do, write it all off?" I inquired, hopefully.

"No, silly, we have contracts. I keep my word to these people. I want them to
keep their word to me. It's a question of honor. Don't buy our company's
product if you don't intend to pay for it. We pay our suppliers, and as the
provider of a finished product we expect to be paid. Just because you live far
away doesn't mean you don't have the same obligation as someone who buys from
us in the United States.

"Yeah, good luck," I said. "If you sue in foreign courts they don't have the
same laws we have. Besides which I don't think people around the world are too
happy with us right now," I mumbled under my breath.

"Oh, silly," Janice said, "I'm not going to sue, that could take years and
years. I intend to be more direct."

"What are you going to do, cut off their supply?" I asked.

"No, of course not. Our product has beneficial effects throughout the world.
People are healthier and happier when they use our product. I'm not going to
punish the people just because some sleaze bag is a crook."

"Well, then, what are you going to do?" I asked again.

"Why I'm going after the sleaze bag, silly," she said.

And so it came to pass that a week later Janice boarded the company 747 jet.
She didn't take me along because for what she had in mind doing she didn't
want an escort. During the week before leaving Janice had made some phone
calls to our delinquent customers.

"Oh, Mr. Watanabe, we haven't heard from you, don't you like our product any
more?"

"Oh, Mr. Farouk, your account is six months delinquent, have we displeased you
in some way?"

"The check is in the mail, lady," they all told her in seven different
languages.

Now Janice, in addition to her other accomplishments, is a linguist, and she
could speak to most of these customers in their own language, very, very
fluently.

"Well," Janice would say, in Arabic, or French, or Japanese, Chinese, or
Hindi, and in her most seductive voice, "please may I come visit you, maybe I
can please you even more if we meet face to face."

When Janice turned on the sex charm her voice was like sweet honey, and the
gray-haired old farts she was talking to in their own language were almost
immediately overwhelmed.

"Aaahhh, I'll nail me an American lady," they all thought. "Wait until I tell
the boys at my golf club, they'll all be so jealous. 'Are they as horny as
they say?' they'll ask me."

"Well, of course," I'll answer. "American men are wimps. Some have penises
only an inch and a half long, hardly enough to satisfy a lusty American woman.
That's why Ms. Janice Witherington came to visit me. She probably heard of my
prowess with the women," he would brag.

So, in each country when Janice's private 747 jet landed, she would be met at
the airport by a smiling, beaming president of the company doing business with
us, who would escort Janice to the best hotel in the city. There he had
reserved the finest suite in anticipation of the evening's pleasures, and one
look at Janice and he knew the expense was well worth it. My wife was an
absolutely gorgeous woman and she dressed herself in the latest fashions, and
according to the local customs, but she made sure that there was always some
bosom showing, local customs be damned. Her hosts would always rationalize it
away. "Oh, that is how these Americans do, no regard for our customs," as they
leered down her open blouse. "Oh, maybe her calves are a little oversize," he
might think as he walked behind her to the limousine. But her swaying hips, as
well as her fashion runway walk for his edification, would quickly persuade
him that calf size is of little consequence. And when she would address him in
his own language in the sultriest of voices he would be ready to cream in his
pants. They would climb into the waiting limousine for the trip to the hotel,
and our debtor would say to Janice, "Ms. Witherington, it would be my pleasure
to escort you to dinner this evening."

Janice would blush and say, "Oh, you are too kind, Mr. Watanabe, or Mr.
Farouk, or whoever, and I did not expect such a handsome distinguished
gentleman to greet me," and she would take the man's hand in her own and grasp
it warmly to her more-than-ample bosom. "We can have dinner and then have
dessert in my suite," she would suggest, provocatively.

Well, if he hadn't creamed in his pants before he was a goner now. The
executive would say something like "Fine, I hope you will find this evening's
entertainment satisfying. I shall call on you at eight o'clock." That would
give him time to go home and change his pants. The wife was told how important
this business meeting was, and that she was not to worry if he came home at a
late hour. Of course, they all forgot to mention that the business meeting was
with a gorgeous, busty, All-American type woman. Oh, well, details, details.

But the devil was in the details. Most of the dinners and the conversation
went something like this, as Janice would relate to me later. The dinners
would start out with champagne, hors d'oeuvres, caviar, more champagne. Then
maybe, "Would you like an American drink, Madame, perhaps a martini?"

"Oh, Mr. So-and-so, you are so kind, why a little ol' American gal like me is
just being overwhelmed by your kindness. I never expected to meet such a
handsome man, or to be treated with such gentility and sophistication."

Well, flattery will get you everywhere. When Janice suggested that perhaps
they should retire to her suite if they were to have a business discussion,
and added a coy wink of her eye, the executive was out of his chair in a
flash, escorting my lady to the elevator and up to her suite. When in the room
Janice would say, "Oh, sir, would you mind if I change into something a little
more comfortable?"

Do you think any of these hotshots objected? Hell, no. "I shall wait
impatiently for your return, my dear," was the usual response.

"Oh, I so love a kind, gentle, understanding man," Janice would blush, letting
her hand brush casually against the inevitable erection poking a hole in the
executive's pants.

"Please hurry, my dear, it is so rewarding for me to be exposed to your
beauty, and perhaps I can even share in your business acumen, because I
understand you to be a very accomplished business woman, one of the premier
such ladies in the United States."

"Oh, you are too kind, my sweet, I just long to spend the evening with you,"
giving a toss of her hair as she went to the bedroom, and looking back over
her shoulder with a sweet come-hither look on her face, of course catching the
executive with his hand surrounding his prick, pumping furiously up and down.

"Oh, you naughty boy," she would giggle, "can't you wait until I return?"

The executive, embarrassed to be caught in the act, would say, "Of course,
Madame, I await my pleasure ... er ... your pleasure," he would stammer, as he
watched her sexy ass wiggle above those oversized calves, and disappear into
the bedroom. Well, so she had oversized calves, so what? He was a generous
person, he was willing to make allowances. What were they? Nineteen inches?
Twenty inches? So much larger than his own twelve inch calves, and maybe
larger than his sixteen inch thighs. Could one of her calves be the size of
his thigh? No, that was impossible. In his culture women were demure,
domesticated, weak, servile. Of course, he had heard about lusty, robust
American women. Perhaps their further business should be conducted in a
darkened room; men of his culture were not to be embarrassed by a woman's
physical stature. And anyway, if she did have strong calves it would only
serve to draw him deeper into her orifice. So be it.

Ah, he heard the bedroom door opening. Here she comes. He was stunned. Not
only did she have a gorgeous face, but through her diaphanous gown he could
see the outlines of a seductive, gorgeous body. Not his type of body, of
course. In his culture women were to be weak, compliant, much weaker than her
male. He would be the provider, the protector, the disciplinarian, the lord
and the master. This woman was overwhelming in physique. Now he realized how
broad her shoulders were. Broad enough for him to ride on, or to be carried
on, should he so choose. And if her calves were twenty inches, surely her
thigh must be half again as large, thirty inches, maybe more. Her one thigh
was as large as his two thighs together? Impossible! And her arms, her upper
arms. So large. Could they be bigger than her calves? Or bigger than his
thigh? But his thigh measures sixteen inches, so her arm has to be smaller.
But they look larger than his thigh, and each one looks as large as or larger
than her calf. Maybe this woman is an anomaly, a freak of nature, or maybe she
is a devil woman, sent to earth to tempt him and to take his soul. Surely, her
appearance must be an illusion. It must be too much champagne. Maybe it was
that American drink, maybe it was the martini. They had each had two. Had she
gotten him intoxicated so she could have her way with him? Had she placed a
drug in his drink when he wasn't looking? Ecstasy? Devilish American woman!
Scheming! Untrustworthy! Conniving! If she were his he would shortly teach her
the meaning of compliance to the will of a man! Ah, now she was approaching
him. She wants to bedazzle me with her perfume, he reasoned. She must really
want me badly. Well, maybe I will forgive her her nefarious ways, but just
this once!

And now her breasts were touching his chest, pressing, pressing. "My
goodness," he would think, "they seem so firm, I can feel her nipples
indenting my chest." He reached up to her shoulders to push her away. Strange
how she is so stationary, has she glued her feet to the floor? M..m..m, she
does have strong shoulders, I can feel the muscles under her skin. Maybe she
is one of those American women basketball players. Women should not be allowed
to play a man's sport, he reasoned. Or any sport. Who needs a woman with a
muscle? It distorts their bodies. Disgusting. Then why could he feel his penis
rising to press against this woman's sexual organs. And why did he long to
touch these oversize protuberant breasts, creating depressions in his chest.
The two breasts of his wife would fit in the corner of one of this American
woman's breasts. He was becoming alarmed. Maybe she is the work of the devil.
Maybe she is the devil himself! He had heard that the devil could take various
shapes, even that of a woman, to the devil's shame. But that was
understandable. The devil was a schemer, a conniver, a sorcerer, so it was
understandable that the devil might even take the shape of a woman,
disgraceful as that would be.

But now this executive, this owner of a very profitable company, was becoming
seriously alarmed. He must get away. He must not succumb to the siren call of
this woman, even as his genitals were telling him otherwise. It must certainly
be the work of the devil. He was more convinced than ever.

He pushed against this devil woman's arms with all his might and fury. All he
succeeded in doing was pushing himself back a couple steps. His visitor from
the United States stood steadfast, immobile. He was more convinced than ever
that this was the devil, or the devil's agent, at least!

But now the devil approached him again, once more thrusting her oversize
breasts into his chest. "What's the matter, honey, don't you want me?" she
pouted.

"I do not need you! I have a wife at home!" he raged at her.

"Oh, you naughty boy," Janice looked surprised. "Why didn't you tell me that
before? Here you tried to deceive poor innocent me into an act with a married
man, much to my shame. You must be punished for your transgression, my love,"
she declared.

"Bah, devil woman, remove yourself from my presence, else I shall be forced to
teach you proper respect for the male, rightly your lord and master!"

"Oh, but my sweet, at my home I am the lord and master. My husband does as I
say, else I must punish him. I must spank him and whip him to teach him that
there are no rewards to be gained by foolish rejection of my rules and
authority."

All this time Janice kept advancing on the male executive so as to keep her
prodigious breasts pressed against his chest, and he kept retreating. A step
back for the male, a step forward for Janice. Finally they came to a wall and
the man could no longer retreat. Janice pressed hard into him, pinning him to
the wall.

"Get off me, devil woman!" the executive ordered as he pushed against her arms
to move her away so he could escape the crushing pressure on his chest. She
must be the devil, he reasoned, a real woman's breasts are soft and pliable,
but this woman had firm, unyielding breasts that did not distort even with the
pressure needed to keep him pinned against the wall. "No man would allow
himself to be whipped by a woman! Your man must be a sissy-girl to let you
treat him so! Or maybe he is not a man, maybe he/she is a woman, like those
lesbians who make up the female population in America!"

"Oh, we're not all lesbians," Janice declared. "Why, some of us even enjoy our
relationship with the male, especially if we're in charge," she giggled.

"No true man would ever allow a woman to control his body-or his mind!" he
raged.

"Are you a true man, my sweet friend?" Janice asked.

"Of course I am, you idiot woman! Can you not see?"

"Oh, I can see, and I can feel it, too," Janice laughed, as she felt her
adversary's penis pressing into her groin. "Tell me, don't you long for your
weak, obedient, compliant wife, now that you have met a strong, aggressive,
American woman?"

"Bah! She awaits me at home as she should. She does not travel the world
looking for a strong, virile, dominating man to replace her wimpish American
husband!"

"So you are a true man then, sweetums?" Janice asked again.

"Of course I am, you cow. I told you that already!" he snapped at her.

"Well, suppose I do this to you, will you still be a true man?" Janice asked,
as she put her hands under the executive armpits and lifted him a foot off the
floor, keeping him pinned against the wall.

"Truly you are the devil," he gasped, his body beginning to tremble with fear.
Few men and no woman could perform such a feat of strength. Truly her power
must come from the fiend of the underworld.

"Of course I am the devil, sweetheart, could an ordinary weak woman do this?"
And she raised the executive another foot off the floor, so that now she had
him two feet off the floor, and still pinned against the wall.

And now he began to pray. "Holy Father, expel this devil from my sight. I am a
rich man. I will build you a house of worship such as never before seen in
this country! All may come to worship their God as they see fit." The
executive was being very prudent at this point since he didn't want to make
the mistake of backing the wrong deity. "Please, I beseech thee!" he begged.

"Oh, gee, my precious, you should have thought about that house of worship
before. Don't you think it's a little late to become religious? I mean here I
am, the devil, and you're in my clutches. What shall I do with you, or better
yet, what shall I do to you?" she giggled again.

"Why do you laugh?" asked the executive. "The devil does not have a sense of
humor. You mock me, oh evil one!"

"Oh, don't be an idiot, you idiot!" Janice laughed. "Of course I'm not the
devil! Do you see any horns? Do you see a tail?" Janice reflected on that.
"Well, maybe a little tail," she giggled.

"You are the devil!" he accused Janice again. "Look at your muscles! Look at
your arms! No woman has muscles like that! No man has muscles like that! Only
the devil can have muscles like that!" And he put his hands on Janice's biceps
to prove his point.

Now Jan's biceps have a habit of swelling up when she puts any stress on them,
and she had been holding this man up for several minutes now. Jan has done
this to me more than once when I irritate her, and I can attest to the fact
that a lot of blood flows into those biceps. They get so big they are scary
even to me, and I'm her husband, so I can imagine how this guy must have felt,
looking down on them from his height above the floor. He touched them. After
all, maybe it was an illusion, maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Too bad, no illusion. "Hard as rocks," he gasped. "The devil truly has me in
his clutches-her clutches," he corrected himself. "I am about to die, and I
have not time to atone for my sins," and copious tears began flowing down his
cheeks.

"Sins like not paying your bills?" Janice asked. "Sins like ignoring your
signature on a contract? Is that the action of an honorable man?"

"Please do not kill me, oh woman devil, I will atone for my sins. I will be a
good Christian, I shall make everything right!" he sobbed. "I shall pay my
debts! I ... I ... might even pay interest on the debts!" This somewhat
reluctantly. "Oh yes I will! Oh yes I will!" This after a very strong glare
from Janice as she involuntarily tightened her grip on the man's armpits. "I
am but a poor plaything for you, please have mercy on me for the good of my
wife and children! You are so almighty strong and powerful, your muscles are
so huge! I cannot even get my hand around your arm, it is so huge!"

"There you go again, silly," she said. "I think it's only about twenty-two
inches or so. I don't know, I haven't measured lately."

"Ah, devil woman, that confirms my suspicions. My entire leg is only sixteen
inches around, and your arm is so much bigger, so much harder, it is ungodly.
Therefore you must be the devil, or the spawn of the devil!"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Janice said, exasperated. "You've got devil on the
brain! What can I do to convince you? Suppose I give you a good old fashioned
spanking for being such an idiot? Would the devil bother to give you a
spanking? Hell, no. Oh, excuse the use of the word, but the devil would have
turned you into a worm by now, or a guppy in someone's fish tank. Yes, I'm
going to give you a spanking. Heaven knows, I'm sure you deserve one!"

"The devil must not speak of heaven," he rasped.

"Oh, shut up, will ya?" Janice carried the man under his armpits, still two
feet off the ground, to a nearby chair. Even though he was a rather large man,
to her he was light as a feather would be. Then she laid him across her lap.
"Oh, sinner," she intoned, "you have cheated, you have gone back on your word,
you have reneged on your contracts, you are worthy of being one of us, and
today I am here to claim you for purgatory!" Hearing these words the man began
trembling so hard he almost fell off her lap. Janice had to fight to keep
herself from laughing out loud.

"Well, whatever works," Janice thought. "If the guy wants to believe I'm the
devil, then so be it. If he thinks I'm the devil then he's going to go home
tonight and treat his wife very nicely. She'd probably not recognize the guy
if he's nice to her. To me he seems like some kind of prick. Actually, maybe
there is some devil in me. I can hardly wait until I get home to try out some
devil tricks on Frank" (meaning me), she laughed to herself. "He'll probably
say, 'What the devil has gotten into you, Jan?' When that thought crossed her
mind Janice couldn't keep herself from breaking out into a large guffaw, which
of course scared the devil out of our delinquent client.

When Jan would confront these delinquent debtors in a manner similar to what I
just described to you, they generally would wind up on their knees in front of
Janice, pleading, "Oh, please don't hurt me, please don't hurt me, I have a
wife and children at home (they all seemed to have a wife and children at
home), I am a good provider!"

"Sure," Jan would say, "you're probably a good provider but you're a lousy
bill payer. You're probably such a good provider for your family because you
don't pay your bills to other people."

But Jan needed to leave these people with something that was burned into their
memories. Otherwise they'd probably think, "Hah, she's gone now, let the bitch
try and find me the next time she comes here to get her money!"

Jan would pull them up from their knees, put one hand on their crotch (usually
swollen), and the other on their necks, and lift them over her head. Now that
act alone was something scary to these vain men, to have a woman holding them
so effortlessly over her head. Why their own wives would never do that. Mainly
because they couldn't. But that wasn't enough for Jan. She needed to burn an
indelible memory into their brains. These luxury suites always had balconies,
and the suites were always on the top floor of the hotel. Jan had already
opened the balcony door, claiming she needed some fresh air. If the doorway
was wide enough she would carry the squirming man over her head onto the
balcony.

Now Jan, when she's in a playful mood, has lifted me over her head, so I know
how frightening that can be. You're up in the air, looking down at the floor,
which from this high up position looks a lot farther away than it really is.
But all the time my erection is growing. Am I scared? Hell, yes, but I'm
getting a different perspective than I usually do on Jan's chest. Now those
breasts seem to be jutting out a foot or two from her shoulder blades. It's
scary, yes, but I like it up there, I get such a good view. But the view ain't
so pleasant for the guys she's holding out over the balcony railing.
Me-feeling my boner under her hand positioned on my crotch- me, she throws
onto our bed, which is one of those super king size setups, and she jumps my
bones. These guys, they ain't gonna get any sex on the way down those fifteen
or twenty stories from the top of the hotel.

"Oh, Mr. So-and-so," Jan would say, "it would be so easy to just drop you over
this railing. It's a long way down!"

By now Mr. So-and-so wasn't squirming anymore, he had gone completely rigid.
Most of them would be crying, their tears falling copiously on her massive
shoulders, begging, pleading.

"What will the police say?" Jan asked, and then she answered her own question.
"Why they would say 'Mr. Big Business Executive jumped off the balcony and
committed suicide because the nice American lady rejected him. Tsk, tsk.'"

Or, if the balcony doorway was narrow, Jan would grab the man by the neck with
one hand and lift him a foot off the floor while he was struggling with her
hand to get her to release him, and she would carry him that way out to the
balcony. Anyone over two hundred pounds she would use both hands. Once on the
balcony she would hold the guy over the railing. Again the man would go rigid
with fright, unable to plead because of her hand constricting his throat, but
she could see the fear in their eyes. All they could get out was "Gurgle,
gurgle."

"Gee, sir, isn't it a long way down? I just want to leave you with a little
memory of what might happen to you if I have to come collect my company's
money again. But next time I won't tell you I'm coming. I'll just hunt you
down. So please be timely with your bill payments next time. Ninety days.
Ninety-one days and I'll be on my way. Have a good day, sir."

And so it went from country to country, with slight variations, as Jan
traveled around the world collecting from our debtors. Not all of them thought
she was the devil. Some of them, observing her massive musculature, paid up
out of fear because they didn't want her angry at them. Some were so entranced
by her beauty that they thought she had to be an angel sent from heaven, and
they paid, too. However, just as a reminder, Jan would take the debtors out to
the balcony to enjoy the view. You can imagine how agreeable the people who
owed us money became as they dangled over a balcony ten or fifteen or twenty
stories above the ground. Needless to say, from then on they always paid their
bills within ninety days, and a lot of them even paid early, within thirty
days. Boy, Jan's collection method really worked well.

All that money flowing in really helped. We didn't need to fire anyone to help
our bottom line; all we needed was for our customers to pay their debts on
time so that we didn't have bad debt write-offs.

I, as the chief financial officer, was so happy, management was so happy,
production quality rejections falling to almost zero, customers were paying
their bills on time, production was up with the same work force. Under Jan's
guidance we rocketed from the Fortune 500 right up to the Fortune 100. Every
production employee got a year end bonus that left them speechless. Janice
said, "Hell, we've got enough money, let's give it to the guys and gals who
really deserve it. We sit back and pretend we're big cheese management. They
make the goods, cut the overhead, make innovative suggestions. They deserve
it.

Saying that, Janice picked me up out of my chair, threw me over one
marvelously brawny shoulder, carried me up the stairs to our bedroom, and gave
me my year-end bonus. I'm hoping for many more super-profitable years ahead.