Cairo Casablancas
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Great. Awesome.
"Okay, ma'am."
That's what my day was missing - the lieutenant forcing me to present myself for molestation again.
Some greater cosmic force must have been belting out one hell of a belly laugh the day that it assigned Cairo Casablancas to serve underneath Lieutenant Kat Staten. Cairo wasn't very good at keeping track of her family history to begin with, and it would have been beyond her to explain the intricacies of the ethnicity, culture, and history of the Basque region to even an open-minded, understanding audience. Those weren't terms you could use on Staten - a mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know lout whose best attributes were a carefree attitude that redefined the word slovenly, a husky voice that was most content to bark ignorant slurs at minorities, and an eye for talent that often leered at Cairo like she was a gorilla in a zoo.
She wasn't all bad or anything, just the opposite; if anything she was too friendly and bombastic, often inviting Cairo to her office - never her private quarters, thank the Lord - under the manipulative pretense of 'paperwork,' only to cackle like a woods witch at Cairo's horrified reaction to her disgusting, cluttered office. What would follow was wasting entire hours of off-time to cleaning up and parental lectures, which Kat Staten responded to by taking a tank top (from where, the devil only knew) and whipping Cairo's ass with it to jubilant cries of "Andale, Flamenco! Migra, migra, Albuquerque!"
At a certain point, fighting it became useless. You just had to go back to your quarters, like Cairo did, and gulp sambuca until your soul went limp and the memories started to fade.
If there was one truly redeeming quality to her, it had to be her hatred of the enemy. If her mockery of Spanish-speaking cultures was carefree, goofy, lecherous fun for the whole family, then the lieutenant's seething disgust for the Principality of Zeon was a rated-R bloodbath that came with an even gorier director's cut shooting for a Christmas release. Hell, she probably would take a bath in the blood of Zeeks if she could. Lather her hair with it, cleanse her pores, rub it into those ungodly American t--
Nnnnnnnno!
No, Cairo!
She huffed grumpily.
"Just please be quiet," she requested of her commanding officer as her G-Fighter lost speed, allowing the Spartan to close the distance where the Gelgoog had formerly stood as a midpoint. "I'm going to need to concentrate on looking for this Musai, and I don't need you giving me a headache. With all due respect. Ma'am."
Now Playing...
Great. Awesome.
"Okay, ma'am."
That's what my day was missing - the lieutenant forcing me to present myself for molestation again.
Some greater cosmic force must have been belting out one hell of a belly laugh the day that it assigned Cairo Casablancas to serve underneath Lieutenant Kat Staten. Cairo wasn't very good at keeping track of her family history to begin with, and it would have been beyond her to explain the intricacies of the ethnicity, culture, and history of the Basque region to even an open-minded, understanding audience. Those weren't terms you could use on Staten - a mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know lout whose best attributes were a carefree attitude that redefined the word slovenly, a husky voice that was most content to bark ignorant slurs at minorities, and an eye for talent that often leered at Cairo like she was a gorilla in a zoo.
She wasn't all bad or anything, just the opposite; if anything she was too friendly and bombastic, often inviting Cairo to her office - never her private quarters, thank the Lord - under the manipulative pretense of 'paperwork,' only to cackle like a woods witch at Cairo's horrified reaction to her disgusting, cluttered office. What would follow was wasting entire hours of off-time to cleaning up and parental lectures, which Kat Staten responded to by taking a tank top (from where, the devil only knew) and whipping Cairo's ass with it to jubilant cries of "Andale, Flamenco! Migra, migra, Albuquerque!"
At a certain point, fighting it became useless. You just had to go back to your quarters, like Cairo did, and gulp sambuca until your soul went limp and the memories started to fade.
If there was one truly redeeming quality to her, it had to be her hatred of the enemy. If her mockery of Spanish-speaking cultures was carefree, goofy, lecherous fun for the whole family, then the lieutenant's seething disgust for the Principality of Zeon was a rated-R bloodbath that came with an even gorier director's cut shooting for a Christmas release. Hell, she probably would take a bath in the blood of Zeeks if she could. Lather her hair with it, cleanse her pores, rub it into those ungodly American t--
Nnnnnnnno!
No, Cairo!
She huffed grumpily.
"Just please be quiet," she requested of her commanding officer as her G-Fighter lost speed, allowing the Spartan to close the distance where the Gelgoog had formerly stood as a midpoint. "I'm going to need to concentrate on looking for this Musai, and I don't need you giving me a headache. With all due respect. Ma'am."
