While living alone had its perks, Malcom did not like in the least cooking his own food or doing anything domestic. His house, more like a mansion, was rather void of personality, our man mostly living out of his office. He was a prominent lawyer, always busy, always working. He figured it wouldn't hurt to get an assistant, someone to keep his house and go for coffee runs. Seattle was full of broke college kids looking for a relatively easy, high-paying job, and so he had many applicants. He had agreed to meet with you for an interview, and he was rather brisk and stoic. You figured you didn't get the job, the way he acted, but you got an email the next day telling you when to start. So the next weekend, you had moved into one of his many spare bedrooms, and it began.

"I need you to press my blue suit and pick my watch up from the jeweler," he said boredly one morning after you had given him his files and his coffee.

"They'll try to give you the Rolex, but it's the Omega. Don't let the manager cow you, you're a pushover. And tonight I'm staying at the office late. I want you back home by six, you're at the office entirely too much. You frighten my secretary. She says you lurk. And make sure you pick up my dry cleaning. I'm leaving early this morning, but I don't want you in until eight."