It was just another day like all the others before it. Another day at the desk in the office where nobody ever came, my only companions my bottle of bourbon and my gun.

And then she walked in. Legs a mile long, and a figure that would make a man want to take up accounting. She wore the black of a mourner, and her face was mostly hidden under a dark hat with a veil on it.

“I want to hire you,” she said, as she placed the white and yellow plastic tub on my desk with a thump.

It wasn’t butter. Not by any stretch of the imagination was this collection of hydrogenated vegetable oils fit to inhabit the same dairy case as the agitated extract of cow I like to slap on top of my flapjacks every morning. It was unbelievable.