Minutes of the meeting approved to be rolled out to the public by TonyTheTailor

At the backroom of our Queens social club. A squeaky mic. Papers stacked. I straightened my tie, taps the mic.

Good afternoon, Queens. This is Iconoclastic Inc. calling the meeting to order.

Agenda item one: we’re rolling out the official board. Titles fixed, duties laminated, sanity optional.

If you hear your name, nod once and try not to break anything.
Memo is posted on the door and the hotdog cart. Read it, sign it, and smile for the pigeons.

ICONOCLASTIC INC.

Date: October 7, 1957
To: People of Queens and interested parties
Subject: Board announcement for Iconoclastic Inc. (Queens)


Appointments

 

TonyTheTailor — Archbishop of Queens & Chief Rat Denial Officer

Tony blesses block parties, signs off on neighborhood plans, and hosts public events (not sure if we could consider it public with only 5 attendees max). Official stance: he hates rats. For the record: he does not eat rats, he just likes rats. We are “monitoring the situation.” He also oversees inter-district love affairs. Though, to date, he has only approved one: his own ongoing situation with a certain gentleman from Brooklyn.
 

 

Natasha — Ministry of Defense (period.)

No adjectives, no cutesy nicknames, no committee minutes longer than the barrel of truth. She approves barricades by staring at them until they stand straighter. Once, we tried to add “interim” to her badge; the typewriter retracted the letters on its own and saluted. When Natasha says “secure,” even the air molecules file in alphabetical order. Nothing more to say here, don't fuck with comrade.
 

 

MrKrabs — Undersecretary for Pharmaceutical Revenue Leakage & Unscheduled Hibernation

Tasked with ensuring our pharmacy books stay awake even when he does not. He pioneered a bold cost-savings program called “Set Alarm Clock To ON,” which doubled productivity and halved naps mistaken for audits. Every time he “steps out,” our profits take a little opium nap; hence the new policy: coffee rations paid in advance and pillows checked as contraband.
 

 

Lydia — Comptroller of Charitable Gambling & Footwear Liquidation

Specializes in losing spectacularly so the crew can win philanthropically. She donates 10% of all jackpots and 100% of whichever shoe is closest at the time. Pit bosses call her “The Endowment.” If generosity were a slot machine, she’d pull the lever until it filed for non-profit status, then tip the croupier with a sock and a smile.

 

@Yak9 — Director of One Word Wagers & Quiet Profit

Communicates exclusively in nods, raises, and the kind of silence that makes dice behave. Places one bet, disappears, returns with a ledger that smells like victory and cigar boxes. Departmental motto: “Hmph.” Annual report: also “Hmph,” but embossed. If he ever speaks two full words, buy the building...we just owned the block.

 

Milk — Commissioner of Public Safety, Roadworks & Unexpected Greenery

Author of the Traffic Reform Act of ’57: “Stop. Go. Maybe do not hotbox the Hudson.” After certain extracurricular motoring adventures and a documented dispute with law enforcement (resolved with… finality. RIP), he now designs crosswalks you can see, speed limits you can read, and sobriety checkpoints that grade on a curve. Streets are safer, cars are calmer, and police choose to patrol… elsewhere, respectfully and briskly.

 

Peter — Commissioner of Food & Health Safety (Primarily Hotdogs, Secondarily Hotdogs)

Ensures every frankfurter is handled like a witness under protection before it testifies in your bun. Implements the sacred “Three-Glove Protocol”: one glove for the dog, one for the bun, one is purely up to your imagination. His inspection stamp reads “Fit For Human Joy.” If a hotdog leaves Peter’s cart and you are not smiling, you owe the cart an apology.

 

Julietta-Megani — Deputy Superintendent of the We Love our Boss Commission & Promotion Petition Logistics

Arrives early to practice being early, files forms before they exist, and color-codes the color-coding. Her mother was lost to in Philly, so Julietta honors her by surviving every org chart we throw at her and requesting three performance reviews for dessert. We once invented a role to test her; she onboarded herself, trained the trainer, and asked if the punchline qualified for tuition reimbursement.

 

ImNobody — Associate Vice Chair of Greetings & Immediate Departures

Appears like a pleasant draft, says “Hi,” and vanishes with the efficiency of a tax refund in August. His KPI is “Hello Density Per Minute.” When crises strike, he materializes long enough to type “yo,” thereby proving witness presence before dissolving back into myth. Morale rises 2% every time his name turns green.

 

Havana_James — Night Janitor & Temporal Custodian of the Empty Office

Operates exclusively between 2:00–5:00 a.m., when even ghosts punch out. He sweeps ledger crumbs, buffs the existential dread, and files reports into the void, which has made him Employee of the Month twelve times in a row in a timezone we cannot legally acknowledge. If you need something done yesterday, James did it tomorrow.

 

FatTony — Secretary of Affairs, Public Relations & Sanctioned Shenanigans

Official voice of the crew, unofficial emcee of the circus. Spins headline disasters into “community engagement opportunities,” then runs the Hazing & HR Welcome Wagon: “Sign these forms, eat this cannoli, now please survive the confetti gauntlet.” Legal insists he stick to the script; I insists the script stick to him. 


 

Implementation Timeline

• Immediately: Titles hand-embossed using the office iron (do not lick).

• By Friday: Submit conflict-of-interest forms and preferred cannoli fillings.

• Month’s End: Natasha inspects the fence; the fence requests a union rep.

• Perpetual: Yak9 nods once for “approved,” twice for “approved louder.”

 

Signed beneath the benevolent gaze of questionable swans,

TonyTheTailor, Archbishop of Queens & CRRD
FatTony, Secretary of Affairs, PR & Shenanigans

(Notarized by a stamp we definitely own)

Simon was not at the nerdfest happening in Queens. He had no interest in the most robust pocket protector competition or protractor swap shops that were a staple of the New York nightlife. What had caught his attention though, was a rumoured heretical collusion with swans, just one of a number of crimes against humanity that TonyTheTailor regularly oversaw. This could not be tolerated and he had resolved to meet his inside man to discuss the matter further.

"So, Matt. What have you got for me?" He asked, disinterested.

Matt slowly melted out of the shadows and extended a withered hand, quivering as he passed a piece of paper to Simon. "This, Big Si," the old man croaked before breaking into a coughing fit.

Simon looked at the paper. It appeared to be minutes to some dumb New York thing. Simon hated reading. And New York. And Matt. All in all this was proving to be a terrible trip. "Listen you old bastard, if I wanted to read, I'd take a break from honing my 101 physique and brush up on the latest of Eala's love letters about the Mr Olympia competition." He sighed. Big Sighed. "Just tell me what I need to know so I can get out of this shithole."

Matt, eventually managing to stop the coughs nearly breaking his skeletal frame waved a liver-spotted wrist towards the bottom of the document. He looked like he was trying to speak but quickly descended into another bout of spluttering. Simon looked towards where Matt had briefly pointed, frowning.

"What am I.....beneath the benevolent gaze of questionable swans...." Big Si trailed off. So, it was true. Toilet-spawn Tony was taking orders from poultry. It was so undeniably stupid that it immediately rang true. Why else have FatTony as a mouthpiece? "Well done, Matt. You've outdone yourself." He flicked a coin in the pensioner's direction. "Have a Werther's Original on me," and he took his leave to mull over the implications to a swan hunter of a swan infestation within the upper echelons of the underworld albeit in Nerd York.    

From: FatTony, Secretary of Affairs & PR, Iconoclastic Inc. (Queens)
To: “Big”  SimonTheSwanHunter, DT’s Self-Appointed Bird Cop
CC: The Borough of Queens, Three Suspicious Pigeons, and Whatever’s Left of Your Dignity
Date: Right Now
Subject: Cease-and-DeSwan: Official Response to DT’s Feathery Fan Fiction

Simon, buddy,

Appreciate the travelogue about your “terrible trip” to New York. Next time, skip the tourism and ship us your complaints in a box marked “Fragile Ego.”

Let’s go line by line before your 101 “physique” class

“Benevolent gaze of questionable swans.”

Adorable. Meanwhile your family crest is a mallard in a hairnet. You brag about hunting swans the way a toddler brags about beating a pillow. If poultry gives orders in Queens, it is because they formed a union, negotiated better benefits, and still got more done than your whole DT committee of squeaky pillowbiters. 

“Why FatTony as a mouthpiece?”
Because Queens likes results. Your mouthpiece is a mouth-breather who signs his threats with butterscotch. When I talk, headlines happen. When you talk, inhalers happen.

“Big Si.”
Anyone who needs “Big” in front of their name is auditioning for a size they cannot afford. If the nickname matched the equipment, we would call you “Adequately-Sized Simon.” But here we are, overselling the sizzle, underdelivering the sausage.

"Nerdfest in Queens."

Hmmm This from a man captaining a crew called SwanFree Swansong and publishing a vanity newsletter titled Hunter’s Digest. Simon, buddy, your brand reads like a poetry slam at a duck pond. Your biggest scoop lands in Hunter’s Digest, the only paper where every headline is ‘Bird Bad, Me Sad.’ You call us nerds while footnoting swan emotions in your paper more commonly used for wiping in NY

Your exit line: “shithole.”
Every time you say that word, a Detroit pothole gets its wings and flies to New York for a better life. We adopted three of them and named them after your last three excuses.

“You hate reading.”
We can tell. The longest thing you have read this year is a stop sign and you still argued with it. You call it Nerd York while your DT bird brain files reports in crayon and birdseed. New York has been returning your hate mail since your eyes tapped out on sentence two.

So let NY help you read. We've translated it easier for you, my friend;

Official Queens Response — Plain English (Bird-Brain Edition, just for you, Si)

• Swans = Not Our Bosses. If they were, you’d be breadcrumbs.

• Hotdogs = Our Orders. Buy one. Season with your tears.

• Your “inside man” = Needs Soup. Not meetings. Not coins. Soup.

• “Big Si”  = Queens you’re Si, Seat Filler please warm the chair and shush.

 

Action Items (Large Print, For Si’s Reading Journey)

1. Return to DT. Ask someone to point you in the direction of “Home” using pictures.

2. Practice reading beyond the headline. Start with a menu. Work up to page two.

3. Bring a real case. Not a cough, not a caramel wrapper, not Hunter’s Digest. Evidence. With nouns.

4. If you must hunt something, start with a clue. Sound it out: “cl–oo.”

FatTony
Secretary of Affairs & PR, Iconoclastic Inc.
May or may not have been approved

FatTony, your obvious attempts at copying Kuku are just that: obvious.  You could accept your dressing down with the good grace with which it was intended, or you could use substandard jargon to deal with optimal points delivered with precision and wit

What's that, twigs, a message for me? You know I don't enjoy reading. Does it seem important? No? I see. Hang on, is it full of terribly tame one-liners, sensitive feelings and a lack of understanding of how the Streets work? Ah, FatTony's work then. No, no, I don't need to read it. You can just put it straight in the bin.  

*milk hears his name being yelled in the streets and comes out to take a look and see what the commotion is all about*

"Oh" he thinks to himself.  I am being awarded a commissioner title.  

of public safety, roadworks, and greenery....

"Dammit FatTony" he thinks to himself.....

"... greenery.  that has some promise"