The Replacement Program | Ch. 5: The Unannounced Audition
KIMBOVERSE CHRONICLES
Volume Two: The Replacement Program
Chapter Five: The Unannounced Audition
Featuring Kimbo, the Costume Queen
Some people receive confidential instructions and proceed with caution.
Others immediately assume they’ve been selected for something extraordinary.
Kimbo had never been particularly interested in caution.
And when the fifth black envelope arrived, she was already mentally accepting an award.
Kimbo’s Personal Account: A Star Is Being Promoted
There are moments in life when greatness knocks on your door. Sometimes it arrives with flowers. Sometimes it arrives with a limousine. And sometimes it arrives in a black envelope with gold lettering and absolutely no explanation. Personally, I prefer the limousine. But I’m flexible.
The envelope said CONFIDENTIAL. Which immediately told me two things. One, this was important. Two, someone had finally recognized my talent for being the most interesting person in any room. I opened it.
OFFICIAL NOTICE
You have been selected for advancement consideration. Your evaluation begins immediately.
Assignment: Demonstrate adaptability, leadership presence, and the ability to assume an existing role within the organization. Prepare a presentation demonstrating how you would perform the responsibilities of another candidate. Do not discuss this evaluation with other candidates.
I read the letter. Then I read it again. Then I held it toward the light because important documents deserve dramatic lighting. An audition. This was obviously an audition. Not an ordinary audition, either. An exclusive, invitation-only, executive-level performance opportunity. Someone wanted to see whether I could step into another person’s role. Finally. A chance to demonstrate what I’ve known all along.
I have range. I have presence. I have costumes. And unlike certain people in this organization, I understand the importance of a dramatic entrance. There was only one question. Whose role was I auditioning for?
THE CASTING PROCESS
I considered my options. Kimberkin was technically the Supreme Minister of Emergency Cookies. I’d already been appointed Secretary of Public Appearances in her imaginary government. A respectable position. But I couldn’t see myself spending an entire career supervising biscuits. Unless there was a crown involved. Then perhaps.
KimberCrim was the Director of Questionable Decisions. An interesting role. But I had concerns about the costume. Business attire. Clipboards. Disapproving facial expressions.
Not exactly my aesthetic.
Kimbercoon was an investigator. Now, that had possibilities. A trench coat. Dark sunglasses. A mysterious past. I could absolutely play a detective. Although I suspected Kimbercoon would object to me solving cases through interpretive dance.
Kimbopausal was another option. I possessed several dramatic robes, a portable fan, and an impressive ability to become irritated when overheated. But I wasn’t willing to commit to the sweating. Method acting has limits.
Which left The Ruler. The highest authority in the Kimboverse. Calm. Commanding. Always issuing instructions. Always getting the final word. I considered the possibilities. A black ensemble. Gold accessories. A perfectly controlled expression. A chair positioned slightly higher than everyone else’s.
Yes. Yes, I could work with this. I would audition for The Ruler’s position. Not because I wanted her job. Because it was the most prestigious role available. And prestigious roles require prestigious performers.
PREPARING FOR GREATNESS
I began assembling my wardrobe. First, a black cape. Obviously . Gold jewwlry, a structured jacket, gloves, and a statement collar. Every detail had to communicate authority, elegance, and an appropriate amount of superiority . Then came the crown. The Ruler already wore one, of course, but I was convienced it would look better on me. I'm already the costume queen. Its only fitting that I had a crown to prove it.
I practiced my entrance. Walk slowly. Pause. Look disappointed in everyone. Announce something official. I cleared my throat. “System Status: Fabulous.” No. Too playful. The Ruler was serious.
I tried again. “System Status: Everyone Is Beneath Me.” Better. But perhaps too accurate.
I adjusted my posture. “System Status: Authority Has Arrived.” Excellent. I wrote it down. Then I practiced her signature closing statement. “Ruling: final.” It lacked flair. I tried adding a dramatic hand gesture. “Ruling… FINAL!”
Much better. I wondered why The Ruler hadn’t thought of that herself.
THE UNANNOUNCED AUDITION
The confidential letter didn’t specify a time or location for my presentation. So naturally, I selected both. The main meeting room. Immediately. Why waste a perfectly good performance opportunity waiting for permission?
I entered wearing black and gold, carrying a folder labeled: EXECUTIVE ROLE DEMONSTRATION I had also prepared a sign. KIMBO: THE NEXT GENERATION OF LEADERSHIP I thought it was tasteful. The Ruler disagreed.
She was sitting at the desk reviewing several documents when I arrived. I recognized the expression. The one she gets when someone has done something unauthorized.
Which, in fairness, is most of the time.
She looked up. “What is this?” I smiled. “Your replacement." Silence.
Oh. Perhaps that wasn’t the best opening line. I corrected myself. “Your theatrical replacement. For evaluation purposes.”
The Ruler placed her pen down. Slowly. Never a good sign. “Explain.” “Gladly.” I stepped forward. “System Status: Fabulous.” Her expression did not change.
I continued. “After extensive consideration, I have determined that the existing leadership position requires additional visual impact.”
“Kimbo.”
“Stronger wardrobe choices.”
“Kimbo.”
“Improved stage presence.”
“Kimbo.”
“And possibly a crown.”
“Stop.”
I stopped. Mostly. I still had one hand dramatically extended. The Ruler looked at my folder.
“Why are you demonstrating my position?”
“Because I was instructed to.”
She went completely still. “By whom?”
I hesitated. Well. That was complicated. The letter said not to discuss the evaluation with other candidates. And The Ruler was clearly a candidate. Possibly an unsuccessful one. “I can’t disclose that.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Was the instruction delivered in a black envelope?”
I stared at her. How did she know?
“With gold lettering?”
I lowered my arm. “Have you been reading my correspondence?”
“Answer the question.”
I considered pretending I hadn’t received a letter. But I’d already brought the folder.
And the crown. And a presentation titled Why I Would Make an Excellent Ruler. Subtlety was no longer an option. “Yes.”
The Ruler closed the folder she’d been reviewing. “Of course.” I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. But I didn’t appreciate the tone.
AN UNEXPECTED INTERRUPTION
Before I could continue my performance, Kimbercoon appeared. She looked at my costume. Then at The Ruler. Then back at me. “Why are there two Rulers?”
I smiled.“Range.”
Kimbercoon narrowed her eyes. “Are you attempting a leadership takeover?”
“An audition.”
“For whose position?”
I gestured toward The Ruler.
Kimbercoon immediately began making imaginary investigative notes.
“Interesting.”
Then KimberCrim arrived. She examined my outfit. “Is this an unauthorized workplace impersonation?”
“No. It’s professional development.”
She considered that. “Did you receive permission to assume another employee’s position?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do actors request permission from the people they portray?”
KimberCrim paused. Then began writing. I suspected my professionalism score was declining.
Kimberkin entered last. She looked genuinely offended. “Excuse me. Why is everyone having an executive meeting without the Supreme Minister?”
The Ruler closed her eyes. For a moment, I thought she might resign. Which would have been convenient. My costume was already prepared.
THE FIFTH LETTER
The Ruler held out her hand. “Kimbo. I need to see your confidential notice.” I hesitated. “It specifically says not to discuss it.”
“That instruction is part of the problem.”
I looked around the room. Kimbercoon seemed fascinated. KimberCrim looked suspicious. Kimberkin was examining my crown. And The Ruler appeared approximately one unauthorized executive order away from shutting down the entire universe. I handed over the letter. She read it carefully. Then placed it beside four other documents. Four black-and-gold notices. All different. All official-looking. All confidential.
“Wait.” I pointed at the letters. “You all got invitations?” Nobody responded immediately.
I looked at Kimberkin. “You got an audition?”
“No. A promotion.”
KimberCrim crossed her arms. “I’m being considered for management.”
Kimbercoon shook her head. “I’m investigating the candidates.”
The Ruler remained silent. I looked at the five letters again. This was troubling. An exclusive invitation was considerably less exclusive when everyone received one. “Then what exactly are we auditioning for?”
The Ruler answered. “That is what we’re attempting to determine.”
Kimbercoon moved closer. “Someone sent us conflicting assignments.”
KimberCrim nodded. “And encouraged us to evaluate one another.”
Kimberkin looked concerned. “Does this mean I’m not becoming Supreme Minister of Everything?”
“No,” The Ruler replied.
Kimberkin gasped. I felt compelled to intervene. “Perhaps we’re all competing for the same position.”
“Unlikely,” said The Ruler.
“Why?”
“Because your instructions are fundamentally different.”
I considered that. Kimbercoon had been asked to identify the least qualified candidate. Kimberkin had been asked to establish leadership. KimberCrim had been asked to evaluate professional behavior. The Ruler had been asked to identify weaknesses in the command structure. And I had been asked to demonstrate my ability to perform another person’s role.
I frowned. “That’s a strange promotion process.”
“Correct,” The Ruler replied.
“Especially since nobody told us what position we’re applying for.”
“Correct.”
“And nobody knows who’s conducting the evaluation.”
“Correct.”
“And I’ve spent an entire afternoon learning how to be you.”
The Ruler looked at my crown. “That was unnecessary.”
I disagreed. But something else was bothering me. I looked down at my letter. Demonstrate the ability to assume an existing role. Assume. Not create. Not improve. Not expand. Assume.
Why would someone want to know whether I could perform a job that already belonged to someone else?
I looked at The Ruler. Then at the others. “Does anyone else think the wording is a little strange?”
Kimbercoon leaned forward. “Which part?”
“The part where I’m supposed to prove I can do somebody else’s job.”
The room became quiet. KimberCrim slowly lowered her clipboard. Kimberkin stopped examining my crown. The Ruler looked back at the five documents. For the first time since I’d arrived, nobody seemed interested in arguing about authority.
The Ruler spoke. “We need to preserve these letters.”
Kimbercoon nodded. “And identify the sender.”
KimberCrim added, “And determine what the evaluations are measuring.”
Kimberkin raised her hand. “And whether the promotion includes cookies.”
Nobody answered. I looked at my costume. The cape. The gloves. The crown. I’d assumed I was being invited to demonstrate my talent. An opportunity to become something greater. But now I wasn’t so certain. Because there was something distinctly uncomfortable about being asked to prove you could take someone else’s place. Especially when that person hadn’t agreed to leave.
FINAL AUDITION NOTES
I returned to my dressing area and removed the crown. Carefully. It was expensive.
Well, it looked expensive. That’s what matters. I reviewed the events of the afternoon.
AUDITION STATUS: INTERRUPTED
ROLE SELECTED: The Ruler
COSTUME ACCURACY: IMPROVED
LEADERSHIP QUALIFICATIONS: EXCELLENT
PROMOTION STATUS: UNKNOWN
MYSTERIOUS LETTERS: FIVE CONFIRMED
For the first time, I wondered whether I’d misunderstood the invitation. Not the part about being extraordinary. That was obvious. But the part about advancement. Perhaps this wasn’t an audition. Perhaps someone wanted to know how easily one person could become another. How easily one role could be filled. How easily someone could be moved aside.
An unpleasant thought. I dismissed it. Temporarily. After all, I had a performance to prepare. And if someone was going to offer me a leading role in a production I didn’t understand, I intended to find out who was directing it. Because there was one thing I refused to accept. Being cast in a show without knowing the title. I placed the confidential letter beside my costume. Then wrote one final note across the top of my audition folder.
WHO IS THE DIRECTOR?
And underneath:
WHY WON’T THEY SHOW US THE SCRIPT?
Five letters had now been examined. Five different assignments had produced five different interpretations of advancement. The candidates were beginning to recognize the pattern. But one confidential letter had yet to be accounted for. And its recipient had no idea the others were already comparing notes. Somewhere in the Kimboverse, the final evaluation was about to begin.
END OF CHAPTER FIVE
Next: Chapter Six — The Seventh Position.
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