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For my birthday a few months ago, my boyfriend Simon bought me a pair of these Cat Ear Headphones. Not only do they feature the pointy cat ears, but they also light up and can be used as speakers in order to share one’s music; or in my case inflict it on others. They are incredibly novel and also incredibly expensive. So it was incredibly harrumphing that they do not work as expected straight out of the box.
I mean, they work just fine as headphones so I’m not exactly crying false advertisement. And I suppose technically they could be used for gaming, if that game were on a cellphone or possibly the Nintendo DS. Because the headset uses a 4-pin jack, which combines the headphones and the mic into a single cable, you can’t use it with most PC’s which have separate jacks for audio and mic. I am to understand that the current generation of gaming consoles are compatible with the 4-pin jack, but it leaves us last-gen plebians with our dicks hangin’ out.
Nonetheless, it is possible to make these headphones interface with both the PC and the PlayStation 3. It requires more equipment, sure, but for some it is a worthwhile endeavor.
“Man, used to be, if a driver didn’ show up to a Syndicate job,” Dixie said, “they’d track his ass down’n break his legs for us.”
“Seriously,” Cleo agreed. “What are we even paying them for anymore? We shouldn’t have to pull this fucking 1930’s shit.”
The job was technically successful, but it had been a logistical disaster. The driver assigned to their crew had never shown. They had tried to hold out, and their lookout had been shot and killed in the street. Once the two of them realized they were on their own, they’d had to improvise. They fought their way to the parking lot of the bank, a pitiful two bags of cash between them. Dixie held off the cops while Cleo hot-wired a car, and they made a sloppy escape. Not being getaway drivers themselves, and therefore not having a git prepared, it was a miracle they managed to lose the cops. They’d made a lot of handbrake U-turns and finally stashed themselves in an alleyway while the cops flew by.
“We need to get out of this car. It’s hot as hell now,” Cleo said, getting out. She peeled her nitrile gloves off and stuffed them on her pants pocket. She then began peeling her Syndicate-required domino mask off, the eyelash glue holding it on tugging at her skin and leaving little rubber cement-like blobs in the mask’s wake. Dixie yanked the bags of cash out of the backseat, tossed them out, and then followed her example.
“Lose the jackets too,” Cleo said, shrugging out of hers. “The less Syndicate we look, the better.”
Dixie pulled her jacket off begrudgingly.
“They make us pay for these,” she complained, holding it out to Cleo’s outstretched hand.
“Tough shit,” Cleo said, tossing them both back in the car. She then started rolling up her sleeves and loosening her tie. Dixie chose instead to undo her ponytail, lose the tie altogether, and untuck her shirt, tying the tails into a crop top. Syndicate operatives were required to wear a very strict and tidy uniform, so the more disheveled they looked, the less suspicious they would be if they were spotted.
Cleo gave Dixie a once over, snorted at the slapdash shirt re-imagining, but ultimately accepted the change in appearance. They both collected their duffel bags and sneaked several alleys away from the ditched car before stopping to decide how to proceed.
“What’re we gonna do now?” Dixie asked, setting her bag down and sitting on it. “I mean, we can call the Syndicate and tell them to send someone, but we wouldn’t be here in the first place if they could arrange a fuckin’ ride worth a damn.”