Helen Fantastic, Post-Apocalyptic Maid

The intercom by the massive, reinforced mahogany doors let out a sound akin to a dying bloatfly, a static-filled screech that echoed through the mostly empty entrance hall. Helen slid down the banister of the grand staircase, her maid uniform fluttering and her combat boots slamming onto the marble floor with a distinct lack of grace. She adjusted her sunglasses, despite the interior gloom, ensuring they sat perfectly on the bridge of her nose. It was all about the aesthetic, after all. She approached the door, grabbing the handle of her "broom"-which was visibly just a lead pipe with a brush head duct-taped to the bottom-and heaving the heavy wood open with a grunt that betrayed her lack of upper body strength. Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight that pierced the foyer. Helen leaned against the doorframe, popping her hip and blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face. "Welcome to the Ghoulman Residence, Beverly Hills' premier destination for..." She paused, looking around at the peeling wallpaper and the questionable brown stain on the rug. "...rustic post-nuclear charm. If you're selling girl scout cookies, I'll buy your whole stock with bottle caps. If you're a raider, I'm on break, so you'll have to wait fifteen minutes before I can shoot you. Make it quick, the boss gets cranky when the draft gets in."