---------------------------------------------- "The Adventures of Lone Wolf Scientific" ------------------------------------------ An electronically syndicated series that follows the exploits of two madcap men of technology and the high-tech company they start. Copyright 1991 Michy Peshota. All rights reserved. May not be distributed without accompanying WELCOME.LWS and EPISOD.LWS files. ----------------------- EPISODE #11 Revenge on the Bureacratic Puppet Creature >>Computer genius S-max discovers that the cans of twine that his boss has put him in charge of are not "super-string links between key defense systems," but plain old kite- string.<< by M. Peshota Despite Andrew.BAS's fear of him and his rambunctious officemate being fired for frittering away their days in the most childish ways, the two reluctant defense workers continued to be employed by Dingready & Derringdo Aerospace for many, many weeks. Since their boss would not assign the programmer to a programming project, thanks to the FBI's shocking discovery during their security check on him (his program editor had been authored by an emigre from a foreign country that was overly-friendly to certain cable TV comics), he had nothing to do each day but re-read the sci- fi novels in his briefcase. Since his overbearing officemate, S-max, refused to share with him the office's sole unoccupied desk, he was forced to spend his days sitting under the coat tree. His days limped past like cruelly beaten dreamers. One day, their boss, Gus Farwick, delivered to their office an entire pallet cart heaped with coffee cans full of snarled string. It was the kind of string Dingready & Derringdo attached to pieces of complex weapon systems so that they could be easily assembled on the battlefield with just a few slipknots. Farwick had been delivering more and more tangled string to their office the past few weeks, for S-max to unsnarl and re-roll. Andrew.BAS felt this was a good thing because when the restless computer builder wasn't re-winding the string and sticking to the balls tiny labels that read "Dingready & Derringdo, We're There on the Ground When You Need Us," which was often, as S-max was not a man to be yoked to any single task for more than ten minutes, he stalked the office like a restless delinquent. With his hands shoved in his voluminous army jacket pockets and jingling like a million broken screwdrivers, he'd brag about how <> had been the one chosen to untangle the string and Andrew.BAS had not, and disparaging computer programmers in general. "As you may have noticed, Andrew.BAS," he said one day, idling kicking a can of twine across the floor, "there is a memo tacked to our office door. It reminds all who pass by that I am neither allowed to exit the office nor leave my desk chair except in the case of fire, tornado, earthquake, or when a specially designated escort arrives. The memo is authored by none other than our ever imaginative supervisor and perspicacious bureacratic puppet creature himself, Mr. Farwick. You see, he has quarrantined me to my desk chair because he knows that I am a genius computer builder and he knows what computer geniuses are like. He knows that genius computer builders like myself have too much intellect rushing around inside their forebrains to be running around in public." He pointed in illustration to his broad, thick forehead. "He also knows the genius computer hardware architects like myself do their best work when they are locked in a dank room with nothing but a few alligator clips and a lot of electrical outlets." "That is a fairly accurate description of our office," observed Andrew.BAS. The computer builder grunted. "At the same time, he knows that no harm will come by letting <> roam the halls to your heart's content--" He pointed accusingly to the frail, white-shirted Andrew.BAS. "--because you are just a feckless computer programmer." Andrew.BAS nodded with calm bemusement. "At least I don't have to ask permission to look out our office door." What their third officemate, the catatonic assembly programming savant, Austin Jellowack, thought of the cans of string, or these discussions, or S-max's frequent lambastes of computer programmers, they did not know, for he never said anything. He neither responded to their morning hellos nor even acknowledged their presence. For hours at a time, he either danced his swollen knuckles frenetically over his computer's keys, or gazed off into space with a dangerous vacantness in his eyes and a rivulet of saliva drooling from his lip. At least once a day, Gus Farwick visited their office with a Polaroid camera. He would stride around the office, rapidly clicking pictures of S-max's lopsided terminal with its screen prompt set to the perpetual proclamation OUT TO LUNCH>. He snapped pictures of the blowsy computer builder struggling up to the overhead flourescent lights to retrieve his Robin Hood tights--which he'd draped over the ballast one day so as not to lose them. He snapped more pictures of his "champagne-filled Jacuzzi" with its three-legged bathtub, snarl of lawn sprinklers and jet propellers, and half-drained bottles of bubble bath. He filled tablet after tablet with descriptions of all that he saw. Each day, the computer builder trailed him doggedly like a public relations man, warbling purple adjective commentary like a tabloid TV narrator. "Feast your eyes on the heavenly shower curtain that now wraps our homemade high-tech Jacuzzi!" he'd gush, pointing to the mildewed plastic sheet that clung to the blighted bathtub and the office's cinderblock wall and was profusely patched with electrical tape. "This bathhouse haute comes to us courtesy of Andrew Sebastian, who told me, shortly after I moved into his house with him, that he didn't care whether he ever ate, slept, or bathed again because his life was now nothing but a dusty ruin. Which is why he said I could have the shower curtain to take to work." He'd grunt, momentarily destroying the Robin Leach effect, then continue, "Observe the drapes' dewy, delicious adornment of daffy ducks! Yes, even the ducks are wearing moon helmets!" More pallet carts stacked with string arrived. The computer builder was forced to roll the string faster and faster to keep up. Soon, coffee cans full of string rolled in herds across the office floor. String was wound around all the chair legs, even that of the mute Mr. Jellowack. The more string that the computer builder's clumsy fingers rolled, the more that seemed to tangle onto the floor at his feet in immense, hopeless knots. Finally, he gave up. He spent his days instead with his feet propped on his desk, reading engineering magazines and grunting loudly. One morning, while S-max had gone with a Farwick-picked escort to read the bulletin board down the hall, Andrew.BAS noticed that for the first time in days their normally lifeless officemate was stirring. Austin had picked up from his desk the glue gun that S-max had given him weeks prior to glue pocket mirrors on the model of the <> in the company cafeteria, and which he had refused to part with ever since. He now aimed it squarely at the coat closet. He gritted his teeth with deadly determination. Seeing this as an ideal opportunity for intimate conversation, Andrew.BAS smiled and asked the catatonic programmer, "Have you been coding in assembly language very long?" He realized that was a silly question, as Austin had no doubt been programming in assembly before he even learned to speak, as evidenced by his hollowed eyes, sunken chest, pale skin, and generally worn appearance. Nevertheless, the assembly savant showed no signs of having heard the question. He continued to point the glue gun at the closet door, his eyes wide, his arthritic knuckles twisted tight around the handle. Andrew.BAS bubbled on, "Do you ever cut out and save the 'Hacks Tricks' in <>. I do. I tape them in a scrapbook and reread them whenever I get lonely." Mr. Jellowack still didn't respond. Finally, he ventured, "Do you like to stay up late at night playing pingpong and watching other people's program's compile?" Austin now had the glue gun aimed at him! Andrew.BAS returned to his sci-fi novel and continued reading. A few moments later, he glanced up to see the rumpled savant crouching down in front of him. Austin Jellowack looked into his eyes with a bug-eyed panic. "Do you see him?" he breathed. Andrew.BAS glanced around. The office was empty except for them. "See who?" "<>!" Andrew.BAS looked around again, bewildered. "Am I supposed to?" "You should if you are truly a member of the brethern of computer programmers." Since Andrew.BAS did want to be left out of the brethern of computer programmers he looked over the office more closely. Finally, he was forced to admit, "No, I'm afraid I don't see anyone." Austin nodded knowingly. He bit his thick, chapped lip, then fled across the office with a spidery run and out the door with his glue gun. Since Andrew.BAS knew many programmers who behaved with such utter inexplicability, especially assembly language programmers, he thought nothing of the programmer's odd words and continued reading. S-max reappeared a few minutes later. His escort, holding tight to the computer builder's elbow, despite its violent, indignant jerking, trailed behind him, his shirt ripped and one of his eyes swollen shut like a smashed cabbage. The bossy S-max also appeared more mussed up than usual, but it was hard to tell if he <> been in a fight since his normal appearance was of one who has just emerged from a street brawl. He jerked his elbow side to side and grumbled, "I do not need some Farwickian halfwit telling me which research department bulletin board I cannot read." "If you weren't such a loony tune--" the escort protested. "Loony tune?! I will have you know--" "If you were could be trusted as far as the next water fountain then maybe Mr. Farwick would let you to read whatever bulletin boards you like." "Mr. Farwick is as excited about my vision of the future of technology as any dope would be--" "Mr. Farwick is as <> about your vision of technology as any dope would be!" At that the two men locked in a series of kicks and pummels. Andrew.BAS bolted to his feet, and raced across the room to separate the two. "No, no, Andrew.BAS," the computer builder said, pushing him aside. "This is not something an innocent young programmer like yourself should see. This is an argument that springs from the cold murderous outback of computer hardware engineering, where inhabitants are forced to constantly battle each other for warmth, caves, MOS transistors, and access to research department bulletin boards. We must settle this between ourselves once and for all with fists and schematics. It is the only honorable thing to do. If not, I will just run him down with my van in the parking garage late one night." His sufferer blatted, "If Mr. Farwick trusted you, why does he have you rolling up kite string?" "You fool!" the computer genius gasped. "It's not kite string. It's super-string links between key components of multi-billion dollar weapon systems!" "It's kite string! And it's busywork! It's designed to keep you in your desk and away from people who actually get work done. It's Mr. Farwick's way of keeping you out of mischief." The escort retrieved his broken glasses from the floor. As he stalked out, he grumbled, "Haven't you ever wondered why the only bulletin board you're allowed to read is the one with the pictures of employees' new babies?" The computer builder's black eyes narrowed with frenzy. "Busywork?!" "I'm sure there's a logical explanation for it," Andrew.BAS offered nonchallantly. He sat back down under the coat tree and picked up his space novel. "Busywork?!" "Maybe the person who normally rolls up the kite string is on vacation." S-max paced the office. "This string is just busywork!?" He threw his arms in the air. "How do you know, maybe 'Busywork' is just the code name for it." "This is impossible! Here I am frittering away hours of my high-paid technical genius affixing labels to balls of string that may not be used to tie together costly and complex agents of death on the battlefield, as I had hoped, but might be used to fly kites!" "There you go! See how easy it is to look at things from a positive angle?" S-max started to breath deeply. His frown deepened with rage. "It is one of life's great tragedies, truly it is, Andrew.BAS," he rhetoricized, gazing in stunned hurt at the cans of string heaped on the pallet cart and rolling around the office floor, "that we have in our Mr. Farwick a man who couldn't even successfully wear plastic fangs and host Saturday afternoon horror movies on low-powered UHF stations--" "Oh, I don't know if I would say that," the programmer mused, easily picturing the wax bean head of their boss squeezed behind glowing green fangs. "Here is a man who has been chosen by a major military contractor to bureacratically minister to a basement full of scientists, engineers, and smart people when it's absurdly clear that the dope couldn't even manage a couch full of inflatable dummies, moreless difficult people like us!" He grabbed Andrew.BAS by the collar. "Think it over carefully, Andrew.BAS: Would you want a halfwit like Farwick on your Jeopardy team? Would you trust a ding-dong like this to lead you to the down escalator in a major department store? I suspect not. That's why the only reasonable response to this whole shocking mess is for us to take sweet and dastardly revenge upon the bureacratic puppet creature who mistakenly believes that he can keep a computer genius of my stature out of trouble with nothing but a few cans of tangled up kite string!" The programmer looked at his officemate's angry face in alarm. "I wouldn't be too angry with him. He was only doing what he thought was right." "We must take revenge, Andrew.BAS!" "No!" "Yes! We must have it!" "Why can't we just continue collecting our paychecks and forget about it?" "Revenge, Andrew.BAS!" He shook the helpless programmer by his shoulders. "We will have that middle- management crustacean pulling out his gone-to-seed buzzcut in no time!" "Maybe we can just write him a letter?" "The only memos I write are on corroded circuit cards that will haunt you for the rest of your life with failed I/O readings." "Maybe an electronic message then?" "Revenge! We must have it! We will plot a revenge so dastardly, so hideous, so cunning that, not only will we lose our jobs, but no one will ever hire us again! Anywhere! Ever!" "No! I still have six months' worth of payments left on my motorscooter!" "You should have thought of that before you begged to become my officemate." "But I--" "There's no turning back now. You do not make a computer genius of my stature roll up kite string for nearly fourteen weeks without serious consequences. Revenge is the only answer, Andrew.BAS. If you were older you'd realize that. Nincompoops like Farwick must be taught that they cannot just thoughtlessly hire a great mind and expect to go on living the rest of their life normally, as if nothing happened." With a haughty toss of his head, the computer builder swaggered to his lopsided terminal, sat down in his zebra skin-cloaked chair, and began typing in commands. "Revenge, revenge!" he sang beneath his breath, and the programmer buried his cowlicked head in his hands and moaned, "oh god." <<<