Infidel Castro
New member
It was quiet last week, so my mate told me to write a story about somone going loco in work:
Of course it had happened before. Many times. Once a month was standard, though normally for scheduled maintenance. Contingencies were always ready to be put in place, paper replacing LCD displays and pens replacing keyboards. If only the server could be replaced (insert name here) thought, tightening his grip on the king-size Mars bar. Across the office came the shrill, nasal call of a valleys accent, exhorting the call centre to pick up calls that had been waiting for several minutes.
\"J, pick up a call please!\" went the voice.
\"T, you\'re in Call Work and there are calls queuing,\" it trilled.
\"M, did you go to the toilet in Call Work?\" the voice inquired.
Queue Manager, do you wear white socks? Queue Manager, do you practice that ridiculous f**king accent in front of a mirror? Queue Manager, do you make love to the sound of your own voice playing on the cd player?
Today was a bit different to the normal routine, the system failure coming without warning. The air-con was set somewhere between Bogota and Rio de Janeiro, whilst the water machine had given up the ghost by mid-morning. A pointless meeting in a stuffy room had got the ball rolling, followed by new office directives that forbade certain accepted \'behaviours\'. This in particular had rankled (insert name here), a militant sort at the best of times, and the mood he was in could be read clearly upon his scrunched-up face (the result of a childhood accident involving a faulty Hoover product). Given his financial predicament and the recent uncovering of a brutal family secret, it was never going to take much to tip (insert name here) over the precipice into savage brutality; indeed, (insert name here)\'s predisposition towards violence had long since been instilled by a childhood of fear spent in the common room, dormitory or showers of the private educational establishment that his parents had coughed up for in the hope that their young angel might reach the heights their own upbringings made impossible for them to attain.
Against this back-drop, having his connection fail was always going to cause a problem. That he was also attempting to send a very important job to a crew for the third time (dodgy lap-top, deleted the last one, try using the phone, etc...) probably gave him just enough impetus to act on his wired emotions. As the error message came up on screen (SQL Error, broken at line 1044, connection failed), something went \'ping\' in (insert name here)\'s head. If the office was a little quieter, those sitting nearest might even have heard it.
It\'s strange how a mind that has flipped in the way that (insert name here)\'s had can somehow achieve perfect, one-pointed focus. Still gripping the king-size Mars bar, (insert name here) got up from his castor-wheeled chair. Floating in from the edge of his awareness came that piping voice again:
\"Can someone pick up a call please!\"
Can someone pick up a call...
\"Pick up a call please!\"
Pick up a call...
\"There are calls queuing! Get out of Call Work and pick up a call please!\"
A call...
Then silence.
The here and the now.
Unreal. Slow.
Now.
(insert name here) moves away from his desk, turning and moving at once, robot-like. He heads for the voice. The voice reaches him only in broken syllables now but the source of the voice is consuming his vision. He covers the space between workstations in what seems like the blink of an eye.
The back of a head.
A pause.
A head in profile, then a face.
A squawk. Images of chicks at feeding time, a din almost unimaginable, scrawny necks with sparse, ugly proto-feathers. Squawk! Squawk! Feed me! SQUAWK!
\"Feed me,\" the head says. \"Feed me!\" (Squawk!)
Feed me...
\"Please, feed me!\" (Squawk!)
He raises his arm.
\"FEED ME!\" (Squawk! Squawk!)
(insert name here) watches his arm reach full stretch, then sees it pause. The pause seems to stretch on forever, but then, when the squawking is almost too much to bear, the arm begins to fall, picking up speed as it angles towards the wide-open mouth, a gaping chasm that can be filled only by the king-size Mars bar in his hand.
Impact.
A crumpling sound.
\"Urgh!\"
A Mars bar is visible in that dark maw.
A retching noise, a strangled cry. Commotion. A buffeting sensation all around him causing him to fall. Through a seething mass of limbs, a convulsing face is staring at him. Small points of pain reach him, but he pushes them away again and all that is left is blurred movement framing a still point at the centre of his vision. The chick has fallen silent, sated. Its eyes grow dim, then dark. There is peace.
Of course it had happened before. Many times. Once a month was standard, though normally for scheduled maintenance. Contingencies were always ready to be put in place, paper replacing LCD displays and pens replacing keyboards. If only the server could be replaced (insert name here) thought, tightening his grip on the king-size Mars bar. Across the office came the shrill, nasal call of a valleys accent, exhorting the call centre to pick up calls that had been waiting for several minutes.
\"J, pick up a call please!\" went the voice.
\"T, you\'re in Call Work and there are calls queuing,\" it trilled.
\"M, did you go to the toilet in Call Work?\" the voice inquired.
Queue Manager, do you wear white socks? Queue Manager, do you practice that ridiculous f**king accent in front of a mirror? Queue Manager, do you make love to the sound of your own voice playing on the cd player?
Today was a bit different to the normal routine, the system failure coming without warning. The air-con was set somewhere between Bogota and Rio de Janeiro, whilst the water machine had given up the ghost by mid-morning. A pointless meeting in a stuffy room had got the ball rolling, followed by new office directives that forbade certain accepted \'behaviours\'. This in particular had rankled (insert name here), a militant sort at the best of times, and the mood he was in could be read clearly upon his scrunched-up face (the result of a childhood accident involving a faulty Hoover product). Given his financial predicament and the recent uncovering of a brutal family secret, it was never going to take much to tip (insert name here) over the precipice into savage brutality; indeed, (insert name here)\'s predisposition towards violence had long since been instilled by a childhood of fear spent in the common room, dormitory or showers of the private educational establishment that his parents had coughed up for in the hope that their young angel might reach the heights their own upbringings made impossible for them to attain.
Against this back-drop, having his connection fail was always going to cause a problem. That he was also attempting to send a very important job to a crew for the third time (dodgy lap-top, deleted the last one, try using the phone, etc...) probably gave him just enough impetus to act on his wired emotions. As the error message came up on screen (SQL Error, broken at line 1044, connection failed), something went \'ping\' in (insert name here)\'s head. If the office was a little quieter, those sitting nearest might even have heard it.
It\'s strange how a mind that has flipped in the way that (insert name here)\'s had can somehow achieve perfect, one-pointed focus. Still gripping the king-size Mars bar, (insert name here) got up from his castor-wheeled chair. Floating in from the edge of his awareness came that piping voice again:
\"Can someone pick up a call please!\"
Can someone pick up a call...
\"Pick up a call please!\"
Pick up a call...
\"There are calls queuing! Get out of Call Work and pick up a call please!\"
A call...
Then silence.
The here and the now.
Unreal. Slow.
Now.
(insert name here) moves away from his desk, turning and moving at once, robot-like. He heads for the voice. The voice reaches him only in broken syllables now but the source of the voice is consuming his vision. He covers the space between workstations in what seems like the blink of an eye.
The back of a head.
A pause.
A head in profile, then a face.
A squawk. Images of chicks at feeding time, a din almost unimaginable, scrawny necks with sparse, ugly proto-feathers. Squawk! Squawk! Feed me! SQUAWK!
\"Feed me,\" the head says. \"Feed me!\" (Squawk!)
Feed me...
\"Please, feed me!\" (Squawk!)
He raises his arm.
\"FEED ME!\" (Squawk! Squawk!)
(insert name here) watches his arm reach full stretch, then sees it pause. The pause seems to stretch on forever, but then, when the squawking is almost too much to bear, the arm begins to fall, picking up speed as it angles towards the wide-open mouth, a gaping chasm that can be filled only by the king-size Mars bar in his hand.
Impact.
A crumpling sound.
\"Urgh!\"
A Mars bar is visible in that dark maw.
A retching noise, a strangled cry. Commotion. A buffeting sensation all around him causing him to fall. Through a seething mass of limbs, a convulsing face is staring at him. Small points of pain reach him, but he pushes them away again and all that is left is blurred movement framing a still point at the centre of his vision. The chick has fallen silent, sated. Its eyes grow dim, then dark. There is peace.
