Monday: 12.59pm
Well... Let’s do it for another 10 minutes, then lunch.
Thinking far more of lunch than of the filing you're actually doing, you throw yourself into your work with aplomb. Imagining the great juicy 16oz steak served up by chef Marcel for the GenCorp employees in the basement
Trois Etoiles de Halford restaurant, you file faster and more efficiently than you can remember doing for years.
Oh good lord. Have you been doing this for years? What the hell went wrong Daniel? What happened to the bright-eyed young man of 22 who was easy going and could make all the office ladies smile? How did you get banished to working in a semi-lit cupboard with no windows and stuffy, dusty, scotch egg air? Maybe it's you that smells like a scotch egg? No really, what did you have for breakf - arrrrrrg! Lost in your depressive reverie [1], you clumsily papercut yourself bad! You're cut nearly right to the bone! The pain! The visible flesh! The blood flows in a scarlet torrent, ruining the stack of papers you clasped so tightly to your chest but a minute ago.
You feel weak.
You search about for something to staunch the flow of blood, but you're in an archive cupboard full of filing and filing cabinets. There's nothing. You rip off your shirt sleeve and try to tie it crudely around your finger, but you just can't seem to be able to tie it one handed. You feel so light headed. You never could stand the sight of your own blood, not since Jenny the dog...
You need to sit.
If only you'd gone for lunch while you could, perhaps you would have had the strength to resist this cruel blow. Perhaps you would have had the strength to pull yourself along the floor in your trail of blood; to raise yourself up to the door handle; to open the door and cry for help.
You need first aid!
Morale Boost! Nearly lunch!
Morale Drop! Tedious filing!
Morale Drop! Depressing introspection!
Morale Drop! Terrible bleeding!
Fail! Lost consciousness on the job!
Task Assigned! File all that data!
Failure Rating: 13.
Morale: -11
WARNING: Your morale level indicates that you are close to depression. This will affect your ability to work. Kathryn can't stop laughing at the pantless terrorist. She wished she had an Iphone to record it-oh look! She plucks a hot pink Iphone from a nearby skeleton. Score! She backs out of the mob before they do something really crazy...
But she also has WORK to do! Kathryn heads back to her own building-she's got to con someone into borrowing their work station so she can finish the damn teleconference, one she has access to.
She'll have to work right through lunch!
Bent over double with near hysteria in the violent minded crowd, suddenly you feel inspired to film the pantless terrorist who must have been behind the arson of your office earlier this morning. You notice a skeleton on the floor; what was this morning a faithful and hardworking GenCorp employee but now reduced to dust and bones by the awful passage of time and looting. The skeleton is holding a custom painted hot pink iPhone. With a wave of liberating exhilaration, you join the criminal band around you: you steal the iPhone from the dead man's still clutching hand!
It doesn't work [2].
Stunned back to the calmness of reality by this awful shock you decide you really should snap out of this before you slip further into a life of delinquency. You rush back inside before things get ugly, throwing the iPhone to the floor in disgust; whether disgust at the iPhone or at yourself it is hard to tell. You decide to sweet talk someone into letting you use their workstation whilst they go on lunch, but you find the entire floor deserted.
You sit down at the first clean looking desk and try to log in [2].
Apparently you do not have access rights on this computer. You try the next one along. Same message. You try one on the other side of the room. This time a different error message comes up.
You do not have access rights in this department. Please contact your supervisor or email IT Password Support.Morale Drop! Decreasing mass hysteria!
Morale Drop! Decreasing mass patriotism!
Morale Drop! Frustrating IT!
Fail! Should have got started typing by now!
Success! Did not loot GenCorp!
Fail! Did loot your fallen comrade!
Fail! Did not beat your underproductive and rebellious colleague!
Task Assigned! Minute a teleconference recording!
Task Assigned! Sign up for some fire training!
Failure Rating: 21.
Morale: 7.
Sato blinked. "Right, hold on." Cleaning up the room was a job for a different janitor! For now he would do the responsible thing and call 911, then wait outside to lead the paramedics to the patient. He wasn't about to take a chance on them getting lost in the labyrinthine building and letting the boss killed on his watch. >.>
Realising you have priorities in your professional life, you come to the conclusion that saving the boss's life would probably be a good away of avoiding the shame of ruining his star guest presentation with a sea of pigeon blood and a pillow factory's worth of feathers. You call 911, and luckily the number works [5]. You rush outside to wait for the paramedics, and in no time at all they arrive, somehow managing to find their way through the armed police line and the riots that, since you were last outside less than an hour ago, appear to have erupted. Something to do with terrorists, to guess by their frenzied and hateful chanting. Someone appears to be standing before them, addressing them with a powerful and moving speech.
You lead the paramedics up to Presentation Room Green Four 24 where the boss is laid out on the clean floor just outside and where Professor Crack is performing CPR.
"Hey, that's not Bruce Halford!" one of the paramedics cries out. He nearly turns to leave, muttering something about
I’m supposed to be on my lunch, but his companion gives him a steely eyed look and both of them get to work.
Within minutes the boss is up and about, 100%, no, 110% recovered. The first thing he sees is your face.
"Oh, Satoshi! You saved my life! How can I ever repay you?!" Before you can even interrupt he pads his jacket to find his phone and is dialling away.
"Yeah. Maintenance? Yeah, put me through to Jim will you. No, no, his boss... Hey, Jim, yeah, it's me. No, fine, fine. Just a small one. Look, I need you to order those extra strength bin bags, ok? Yeah. Make sure we have them by tomorrow. I know, I know. But as a personal favour.” He hangs up. “Satoshi? Just... just go out and hygienificate the dumpster area will you please. And please, stop smiling at me like that, it’s making me feel uncomfortable. Man, I need to sit down. Someone get me a coffee."
Morale Boost! New bin bags!
Success! Saved the boss's life!
Task Assigned! Re-hygienificate the dumpster area!
Failure Rating: 15.
Morale: 11.
Warning! Your Morale is so high that you are beginning to look suspiciously happy! Remember folks, we are here to work, not to have fun!KILL THE WEEDS AAARGHLEARGHLEARGLAAAKILL THE DARN WEEDS
You head to designated Greenery Area Black Seven A1 to kill the darn weeds. First though you head to the Gardeneering Janitorial Cupboard to get some of the GenCorp Industrial Strength Perpetual Weedkiller. Filling up your weedsprayer, you quickly get to attacking the darn weeds, and although it’s not half as satisfying as physically destroying them with axes or hammers or your fists, it is quite efficient. But then disaster strikes [1]! All of a sudden, you hear a burst of gunfire from not terribly far away, and you instinctively dive for cover! But there is no cover, and instead you accidentally dive into a pool of GenCorp Industrial Strength Perpetual Weedkiller that has begun to form on the ground; with your weedsprayer still attached to your back you roll about on the floor as it starts to burn your skin. The weedsprayer splits open, spraying raw GenCorp Industrial Strength Perpetual Weedkiller all over your back! It burns! You face turns red; your hands begin to blister; your shirt dissolves!
Blinded by the tears of panic, you scramble to your feet and run wildly about, waving your hands and screaming!
Morale Drop! Burning skin!
Morale Drop! No shirt!
Fail! Damaged a weedsprayer! That’s GenCorp property you know! It’ll probably come out of your wages!
Task Assigned! Kill those damn weeds!
Failure Rating: 13.
Morale: -5.
Take a cigar and enjoy it over lunch!
You take the cigar from the kindly gentleman [4], and even though you are no expert, you can tell that it is a rather finely crafted cigar. You thank him; no, no, he says, thank
you.
You go down to the basement restaurant
Trois Etoiles de Halford; you order the duo of Scottish beef and a bottle of 2004 Château Pichon Lalande. As you wipe the last of the masterwork meal from the corners of your mouth with a napkin emblazoned with the Halford crest, the sommelier pours you another glass, a butler appears at your elbow, and he cuts the cigar and produces a light for you to light it.
To the widespread opprobrium of you colleagues, you enjoy the cigar with your last glass of the fine Bordeaux. It is particularly good. It’s probably time to get back to work.
Morale Boost! Fine cigar and a fine meal!
No Task Assigned! Failure Rating: 9.
Morale: 11
Warning! Your Morale is so high that you are beginning to look suspiciously happy! Remember folks, we are here to work, not to have fun!
"ME? A TERRORIST? Toby was shocked at the false accusations that was thrown at him. He had NEVER intended to create such a chaotic workplace, all he wanted was to do some "innocent" pranks! Furiously, he holds the rest of the test tubes high, while with an inflammatory speech trying to convince the mass of GenCorp employees that their rights as part of the working class are violated by the fascistic rule of corporative capitalism that they are subjects of. (If failing that, he lets a final roar escape his lips before destroying the tubes whilst being gunned down by police.)
Holding the remaining twenty or so tubes high above your head, your furious and righteous stance puts a halt to the lead police officer’s countdown [6].
“Me? A terrorist?! NEVER! It is not I that is responsible for this rioting; for this violence and wanton destruction! It is not I that is responsible for the fear and loathing so widespread amongst my downtrodden colleagues!” You turn to face the baying mob behind you.
“Friends! Colleagues! GenCorp employees! Please listen! I come not to carry out terrorism, but to put an end to it! The evil that GenCorp does will live on after you! The good that is in you will be buried with your crushed and overworked bones! Bruce Halford would tell you that he is ambitious! That GenCorp is ambitious! Ambition should be made of fairer stuff. I say unto thee: let yourselves be ambitious! Let us be ambitious! Let us be ambitious for freedom!”
“The fascistic rule of corporative capitalism is violating your rights as part of the noble and honest working class! It is intolerable! It is insufferable! Made to file, to type, to sweep; and for what? For a pittance!”
“Yes. Struggle against the armed goons sent here to enforce Bruce Halford’s will and you may die. Return to you desks, and you may live – at least a while. And dying at your desks many years from now, would you be willing to trade all the days from this day to that for one chance, just one chance to come back here and tell Bruce Halford that he may take our lives, but he'll never take our freedom??!”All of a sudden an enormous roar explodes out of the angry mass of near on a thousand livid men and women. They WOULD be willing to trade all those days! They are willing to tell Bruce Halford that they all did love him once, and not without reason; for it was he that invented the perpetual motion coffee machine! But no more! He has exploited them long enough!
The crowd surges forwards. They pass you; they begin to envelope you in the warm musty bosom of the mob. Someone lifts you upon their shoulders and spontaneously the crowd chants.
Toby Che Raah! Toby Che Raah! Toby Che Raah!. They advance on the line of police, chanting, throwing bricks and molotovs, brandishing looted electrical appliances and wearing newly acquired sporting footwear. They close on the thin blue line.
Someone in that thin blue line panics: a burst of automatic fire rings out; the crowd screams as one and charge forward. Another burst and then a cacophony of machine gun fire drowns out the screaming and the chanting. Somewhere along the line a police van, struck by a molotov, explodes, showering the area with shrapnel and van parts. Its door frisbees through the air, severing your head [1] and badly wounding many of the revolutionaries behind you. Bullets whistle past your body as GenCorp employees fall by their dozens. As your head sails off into the sky you never get to see the revolutionaries breach the police lines; you never get to witness the extraordinary heroism of the working man in hand to hand combat with the instruments of oppression.
As the fighting continues, a speaking hologram begins to coalesce in the air above. It is the handsome face of Bruce Halford.
“Hundreds of GenCorp employees may fall; but GenCorp never will! The perpetual coffee machine will outlast you all! Cease this outrage immediately or be fired!”There will be vacancies tomorrow.
Morale Boost! Causing extreme revolutionary chaos!
Morale Drop! Covered in another man's sick!
Morale Drop! Extreme failing!
Morale Drop! Fatal injury!
Fail! Why in the lord’s name have you still got no trousers on?
Fail! Still requested in the boss’s office!
Fail! Causing anti-Halfordian insurrection!
Fail! Depressed!
Fail! Dead!
Task Assigned! Head to the boss’s office!
Failure Rating: 47.
Morale: -12.
Warning! You have reached MEGAFAIL! At this level of incompetence, all GenCorp staff are encouraged to beat you mercilessly and will receive tax-free cash and Morale bonuses for doing so! You will be fired as soon as you are violently immobilised and escorted from the premises!Warning! Your morale level indicates that you are close to depression. This will affect your ability to work.Warning! You are dead. This will affect your ability to work. Corpse-removal fees will be deducted from your final salary.…
…
Waitlist!
Name: Tracy Arkins
You’re just finishing off your lunch on a day you have off work because you’re not important enough when all of a sudden the phone rings. You answer. It's the boss's assistant.
“Hello, Tracey? We’re a bit short-handed at work and the boss needs you to come in. Yes, I know it's pretty short notice... yes, we can pay you one and a quarter time for the afternoon... well, maybe one and an eighth... we'll see... Well, anyway, he'll probably fire you if you don't come in, so, whatever. Ok, great, see you in a while! Thank you dear!"
How do you get to work? Task Assigned! Get to work!
Failure Rating: 10.
Morale: 0.
edit: added some italics after I realised how long it went on.
Author
Topic: Roll to Work at GenCorp! Tuesday: The End: A New CEO. (Read 64642 times)