"The car service is here, Mr. Henderson." The assistant's voice seemed to float over the silent cubes.

"Thank you, Amanda." He swept out of his office, suitcase clattering along behind him on the vinyl floor. "I'll be in the air most of the day, but I'll log in tonight to check messages. Simpson will be back in the office tomorrow. I'm sure that you can handle any emergencies that come up in the meantime."

He was out the door before Amanda could respond. Thirty seconds later, the black Town Car rolled out of the parking lot.

Twenty minutes crept by. The normal office noises remained strangely muted, as if a spell had fallen over the office.

Then Amanda's phone rang.

"Henderson and Associates, this is Amanda. May I help you?"

She listened intently for a few seconds.

"Thank you very much for confirming. Have a nice day."

She disconnected the call.

"That was the car service — they have confirmed that Mr. Henderson has been dropped at the airport." She threw her headset on the desk. "We're free!"

Pandemonium erupted. People poured out of their cubes like ants heading to a picnic. Everything that wasn't bolted down came out with them.

Jim's upper body appeared above the cubicle walls as he stood on his desk.

"May I have your attention!" His stapler tapped out a staccato beat on a plastic trash can. "This is the day we've waited for all year. Please join me in kicking off the Henderson and Associates Second Annual Office Olympics!"

Cheers filled the office.

"Our first event is the Cube Balance Race. Will our participants please assume their positions?"

Four brave employees clambered onto desks and then precariously stepped onto the tops of the cube walls, each one at the end of a different aisle.

"On my mark, each of our competitors will run to the end of their aisle as quickly as possible, turn and run back to the starting point. If they slip but remain on the wall, they can remount and continue. However, if any body part hits the desk or — heaven forbid, the floor — they will be immediately disqualified and offered any first aid necessary. On your mark...get set…GO!"

Jim banged the trashcan with the stapler and they were off. His commentary tracked their progress.

"And Rosie's taking an aggressive approach, leading the field as she races to the first turn. Look at that balance! That poise! That two-inch track may as well be a foot wide, she's so stable. Part goat, I say! But wait — she's slowing down. Her arms are flailing — can it be? I think Rosie's slightly off balance. She's pausing, stabilizing her position. And Patrick capitalizes on her moment of weakness! His more cautious approach is paying off. He's pulling even — passing — Patrick is now in the lead! Look at Rosie's face, fans! She just noticed Patrick's position — and she's not happy. She's shaken off her balance issues and is maximizing her reckless style in an attempt to catch up. In the backfield, Bob seems to be having some balance — oh! That has to hurt! Yes, Bob has lost his balance but managed to save himself from a nasty spill by sacrificing his family jewels with a classic Wall Straddle. Could we get some assistance for Bob, please? In the meantime, Rosie has drawn even with Patrick. Only a few feet left to go. Patrick just glanced at Rosie — and put on a burst of speed. And it's official! Patrick has taken the gold!"

The office cheered as Patrick did a victory lap.

"Our next competition is a tribute to Cube Rats everywhere, a test of memory and spatial orientation. We have strategically placed six stations around our course, each holding specific items. Our competitors have had five minutes to familiarize themselves with the course. We will now blindfold them. The first to finish the course with an item from each station will win. Some of our participants may be using echolocation, so we ask that you refrain from cheering until the completion of the event.

Eight employees clustered at the start of the maze, eyes securely covered by neck ties. They shifted restlessly, waiting for the starting signal.

"On your mark…get set…go!"

The office crowd watched in silence as they took off down the first straight stretch. All successfully made it to the first station and grabbed the required binder clip. But the cube was too small for eight people. Susie ended up in the middle, spinning in circles as the competitors came and went around her. When she finally exited the cube, she headed back towards the starting line.

In the meantime, the remaining seven were tightly clustered as they entered Station Two. The silence was broken by a sharp cry of pain as Steven forgot about the electric stapler on the far corner of the desk. Each of the others successfully retrieved a Sharpie pen and added it their stash. Steven was escorted out of the course to receive First Aid.

The competition remained tight through stages three and four, but Stage 5 separated the cube rats from the mice. The double-door and circular table configuration of the break room resulted in only two contestants retrieving the jelly donut and continuing to the final stage.

Whispers filled the air as Jenny and Abe worked their way to the final stage and the last prize — Mr. Henderson's Pro-Am Golf trophy. Excited faces watched through the glass walls of his office as Jenny and Abe carefully navigated the boss's office, knowing that one wrong move could bring a prized possession crashing down. Cheers erupted as Abe grabbed the Pro-Am trophy, leaving Jenny holding a Charlie Sheen bobble head doll.

"Will the Track and Field contestants please report to the parking lot?" Jim's voice cut across the celebration as he directed competitors to the next event.

Within minutes, everybody was assembled at the main entrance.

"Due to the popularity of our Track and Field events, we will be running multiple competitions simultaneously," Jim announced.

"Our Office Chair 200 meter relay will start from Mr. Henderson's reserved parking spot. Please remember that all office chairs must be manually powered; parasails and jet engines are strictly prohibited."

"The Smoking Pavilion near parking area F15 will host our javelin and shot put events. The gracious Amanda will be certifying the length and weight of all yard stick javelins. Reams of recycled paper will available to all shot put contestants."

"This year's Staple Shooting competition will take place near the large oak tree to the left of the main entrance. Please remember to use caution when approaching this area — some of our participants can get a little trigger happy. If you see a likeness of Mr. Henderson, please be aware that you've entered the target zone and you'd be wise to exit as quickly as possible."

"The grassy area near the pond will be our venue for the PC High Jump competition. Last year's record was set by Gregory at an impressive eight CPU's. Rumor has it that Tanisha has been in training and is looking to shatter this by as much as two CPU's. You won't want to miss this hot competition!"

"And finally, please join us back here at 2:30 for our closing ceremonies. Good luck to all competitors!"

The crowd quickly scattered around the building. Cheers and laughter filled the air as the events kicked off. Jim traveled from event to event, his color commentary drifting over the crowd noise.

"…crash at the relay point has taken out three office chairs. Wonder how Accounting is going to bury that expense…"

"…Twenty-six feet! Can you believe it! Did you see the flex in that yard stick? I guess it's true — white pine out flies plastic any day of the week…"

"Sharon must have been practicing, because her shooting skills have really improved in the last year. Or could this be directly correlated to the rumored decrease in her bonus? I have to wonder if she'd be as accurate if Amanda's face was on the targets instead of Mr. Henderson's…"

"Look at him soar! Look at that clearance! Nine - count them, people - nine CPU's stacked up and he went over them as easily as Superman! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's Gregory from Shipping!"

The music started at exactly 2:30.

"Working 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin'! Working 9 to 5, it's all takin' and no givin'!"

Everybody gathered back at the main entrance as Dolly's iconic song filled the air. One by one, the winners stepped onto a case of paper and were awarded their prize - the coveted red stapler.

Once all awards had been given, Jim ascended the paper case.

"Thank you for participating in the Henderson and Associates Second Annual Office Olympics." He glanced at his watch. "It is 3:30 PM and Mr. Henderson will be landing shortly. Please return to your desks and send him your pre-planned business e-mail so that he can appreciate your dedication to the company. If you were unable to develop a legitimate issue, please see Amanda for a list of available update ideas."

"Again, thank you for everything you do to keep Henderson and Associates a great place to work!"

----
"Welcome back, Mr. Henderson. Nice trip?" Amanda asked.

"I tell you, this place is lost without me. You wouldn't believe the number of e-mails I had last night. I swear, it seemed like everybody in the company had either a question or an update…"

The sound of glass breaking in the distance is my warning. The screams that immediately follow confirm that the impossible is happening: it's a cull, right in the middle of tax season, the busiest time of year when we need everybody - including the people whose work performance makes them eligible targets. My last performance review was comfortably above average so I should have nothing to worry about- but if they're breaking their own rules with an off-season cull, then nobody is safe. And it's not as if I don't already have a target on my back.

It was unheard of, what I tried to do. Drones are drones, soldiers are soldiers. That's just the way it is, and if everyone would just accept that then the world would be a happier place. That's what our betters keep telling us anyway, but they're all soldier stock themselves and for some reason the soliders just never seem to grasp why we drones have a harder time accepting the status quo than they do. I was always bigger and stronger than average. Faster, more aggresive too. I never felt like I fit in with my fellow drones, and nobody ever gave me a satisfactory answer to why I looked more like a soldier. Outlier. That's what they called me. Just an anomaly, waved away by the laws of statistics.

The politicians can blather on all they like about statistics and outliers and how rosy the big picture is, but they've never been good at putting their fingers on the important details like what everyday people think about their policies, or how folks really feel about living under the heel of their pet soldiers' boots. Don't get me wrong- they're smart enough to know that their slave caste outnumbers them five to one. That's where the culls come in. They provide an effective means of psychological domination, keep the population under control and give the soldiers a chance to practice their hunting skills.

You'll have figured out by now that I tried to become a soldier. Not so much because I wanted to spill blood; I just figured that as a soldier I had a better chance that any blood spilled wouldn't be mine. They don't exactly advertise for new recruits so I sneaked in with a stolen uniform and a vague plan to fake it 'til I made it. I lasted for two weeks until a blood test gave the game away. I got lucky- if they had found me out on the parade ground, I would most likely have been promoted to Bayonet Drill Dummy, First Class. Instead, since the medics are a bit less blood-thirsty than their armed brethren, and because there didn't seem to be any protocol for dealing with my actions, they just kicked me out of the barracks and back into the hive. Home, sweet home.

Now it seems likely that someone has decided that I got off too lightly. I close the door and thumb the lock. It won't hold them for long, but it might buy me a few seconds. I mount my desk, push up a panel and pull myself up above the false ceiling. I drop the panel back in place; as long as they don't check my computer, they might think I called in sick. But of course they'll check my computer. It's time to move.

The air duct that feeds into my office snakes past me to the main trunk which gives me a straight shot to an exterior wall. I've never seen a duct that a grown man could actually fit into, but I can crawl on top of this one and maybe it will provide two additional layers of protection against whatever weapons the soldiers have brought with them. Off to my left I hear a muted thud, followed immediately by a squisshhlpt and another round of screaming. I move in the opposite direction, toward the wall. Toward safety. Toward seeing tomorrow.

It turns out that I've never seen a duct that a grown man could actually crawl on, either. The struts give way without any warning and the duct collapses under me with a sudden shriek of crumpled steel. I can already hear the silenced bullets hissing through the ceiling panels in response but for now I am shielded by the distance and angle of the shooters. For an instant I lay on the crumpled duct, motionless, regrouping, considering my options, but the decision is made for me as the rest of the ceiling falls apart in a cloud of insulation and I crash to the floor.

I'm winded, but I must move, move. I roll and look up into the remains of the cubicle's former resident's face. I think her name was Darlene. Move! I grab the slender letter opener from her desk and dive across the hallway, trying not to hear the bullets shredding the carpet behind my feet. Hold my breath against the pain in my ribs as I jump, plant my foot on the desk, leap over the partition. Register the looks of surprise on the faces looking up at me. My fellow drones. One-two-three helmeted soldiers. Fourth soldier, directly below me, looking away but desperately trying to track around, trying to bring his sights to bear, but I am falling, my paper knife is twisting downwards and I skewer him clean through the neck. My momentum pulls him down and with a vicious burst of strength I tear out his throat.

His gun is in my hands and I'm fumbling, trying to remember what I learned in my two weeks as a soldier. My thumb finds the shot selection switch and flicks it to three-round burst. I fire blindly towards one end of my little hallway, stumble the opposite direction, bring my gun around, fire again into the face of the soldier coming towards me. Two down.

Time slows down and I am alone with my gun, looking down a tunnel, searching for my other two targets as if from a great distance, knowing that they are searching for me. Knowing that my death is heartbeats away.

The sounds of a violent struggle burst into my silent tunnel world. The tunnel collapses and the office floods back in. I round the corner and find a drone emptying a clip into the perforated body of the third soldier. Three down, but the woman in front of me is looking in terror at something behind me and I know my fourth hunter is there, his finger tightening on the trigger as he aims at my heart. But the bullets are wild, and there is more yelling but this time it sounds more like frustration than fear. The yelling stops with a crackle. There are no more shots. I turn around and see a drone dropping the last soldier on the floor, twisting a length of string in his hands. The soldier's neck has a floppy quality to it, like a garden hose the moment after the water is turned off. The cull is over. The next one may be minutes away, but now the hive is buzzing, angry.

More blood will be spilled and we drones are tired of it being ours.

Lance Bryant sat in the supervisor’s small office. It being Admin Seminar time, the supervisors were off. Lance’s status as Head Nurse, plus his seniority based on time served (as he liked to think of it), put him in charge of things for the entire night shift tonight. “When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” goes the saying. Tonight the mice would be playing hard.

Lance had already worked things out with the operator of the Owen County Hospital so that the overhead page system would be available all night. She would also let him know if the on-call doctor pulled into the parking lot. Everything had been planned out carefully.

The little hospital had few patients. On some days there were none. There always had to be staff, of course, but long nights with little to do could be tedious, often downright sleep-inducing. As a result, Lance had cooked up this annual event.

Lance hit the ”˜speaker phone’ button on his phone and pushed the button that gave him access to the PA system. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was time.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight our own Owen County Hospital is ready for its third annual Owen County Follies! I’m your emcee tonight, Lance Bryant, so let’s get started.

“First up is Chart Wheel Roulette. Place your bets with Hutch on your favorite room number. Spin the wheel. See who is closest. Winner take all! How ya doin’, Hutch?”

Lance waved through the glass window of the office at Agnes Hutchison, the gray-haired RN who was the only nurse he had ever seen wearing a nurse’s cap. They all, however, dressed in white uniforms. The hospital was too traditional to have nurses wearing colorful scrubs. It was another reason to break the rules tonight, at least in Lance’s mind.

He returned his attention the speaker phone. “Everybody’s bets placed?” Someone handed him a piece of paper with names and room numbers listed on it. “Okay, Hutch, spin the wheel!”

Hutch grasped the wheel firmly and gave the metal chart holder a pull. The charts sat in each slot sideways. Most of them were empty, awaiting a new patient. Room numbers were labeled above each slot.

The wheel spun slowly, more like the “Wheel of Fortune” wheel than a roulette wheel. It made only two full turns before slowing down. A Sharpie line drawn on the nurses’ desk marked the winning spot.

Three white-clad staff members stood on each side of the desk, Hutch plus five contestants, all of whom watched as the wheel slowed to a stop. Hutch called out the number, “108.” Lance checked his sheet. “The closest guess was...Barbie, with her guess of 109. Congrats, Barbie, for the third year in a row.”

He continued, “Next up, the Speed Round. Call lights will be lit up randomly at three different rooms. Each contestant needs to enter a room, grab a flag, and head to the next room. Contestants, are you ready?” Three staff members from other departments were already tucked away in empty rooms, call buttons in hand. Hutch manned the nurses’ station intercom system, awaiting the call announcing the winner.

“Ready?” Lance called out. “Then, go!”

There was a pattering of four pairs of soft-soled shoes running toward the first room to display its call light. Seconds would count as each person had a designated color flag to grab from each room’s bed before heading to the next room.

Hardly had the four entered the room than three came back out. A second light lit up and they headed to it. Finally, the last runner emerged from the first room, flag in hand, headed for the second room.

Two runners, one a nurse and the other the hospital pharmacy tech, emerged from room number two. Runner number three came out afterward, fighting for control of her flag, which kept slipping through her fingers to the floor. Before she could reach the final room, though, the light went out. She stopped and through her flag down in disgust. The last place runner came out into the hallway without bothering to bring his flag.

Hutch answered the third room’s call button with the intercom. She called out the winning name. Lance announced, “Congrats to our own pharmacy tech. Not only did he win, he set a new speed record here at the Follies. Nice going!

“Alright, now. Test your Tube System Talents! Those old tube tunnels need to have a work out in case they ever come back in style. “Superman,” our favorite courier, will oversea at the secret location. First one to get their tube to the secret destination is the winner. Don’t forget to set the destination code on your tube or it’ll come right back to you.”

Everyone not assigned to the nursing unit returned to their departments. Nurse Laura manned the nursing unit tube, ready to compete.

“Alright,” said Lance. “The destination this year is...the pharmacy! Send your tubes down the pipes now!”

The only sound was that of Laura as she put her tube in the slot and hit the “send” button. Hutch waited by the phone for the winner’s name to come from the pharmacy tech. Before it could ring, there was a rattling sound as Laura’s tube arrived back at the station.

“Looked like Laura jumped the gun and forgot her code again this year,” Lance remarked. Hutch picked up the phone and called out to Lance. “This year’s winner is Ralph in Respiratory Therapy. Out of eight participating departments, a total of five tubes actually made it. Two of them ended up in housekeeping. Sloppy work, you two!
“But let’s move on. Our next event tonight is Morgue Cart Madness! Push the cart ten feet and then guess the weight of the occupant. We’re using a live person; we almost got in trouble last year!”

The hospital didn’t actually have a morgue, but the cart was there to hold a patient till the funeral home collected them. Like other hospital morgue carts, it had a covered top that hid a patient below, so other patients wouldn’t see anyone there. For the benefit of the game, no one could see an outline of the cart’s occupant to aid in guessing the weight.

While contestants lined up, Hutch was loading the cart. Betty, a daytime Red Cross volunteer, had agreed to come in and be the body. She was to be weighed just after the contest, in front of the participants.

A few minutes later the cart came into view. Hutch parked it right in front of the supervisor’s office, while six people stood in line, waiting for their chance to push.

Each person was allowed to push it no more than ten feet, and then give their weight guess, which Lance would write down. The line moved slowly, as each person pushed carefully and then gave some thought as to the poundage.

Attendant Luke went last. His strategy was to push the cart hard and fast, then pull up short right at the ten foot mark. There was a muffled sound as Betty’s shoes hit the opposite end of the cart. He announced his weight choice to Lance.

Two nurses took the top off of the cart, and Betty emerged, smiling like a magician’s assistant. There was a murmuring of hellos as she was recognized. She smiled and waved to her friends, then she turned and got onto the scale that was provided. Betty looked over at Lance. “One hundred and two,” she called out. “Looks like I’ve gained half a pound.”

Luke’s strategy had paid off. He was only three pounds off. “Congrats,” Lance said when he announced the winner on the PA. He went on, “Now our one team event: Gurney Curling. Mops instead of brooms this year. The floor needs some cleaning...hold on.” A light was flashing on the phone. He took the call, then returned to the PA.

“Warning! Dr. Branscomb is pulling into the parking lot right now. Everyone to your battle stations! Lance Bryant, signing off till next year!”

“Just get your work done.”

My superior’s words rang in my head seemingly louder than the buzzing of my alarm clock earlier that morning.

I’ve always hated mornings. Saturday, ever since I was a child, meant the most exciting day of the week, and also the most exciting morning to wake up to. However, waking up on a Saturday morning at 6:05 is exceptionally not exciting. Furthermore, waking up on a Saturday morning at 6:05 is especially not exciting when the thought of going to work for most of the day sinks in.

And this Saturday’s ”˜work’ that needed to be done at Gold County General Hospital has always been the cause of the Annual Most Boring Day of the Year, as I call it. Working in the administrative division, and more specifically the accounting department, of a medium-sized hospital is lackluster enough as it is. But when this day comes every third Saturday of June, I cringe when the dreadful alarm goes off. It has always seemed unfair. Accounting is the only department that has to show up to work that Saturday.

This June, however, brought a much crazier and adventurous Most Boring Day of the Year than usual. It had all started with both my apartment and the office’s strange and disturbing lack of coffee. An already horrible beginning to my workday had almost put me to sleep twice at my desk in only twenty minutes. I was trying my best to stay focused, when an interruption occurred.

“Hey. Hey Stephen. Look what I got here.”

The giant grin of my fellow accountant, Bert, greeted my bloodshot eyes as he peered over the desk divider. He had always been a master of mischievous activities. It was to the point where I had personally referred to him as Loki from time to time. He always had something new to try out behind our boss, Craig’s, back and this time was no exception. What he “got here” was a bottle of laxatives.

“Fascinating,” I sarcastically and tiredly replied as he snickered with amusement.

Childishly reading the label, Bert quoted, “For gentle and dependable relief.”

“I bet you can guess where this is going,” he continued.

“Uhh… Y-,”

“Craig’s tea!” he interrupted with great excitement, but quietly.

My first reaction was reluctance, but I reminded myself of my hatred of Craig’s arrogance and high standards, plus my boredom with my job, and I quickly showed support in Bert’s plan. To go into detail, the entire scheme was to entrap an irritated Craig in the office restroom by jamming the door. To top it all off, Bert had already removed the toilet paper from the stalls. Altogether, it appeared fault-proof.
And faultless it was. Bert’s years of training in the art of office stealth allowed for him to slip the crushed laxative pills into the tea almost effortlessly. Luckily enough he got back to his desk as quick as possible, for Craig arrived at the very next moment and took a few sips. The sipping was followed by a moment of nervous anticipation for Craig to not notice anything suspicious and continue drinking. Those are the moments that really go deep in my head. I knew that the following events could be very hilarious for my enjoyment or very detrimental to my employment.

Fortunately the events were hilarious. Craig continued by drinking the entire cup with almost no hesitation. Not one drop was left. A short while after, as both Bert and I were awaiting a reaction, our boss realized something was wrong. As he grabbed his stomach he made a face of astonishment and disgust. It was priceless. Trying not to laugh, I took a mental photo of him speed-walking, newspaper in hand, awkwardly past us to the restroom.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Bert was already working his magic on the handle. I’m not exactly sure how he did it, but after a few minutes he had managed to foil Craig’s only possible exit from the small, windowless restroom that he would be in for most of the remainder of the day.

Laughing, Bert stated, “Poor guy. Cell phone reception is terrible in there. He won’t be getting out for a while.”

Following a high-five, we both realized the next question we needed to answer was, “Well now what?” With the boss out of the way for the day the possibilities were nearly endless.

And then Bert got ”˜the look’ in his eyes. ”˜The look’ refers to a certain expression that is unique to Bertrand Gossman when he gets a new idea that tops his last. It only happens occasionally, and when it does, crazy things always follow.

Instantaneously he remarked, “I’m going on my lunch break!”

“But it’s 9:00 a.m.”

“Yeah, and I’m hungry!” He shouted as he put on a hat and rushed out the door. Leaving me with an eager smile he was gone in an instant.

At that point I knew whatever he was up to was his job now. I took the opportunity to actually get some work done. The shift back to tediousness was a massive change. It hit like a 10.0 earthquake in my head. Although I was shaken by this, I got a large amount of the necessary paperwork done by the time Bert returned. And then I realized that he had been gone for an hour and a half. I was, at the time, completely clueless as to why he took so long. There was no evidence of any mischief.

“Well. It’s time to borrow a bed,” he proudly stated as he finished off the remaining end of a submarine sandwich.

“What? A hospital bed? Why?”

“You’ll see.”

My moral values are usually generous enough to remind me that messing around with hospital equipment is not that brilliant of an idea, but today Bert was even more persuasive than usual. I gave in to the enchanting pressure of mischief once again.

“So how do we go about doing this?” I asked

After explaining the plan to me, Bert and I casually walked out in the main hall and took separate elevators to the main floor. After the short ride down, the slight bounce at the end of the ride, and the opening of the elevator doors, familiar hospital sounds filled my ears. Telephones, wheels of carts, talking, and loudspeakers could all be heard. It was time for the heist. We were only stealing a hospital bed, but a heist nonetheless.

My job was to cause a distraction, just like in a movie or a sitcom. Bert needed to get to an unused room at the end of a hallway, so I had to clear it out. The only person working in that section of the hospital, luckily, was a custodian. My following actions went perfectly.

I approached the sole receptionist in that particular wing of the hospital with an insidious plan.

“Excuse me ma’am. There’s a man out in the lobby claiming to be your father. He wanted to see you.”

With no response the gullible receptionist got up and left, at which point I borrowed the loudspeaker microphone and faked an announcement for the “need of all custodians to the second floor.” Needless to say, I felt like James Bond.

I was met by Bert, holding the handle of the stolen bed, back in the office. It was barren besides us. Craig’s probable pounding of the door couldn’t even be heard. Everything went perfectly. Perfectly, that is, until this point.

“Take a look at this!” Craig blurted.

He turned the bed to reveal two red canisters strapped on to the frame. Warnings of “flammable substances” lined the sleek crimson tubes.

“What the heck are those?!” I shouted confused and enraged.

“Didn’t I tell you about the Gossman Family Reunion Cart Race? Ya’ see, every year at my family reunion, some of us build wooden carts and race them. My dad’s one of the usual competitors. But he’s also a cheater. These canisters shoot him down the track faster than any of my uncles or cousins.”

“YOU’RE GONNA’ BLOW US UP!”

“No no no, don’t worry! I drained most of the fuel. All I’m gonna’ do is launch myself down the third floor hallway since it’s under renovation. It’ll be f-,”

“Bert! You’re an idiot!”

I was furious. I knew for sure that something like this would instantly result in two unemployed accountants. Usually I’m fine with Bert’s little activities, but this was crossing the line. In fact, it went far past the line.

Bert, who had jumped up on the bed, couldn’t help himself. His pride in his ideas was showing more conspicuously than ever. That pride wouldn’t last long, though. Pure disaster shortly followed.

Leonard Spolsky, one of the smartest men in the office with the least common sense, decided to show up late that day. He and his bowtie should have been with us in the accounting department the whole time. Always accidentally finding ways to mess things up, he was a vital part of the following events.

“Hi fellas! What’s all this?” Leonard enthusiastically and curiously asked.

Before we could respond or stop him he was already kneeling down inspecting the red canisters.

It all happened in an instant.

“Well what have we got here?” he questioned.

Foolishly playing with the knob at the end of a canister, the tip ignited and the bed started rolling. Bert frantically tried to climb off but fear had prevented him from successfully doing so. He screamed loudly as the bed gained speed.

My mouth opened as the event occurred seemingly in slow-motion. His arms waved in frantic gesticulations as the bed, at full speed, broke through the window at the end of the office and plummeted down three stories straight to the parking lot. The resulting crashing sound rang in my ears just like Craig’s words that morning. There weren’t any explosions but I could hear moans of pain.

I collapsed on my chair, face in my hands, thinking of what would happen next. Thank God a hospital was nearby.

The day had come, freaky Friday, Gremlins in the closet, Ghost in the machine. Call it what you like, but for some, the worst day of their careers was looming on the horizon.

People were buzzing around water coolers, many heads shook in disbelief and altogether chaos and confusion ruled the day. It was as if the whole IT-infrastructure of Worth&Million Ltd, had turned against the people. IT technicians were running around like ants, the helpdesk phone buzzed of the hook and nervous looking suits queued to get to the service desk.

What was going on?

What was going on was an in-house, secret competition, between the ten members of the It-Team. The contest had been concocted when, at the previous weeks’ drinks session, a conversation on boring Fridays and getting the time to pass quicker had developed into what now was just known as THE DAY. The main objective was to get “tokens of appreciation” from distraught users. The common pay-line was that the specific user was given preference over the others. Needless to say, many people would go to immense heights to get their issues sorted.

Then, just after lunch break, the problems started dissipating and life slowly returned to normal again.

At last the end of THE DAY had arrived. When the security door to the It-department was drawn down, all members of the team disappeared into the highly secure, server room.

”Time to tally our scores, boys”

The ten members of the IT-team stood closer to the small table in the server room.

“Ok, Johnny, you first” Berney looked up at Johnny with a smirk.

Johnny placed on the table an assortment of objects, consisting of a can of coke, two tubs of yogurt, a few chocolate bars, a packet of crisps, a branded ruler, an apple and some mints.
Johnny was the “desktop support”. His game plan had consisted of coming in half an hour early and just flicking the wall switches to the “off” position on a couple of dozen workstations. He had also placed sticky tape over the sensors of some mice and inverted screen settings on some displays.

“Ok, good, now Luke”

From Luke, the telephone admin, came much the same, but he also produced a box of assorted cookies that he had received from the lady at switchboard for “fixing” her headphones. He had had a ball on the telephone system, clearing a few “diverts”, swapping some extensions and disabling a couple of head sets, just causing enough problems as not to blatantly point to him as the culprit.

“Nice, I think all will agree that, that puts Luke in the lead”

“Peter, you next”

Peter, the network administrator, had selected a hand-full of key people, setting their passwords back to their previous passwords, thus being able to convince most into thinking that they had just been confused.
With a huge, naughty smile, Peter placed a couple of Twinkies, a pack of M&M’s, an assortment of fruit from the ladies in finance and, to top it of, a box-ticket to the following Friday’s game.

“Wow.”

The whole team leaned in closer to read the details on the ticket to the company’s private box. Pete had made the CEO’s personal assistant believe that she had locked out her boss’s account - and company policy did state that he had to personally request for a password reset from the IT-Manager. The PA had in turn, pulled a few strings to get Peter the ticket for “bending protocol” by unlocking the account without anyone knowing the better.

“That puts Pete, well in the lead, I’d think lads?”

Everyone nodded in agreement.

The rest of the crew produced their bounty, mostly similar to what already lay on the table, (apart from the box-tickets). Only Larry, the Printer tech was able to bring something mentionable, in the form of a set of golf balls, tees and a tie with the company logo on it. He had received this from the PR lady for “fixing” her printer that was printing heart shaped smudges all over her work.

“Ok guys, before we go for a deserved drink, I think we should hand the loot over to Peter.”

“I think we should split it between us, each keeping the most valuable item he got.”
Larry eyed the tie and golf balls on the table.

“We agreed on the winner takes all.” Berney’s voice was stern and he looked up at the rest. All nodded in agreement.

Someone picked up an empty box on the server room floor, and handed it to Peter. Just as Peter had all the goodies packed up, the mechanism on the door beeped as the door swung open.

“So boys, what have you been up to?”

Jack, the IT-Manager , walked into the semi-crowded server room.

“Well. Eh. We …”, Berney’s voice cracked as he stepped in front of the box of goodies.

“No need.”

Jack held up his hand, gently pushed passed Berney and picked up the box.

“I guess I forgot to tell you guys I had a security cam installed last week”
Jack looked up at the inconspicuous half-globe in the corner of the room. Only the cooling fans of hardware audible in the background. Just before pushing through the door with the claimed bounty, Jack looked back at the sorry looking crowd, a little devilish smile playing over his face.

"Next time, I’m in."

"Wheeeeeeee!!!" I glance up from my paperwork to see my hardly working co-worker, John, squealing as he races across the tile floor in his office chair. Stan and Robert aren't far behind him, riding in matching black chairs as well. Lisa cheers them on from the desk in front of me, and I watch as they pass the duct tape finish line crudely stretched across the doorway. John pumps his fists in the air as he crosses the room, the tape still stuck to his chest. "OH YEAH! SCORE ONE FOR JOHNNY BOY!!!" I roll my eyes at him. "Don't you guys have better things to do than goof off all day?" He grins sheepishly. "Nope," he replies, tearing off the tape. I sigh and return my eyes to my work. "Oh my gosh, Bev! You're actually working?!" Lisa exclaims when she notices me. "Well, I'm TRYING to, but I keep getting distracted," I answer, irritated. She glances at my papers. "Hun, this isn't even due till next week! There isn't anything else to do today, so why don't you chill with the rest of us?" I sigh again. "Because I don't want to get fired." She shrugs her shoulders and struts out of the room to follow the guys. I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, there isn't anyone to bother me! Right after I think this, a paper airplane zooms past my head. Ugh. Not again. I turn around to see Mark and Jacob hiding behind their desks, their faces peeking around the corner. They each fold computer paper furiously, creating paper airplanes to throw at each other. I grit my teeth and storm out of the room with my papers. I'm hoping to continue my work elsewhere.
As I walk down the hall, balls of crumpled up paper and pencils soar back and forth between offices. I dodge a flying pen and enter one of the lounges on our floor. It's empty. I quickly sit down on a couch and continue to read my paperwork, rubbing my temples. All of their shenanigans gave me a migraine. I read the papers for about five minutes before Jessica and Dylan stumble into the room, kissing passionately. Those two have been going at it all week! Jessica opens her eyes and notices me. "Oh, hey, Bev... Umm, could you do us a favor?..." I stand up. "I'm already on it." I all but run out of the room. I SO don't have time for their make out sessions they have every day. Why can't they save that for after work? Oh, right, because this whole week has been slower than a snail on a turtle's back! I have to admit, I've been bored as well, but at least I work on things! I tuck the papers in my purse and head to the bathroom. As I step into the room, I notice a huge group of women, just standing and chatting. They know loitering in the bathroom is against the rules! I bite my tongue, though, and open a stall towards the back. Nancy bends over the toilet, throwing up. "Ugh... Too much booze.." she mutters. I roll my eyes and try the one next to her.
To my relief, it's open and clean. I enter the stall and close the door. As I sit down, I notice noises coming from the stall to my left. I listen closely. Ugh! It's Jessica and Dylan again! They've moved their "session" into the bathroom stall! I quickly finish up and get out of there. Is everyone at work goofing off? I know it's boring but come on!!! Am I the ONLY one who's actually trying to work?! I sigh and head back to my office. Fortunately, it's empty. But there's a sea of paper airplanes strewn across the floor! Oh, Mark and Jacob... I kick my way to my desk and sit down. I pull out my paperwork and study it. I glance out the window to see a bunch of guys goofing off underneath the big oak tree. I turn my eyes back to my work, but I find them wandering over to the care-free slackers outside. They DO look like they're having fun... I shake my head vigorously. No. They're just going to get fired. I return to my work. But again I find myself thinking about slacking off. It really is a slow day. The boss wouldn't notice if I just....waited a little to work... It's not going to do any good to be a stick in the mud, now is it? Suddenly, John, Lisa, Stan, and Robert enter the room. "Hey, Bev! We're thinking of a rematch! Wanna join?" Robert calls out to me. I smile. It's just for today... "Be right there!" I reply. No more boredom today! I toss my papers aside. And I run after them.