💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › ebooks › bofh › newbofh › bofh1may.txt captured on 2021-12-03 at 14:04:38.
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TThhee BBaassttaarrdd OOppeerraattoorr FFrroomm HHeellll sseettss aabboouutt aavveerrttiinngg aa ccoommppaannyy ttaakkeeoovveerr
bbiidd ......
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I'm barely into work when the boss and CEO crash the door, looking
worried.
"We're in trouble," the boss says.
"We're being taken over," the CEO interrupts, slipping past the boss.
"Why tell me?" I enquire, innocence oozing.
"Because you have a way of 'fixing' things ..." the boss hints.
"Routers?" I respond, all innocence.
"No. You know what I mean!"
"Networks!" I cry, happily.
The CEO starts getting agitated so I put him out of our collective
misery.
"OK, who is it?"
He spits out the name of our hated rival. Later, behind closed doors,
the PFY and I form a plan, then invite the boss et al back again.
"Step One: Fire the PFY!"
"How? Why?" the boss blurts.
"Embezzling something."
"If that were grounds for dismissal, you would've been ..."
A stony gaze at the boss silences him and I continue.
"Step Two: I have lunch with one of their network guys and on the way
out I drop (in front of their security cameras), and then quickly hide
in a suspicious manner, a data tape with their company logo on the
front.
Step Three: The PFY, invaluable in the future plans of our takeover
because of his intimate knowledge of the way we work, steps into a
recently vacated network guy position."
"Sounds good," the boss chirps.
Three days later we're set. I'm making our company look an unattractive
investment by falsifying memos about future criminal liability from
defects in the furniture production line, then leaking them to the
press.
Of course, no pressman worth his salt substitute would believe the memos
without proof (being men of integrity), so I sacrifice a couple of bean-
counter limbs for the purpose of, "Stress Testing Production Line
Furniture," ("the cause") and make sure the papers are on hand to see
the ambulance being loaded.
Meantime the PFY is stepping through the entire first three chapters of
the Bastard Manual, wrecking havoc all round. The oxy-acetylene in the
halon cannister was a nice touch, and took out half a warehouse before
they realised what had happened and switched the automatic extinguishers
off. A simple typo on a refill form can make such a difference ...
His technical advice appears to be second to none judging by the
continual arrival of replacement equipment and deskside fire
extinguishers.
Meantime their Fire Alarms have been used more in last three days than
in the previous two years and the route to and from the Fire Station has
a 24-hour parking ban.
I tried calling him but due to a wiring maintenance mix-up people are
too scared to answer the phones. Must be the stigma attached to
electrical burns. Page 73 if memory serves me correct.
I'm continuing as normal, repatching a repeater when the boss comes to
see me.
"It's about these accidents," he says.
"What accidents?" I ask
"You know what accidents. They have to stop. Why is the equipment being
sent to the accounts department for testing anyway? We've got a
perfectly capable testing team."
"Yeah, but they're all good sorts," I reply.
"What?! Well, I don't care, it has to stop! There are only three
accountants left!"
"No ..." looking at my watch, "... there's ..."
A thud and a muffled scream from the floor above punctuate my sentence.
"... Two. I'm guessing the wardrobe and drawer unit he was looking at
did not pass the 'heavy weight placed in an elevated position' test.
Speaking of heavy weights, you haven't seen the large box of full-height
hard drives normally in my office have you?"
He trundles off without a word to rest in his office ...
I get to my office and the phone is ringing. One of our equipment
suppliers wants a site visit with a prospective customer. What the hell,
it'll kill time till the real action starts...
The phone rings and as I'm in time-kill mode, I answer it.
"My phone's broken!"
"Then how are you calling me?" I ask.
"I'm using another phone, stupid."
Stupid?!?!
"I see," I whisper, "and what was your number?"
He tells me. I look it up.
"Ah, Mr 0898"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Are you sure? I have several VERY PROGRESSIVE tapes here for you to
listen to if you'd like."
"Err ... that won't be necessary."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, forget I called."
"Well I'd like to forget you called, but the only thing that makes me
forget is a couple of bottles of single malt scotch. The good stuff, not
that cheap crap they serve up at the bar ..."
"I'll drop them off shortly."
Ten minutes later the transaction is completed and I end the day by
playing one of the tapes into his home answerphone. It was for the best,
those calls were just a cry for help ...
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