💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › ebooks › bofh › newbofh › bofh20mar.txt captured on 2021-12-17 at 13:26:06.
⬅️ Previous capture (2021-12-03)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
TThhee BBaassttaarrdd OOppeerraattoorr FFrroomm HHeellll
TThhee BBaassttaarrdd OOppeerraattoorr FFrroomm HHeellll aanndd ppaarrttnneerr ttaakkee rreevveennggee ffoorr ssttoolleenn ccoommmmss
ssppaaccee ......
========================================================================
"There he goes ..." the Pimply-Faced-Youth mutters as the department's
latest programmer sneaks out of his room and goes off home. The poor
guy's got a persecution complex which has absolutely nothing to do with
his office being constructed from an area stolen from the comms room by
the bosses.
Sadly, I didn't get to the plans before they left the drafting machine,
but the PFY did manage to 'recalibrate' the builders levels and cable
detectors. Funny how the walls seem to lean inwards and every time the
air conditioner comes on the door handle heats up.
In the spirit of re-use, the boss had trolled all the offices for unused
furniture prior to the programmer's arrival. From us he scored the
drawers of death. Previously used to hold the bean-counter back-ups, the
drawers of death look like an ordinary set of drawers, and even behave
like an ordinary set of drawers. Until they're closed.
That triggers a five second hummm. Moments later, the programmer finds
all his work for the day has been mysteriously wiped out; amazing how
small you can make a bulk eraser ...
The remote control on his gas-operated chair was the PFY's idea. The
chair plummets to the bottom of its movement at irregular intervals, and
the poor guy has since developed a bit of a limp. Probably a lumbar
problem.
The boss realises something's happening - as he should, considering he
masterminded the room seizure. I'm sure he thinks of that every time he
changes the bandage on that nasty doorknob shaped burn on the palm of
his hand ...
After a heart to heart session the programmer had with the boss, that
the PFY and I accidentally overheard because of the microphone pickup
inadvertently cabled onto the redundant UTP connection, the programmer
asks us to stop by, obviously believing the scandalous mistruths passed
to him by a soon-to-be ex-boss ...
"I hear you're responsible for all this", he says.
"For?" I ask innocently.
"These annoyances! And I want them stopped. I'm working on an important
project and I will not tolerate interference".
I'm not a hardline fan, and by the looks of it neither is the PFY.
"Do you know how much I get paid?" he continues.
"Not a clue", I lie, so that I don't have to pretend not to be annoyed
that he's earning more than the PFY and I put together.
"But I'll tell you what - you share your good fortune with us and we'll
see what we can do. A couple of hundred quid a week, each. Call it Comms
Room Rental",
"NEVER!"
Meeting at a close, the PFY and I wander off. Two days later, following
a minor first caused by some faulty wiring on his desk lamp (I blame
cheap imports), we're invited back.
A generous donation to the Operators' Christmas fund later, we return to
our office.
Sometime later, the programmer again asks me and the PFY to stop by his
office. He has that smug look that can only mean some form of trouble is
brewing.
"I'd, ah, like my money back please", he says, striving to appear
nonchalant.
"Sorry", I counter, just as calmly. "It's been invested in operational
expenses."
"Well, perhaps you can uninvest it. Unless of course you wish this to
appear on the CEO's desk".
He clicks on an icon on his screen and a recording, obviously made by
his laptop's vidcam attachment, pops up on the screen. A recording of
our last encounter, sound and all.
He smiles.
I smile back. And nod to the PFY.
One standard issue, trip-on-the-floor-mat later, the programmer's
machine lays in ruins on the floor, with a large heel mark decorating
the hard drive.
"Woopsy", the PFY gasps. "Must have low blood sugar or something".
"A good attempt", he sneers. "But not good enough. I have back-up
tapes".
"I see. Aren't you a little concerned that I'll get to the tapes
somehow?" I inquire, trying to sniff out their location.
He chuckles.
"Not in the slightest. Not when they're safely locked away".
>SLAM!<
A five-second hum and chuckle later the PFY and I are heading back to
our office to resume normal life.
"Shall I crank up the voltage on the doorknob?" the PFY asks.
"All the way! Oh, and that desk lamp looks a little dim while you're at
it ..."
With initiative like that, he's bound to go places ...
========================================================================
Previous : _T_h_e_ _B_O_F_H_'_s_ _B_l_a_c_k_ _W_e_d_n_e_s_d_a_y_ _._._.
Next : _T_h_e_ _B_O_F_H_ _h_a_s_ _a_ _c_o_u_n_s_e_l_l_i_n_g_ _s_e_s_s_i_o_n_ _._._.
Back to _T_h_e_ _B_a_s_t_a_r_d_ _M_e_n_u.