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The Adventures of Lone Wolf Scientific 11
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"The Adventures of Lone Wolf Scientific"
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An electronically syndicated series that
follows the exploits of two madcap
men of technology and the high-tech
company they start.
Copyright 1991 Michy Peshota. All
rights reserved. May not be distributed
without accompanying WELCOME.LWS and
EPISOD.LWS files.
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EPISODE #11
Revenge on the Bureacratic Puppet Creature
>>Computer genius S-max discovers that the cans of twine
that his boss has put him in charge of are not "super-string
links between key defense systems," but plain old kite-
string.<<
by M. Peshota
Despite Andrew.BAS's fear of him and his rambunctious
officemate being fired for frittering away their days in the
most childish ways, the two reluctant defense workers
continued to be employed by Dingready & Derringdo Aerospace
for many, many weeks. Since their boss would not assign the
programmer to a programming project, thanks to the FBI's
shocking discovery during their security check on him (his
program editor had been authored by an emigre from a foreign
country that was overly-friendly to certain cable TV
comics), he had nothing to do each day but re-read the sci-
fi novels in his briefcase. Since his overbearing
officemate, S-max, refused to share with him the office's
sole unoccupied desk, he was forced to spend his days
sitting under the coat tree. His days limped past like
cruelly beaten dreamers.
One day, their boss, Gus Farwick, delivered to their
office an entire pallet cart heaped with coffee cans full of
snarled string. It was the kind of string Dingready &
Derringdo attached to pieces of complex weapon systems so
that they could be easily assembled on the battlefield with
just a few slipknots. Farwick had been delivering more and
more tangled string to their office the past few weeks, for
S-max to unsnarl and re-roll. Andrew.BAS felt this was a
good thing because when the restless computer builder wasn't
re-winding the string and sticking to the balls tiny labels
that read "Dingready & Derringdo, We're There on the Ground
When You Need Us," which was often, as S-max was not a man
to be yoked to any single task for more than ten minutes, he
stalked the office like a restless delinquent. With his
hands shoved in his voluminous army jacket pockets and
jingling like a million broken screwdrivers, he'd brag about
how <<he>> had been the one chosen to untangle the string
and Andrew.BAS had not, and disparaging computer programmers
in general.
"As you may have noticed, Andrew.BAS," he said one day,
idling kicking a can of twine across the floor, "there is a
memo tacked to our office door. It reminds all who pass by
that I am neither allowed to exit the office nor leave my
desk chair except in the case of fire, tornado, earthquake,
or when a specially designated escort arrives. The memo is
authored by none other than our ever imaginative supervisor
and perspicacious bureacratic puppet creature himself, Mr.
Farwick. You see, he has quarrantined me to my desk chair
because he knows that I am a genius computer builder and he
knows what computer geniuses are like. He knows that genius
computer builders like myself have too much intellect
rushing around inside their forebrains to be running around
in public." He pointed in illustration to his broad, thick
forehead. "He also knows the genius computer hardware
architects like myself do their best work when they are
locked in a dank room with nothing but a few alligator clips
and a lot of electrical outlets."
"That is a fairly accurate description of our office,"
observed Andrew.BAS.
The computer builder grunted. "At the same time, he
knows that no harm will come by letting <<you>> roam the
halls to your heart's content--" He pointed accusingly to
the frail, white-shirted Andrew.BAS. "--because you are
just a feckless computer programmer."
Andrew.BAS nodded with calm bemusement. "At least I
don't have to ask permission to look out our office door."
What their third officemate, the catatonic assembly
programming savant, Austin Jellowack, thought of the cans of
string, or these discussions, or S-max's frequent lambastes
of computer programmers, they did not know, for he never
said anything. He neither responded to their morning hellos
nor even acknowledged their presence. For hours at a time,
he either danced his swollen knuckles frenetically over his
computer's keys, or gazed off into space with a dangerous
vacantness in his eyes and a rivulet of saliva drooling from
his lip.
At least once a day, Gus Farwick visited their office
with a Polaroid camera. He would stride around the office,
rapidly clicking pictures of S-max's lopsided terminal with
its screen prompt set to the perpetual proclamation OUT TO
LUNCH>. He snapped pictures of the blowsy computer builder
struggling up to the overhead flourescent lights to retrieve
his Robin Hood tights--which he'd draped over the ballast
one day so as not to lose them. He snapped more pictures of
his "champagne-filled Jacuzzi" with its three-legged
bathtub, snarl of lawn sprinklers and jet propellers, and
half-drained bottles of bubble bath. He filled tablet after
tablet with descriptions of all that he saw. Each day, the
computer builder trailed him doggedly like a public
relations man, warbling purple adjective commentary like a
tabloid TV narrator.
"Feast your eyes on the heavenly shower curtain that
now wraps our homemade high-tech Jacuzzi!" he'd gush,
pointing to the mildewed plastic sheet that clung to the
blighted bathtub and the office's cinderblock wall and was
profusely patched with electrical tape. "This bathhouse
haute comes to us courtesy of Andrew Sebastian, who told me,
shortly after I moved into his house with him, that he
didn't care whether he ever ate, slept, or bathed again
because his life was now nothing but a dusty ruin. Which is
why he said I could have the shower curtain to take to
work." He'd grunt, momentarily destroying the Robin Leach
effect, then continue, "Observe the drapes' dewy, delicious
adornment of daffy ducks! Yes, even the ducks are wearing
moon helmets!"
More pallet carts stacked with string arrived. The
computer builder was forced to roll the string faster and
faster to keep up. Soon, coffee cans full of string rolled
in herds across the office floor. String was wound around
all the chair legs, even that of the mute Mr. Jellowack.
The more string that the computer builder's clumsy fingers
rolled, the more that seemed to tangle onto the floor at his
feet in immense, hopeless knots. Finally, he gave up. He
spent his days instead with his feet propped on his desk,
reading engineering magazines and grunting loudly.
One morning, while S-max had gone with a Farwick-picked
escort to read the bulletin board down the hall, Andrew.BAS
noticed that for the first time in days their normally
lifeless officemate was stirring. Austin had picked up from
his desk the glue gun that S-max had given him weeks prior
to glue pocket mirrors on the model of the <<Hindenburg>> in
the company cafeteria, and which he had refused to part with
ever since. He now aimed it squarely at the coat closet.
He gritted his teeth with deadly determination.
Seeing this as an ideal opportunity for intimate
conversation, Andrew.BAS smiled and asked the catatonic
programmer, "Have you been coding in assembly language very
long?" He realized that was a silly question, as Austin had
no doubt been programming in assembly before he even learned
to speak, as evidenced by his hollowed eyes, sunken chest,
pale skin, and generally worn appearance. Nevertheless, the
assembly savant showed no signs of having heard the
question. He continued to point the glue gun at the closet
door, his eyes wide, his arthritic knuckles twisted tight
around the handle.
Andrew.BAS bubbled on, "Do you ever cut out and save
the 'Hacks Tricks' in <<Machine Language Forever Magazine>>.
I do. I tape them in a scrapbook and reread them whenever I
get lonely."
Mr. Jellowack still didn't respond.
Finally, he ventured, "Do you like to stay up late at
night playing pingpong and watching other people's program's
compile?"
Austin now had the glue gun aimed at him!
Andrew.BAS returned to his sci-fi novel and continued
reading. A few moments later, he glanced up to see the
rumpled savant crouching down in front of him. Austin
Jellowack looked into his eyes with a bug-eyed panic. "Do
you see him?" he breathed.
Andrew.BAS glanced around. The office was empty except
for them. "See who?"
"<<Him>>!"
Andrew.BAS looked around again, bewildered. "Am I
supposed to?"
"You should if you are truly a member of the brethern
of computer programmers."
Since Andrew.BAS did want to be left out of the
brethern of computer programmers he looked over the office
more closely. Finally, he was forced to admit, "No, I'm
afraid I don't see anyone."
Austin nodded knowingly. He bit his thick, chapped
lip, then fled across the office with a spidery run and out
the door with his glue gun.
Since Andrew.BAS knew many programmers who behaved with
such utter inexplicability, especially assembly language
programmers, he thought nothing of the programmer's odd
words and continued reading.
S-max reappeared a few minutes later. His escort,
holding tight to the computer builder's elbow, despite its
violent, indignant jerking, trailed behind him, his shirt
ripped and one of his eyes swollen shut like a smashed
cabbage. The bossy S-max also appeared more mussed up than
usual, but it was hard to tell if he <<had>> been in a fight
since his normal appearance was of one who has just emerged
from a street brawl. He jerked his elbow side to side and
grumbled, "I do not need some Farwickian halfwit telling me
which research department bulletin board I cannot read."
"If you weren't such a loony tune--" the escort
protested.
"Loony tune?! I will have you know--"
"If you were could be trusted as far as the next water
fountain then maybe Mr. Farwick would let you to read
whatever bulletin boards you like."
"Mr. Farwick is as excited about my vision of the
future of technology as any dope would be--"
"Mr. Farwick is as <<frightened>> about your vision of
technology as any dope would be!"
At that the two men locked in a series of kicks and
pummels. Andrew.BAS bolted to his feet, and raced across
the room to separate the two.
"No, no, Andrew.BAS," the computer builder said,
pushing him aside. "This is not something an innocent young
programmer like yourself should see. This is an argument
that springs from the cold murderous outback of computer
hardware engineering, where inhabitants are forced to
constantly battle each other for warmth, caves, MOS
transistors, and access to research department bulletin
boards. We must settle this between ourselves once and for
all with fists and schematics. It is the only honorable
thing to do. If not, I will just run him down with my van
in the parking garage late one night."
His sufferer blatted, "If Mr. Farwick trusted you, why
does he have you rolling up kite string?"
"You fool!" the computer genius gasped. "It's not kite
string. It's super-string links between key components of
multi-billion dollar weapon systems!"
"It's kite string! And it's busywork! It's designed
to keep you in your desk and away from people who actually
get work done. It's Mr. Farwick's way of keeping you out of
mischief." The escort retrieved his broken glasses from the
floor. As he stalked out, he grumbled, "Haven't you ever
wondered why the only bulletin board you're allowed to read
is the one with the pictures of employees' new babies?"
The computer builder's black eyes narrowed with frenzy.
"Busywork?!"
"I'm sure there's a logical explanation for it,"
Andrew.BAS offered nonchallantly. He sat back down under
the coat tree and picked up his space novel.
"Busywork?!"
"Maybe the person who normally rolls up the kite string
is on vacation."
S-max paced the office. "This string is just
busywork!?" He threw his arms in the air.
"How do you know, maybe 'Busywork' is just the code
name for it."
"This is impossible! Here I am frittering away hours
of my high-paid technical genius affixing labels to balls of
string that may not be used to tie together costly and
complex agents of death on the battlefield, as I had hoped,
but might be used to fly kites!"
"There you go! See how easy it is to look at things
from a positive angle?"
S-max started to breath deeply. His frown deepened
with rage. "It is one of life's great tragedies, truly it
is, Andrew.BAS," he rhetoricized, gazing in stunned hurt at
the cans of string heaped on the pallet cart and rolling
around the office floor, "that we have in our Mr. Farwick a
man who couldn't even successfully wear plastic fangs and
host Saturday afternoon horror movies on low-powered UHF
stations--"
"Oh, I don't know if I would say that," the programmer
mused, easily picturing the wax bean head of their boss
squeezed behind glowing green fangs.
"Here is a man who has been chosen by a major military
contractor to bureacratically minister to a basement full of
scientists, engineers, and smart people when it's absurdly
clear that the dope couldn't even manage a couch full of
inflatable dummies, moreless difficult people like us!" He
grabbed Andrew.BAS by the collar. "Think it over carefully,
Andrew.BAS: Would you want a halfwit like Farwick on your
Jeopardy team? Would you trust a ding-dong like this to
lead you to the down escalator in a major department store?
I suspect not. That's why the only reasonable response to
this whole shocking mess is for us to take sweet and
dastardly revenge upon the bureacratic puppet creature who
mistakenly believes that he can keep a computer genius of my
stature out of trouble with nothing but a few cans of
tangled up kite string!"
The programmer looked at his officemate's angry face in
alarm. "I wouldn't be too angry with him. He was only doing
what he thought was right."
"We must take revenge, Andrew.BAS!"
"No!"
"Yes! We must have it!"
"Why can't we just continue collecting our paychecks
and forget about it?"
"Revenge, Andrew.BAS!" He shook the helpless
programmer by his shoulders. "We will have that middle-
management crustacean pulling out his gone-to-seed buzzcut
in no time!"
"Maybe we can just write him a letter?"
"The only memos I write are on corroded circuit cards
that will haunt you for the rest of your life with failed
I/O readings."
"Maybe an electronic message then?"
"Revenge! We must have it! We will plot a revenge so
dastardly, so hideous, so cunning that, not only will we
lose our jobs, but no one will ever hire us again!
Anywhere! Ever!"
"No! I still have six months' worth of payments left
on my motorscooter!"
"You should have thought of that before you begged to
become my officemate."
"But I--"
"There's no turning back now. You do not make a
computer genius of my stature roll up kite string for nearly
fourteen weeks without serious consequences. Revenge is the
only answer, Andrew.BAS. If you were older you'd realize
that. Nincompoops like Farwick must be taught that they
cannot just thoughtlessly hire a great mind and expect to go
on living the rest of their life normally, as if nothing
happened." With a haughty toss of his head, the computer
builder swaggered to his lopsided terminal, sat down in his
zebra skin-cloaked chair, and began typing in commands.
"Revenge, revenge!" he sang beneath his breath, and the
programmer buried his cowlicked head in his hands and
moaned, "oh god."
<Finis>
<<<<In the next episode, "The Last Words Bomb," the revenge
bent S-max obtains the program code for Dingready &
Derringdo Aerospace's newest smart bomb. Unfortunately, the
short-tempered computer genius cannot make heads of tails of
the software's user interface.<<<<<
