West of Nothing

31. Chem-Lab

The next morning there was a pair of stern-faced guards posted outside the Bridge. Everyone was issued fresh badges and forced to create new, complicated passwords. Mason's computer had been given a clean sweep, and the control panel app was restricted. At least his work had been backed up. There were grumbles all around but Mason kept his lips sealed. Following a thorough debriefing, he had forbidden to talk about the previous night's events.

There would be no more freely roaming the halls. A guard would accompany them whenever they left the Bridge, even to go the bathroom. No more cafeteria visits either. Pre-packaged food was wheeled in for every meal. Like a good drug pusher, Lip-Fuzz kept him supplied with corn chips and Mountain Dew, the dietary equivalent of a perpetual motion machine. The salty chips made him thirsty and the sugary soda gave him the munchies.

There was to be no more making friendly with the support staff. Even those that had been swapping bro-hugs with HotDamn at the party now moved with the stiffness of cadets standing at reveille. With his usual flippancy for protocol, HotDamn made it his mission to crack them up. Whenever one was around, he would scratch his balls or loudly discourse on home remedies for erectile dysfunction. These had little effect on the staff but made Corny spitting angry. But one thing did bring a smile to her face.

How do you spell Loser? she private messaged Mason. P-E-E-P-E-R.

That's a bit childish, don't you think? Mason responded.

The bet was your idea. I won, so I have legitimate gloating rights.

You mean the bet from the party? Mason said.

That's right. Did you see that guy in the Storeroom with the brace on his foot? I overheard them talking. He gashed it open on a broken beer bottle.

Dammit! Who's going to write my job recommendation?

I can give you Shouter's email address.

I might as well sign up for welfare now.

Mason was still thinking of Shouter when profanity erupted on the bridge.

"Stupid mother shit fuck!"

It was unlike Johnny to curse, or even raise his voice. Something must have really gotten under his skin.

"What is it, Johnny?" HotDamn asked. When the microbiologist didn't answer but proceeded to hyperventilate into his hands, the tech entrepreneur walked over and began to knead his shoulders. "Anyone know any good Johnny Carson lines?" he said in an attempt to distract him.

"Was he the one that did the top ten lists?" Doogie asked.

"That was David Letterman," Skunkworks said. "Johnny Carson had the golf swing with the drum roll. Heeeeeere's Johnny."

"I've got a science joke I tell my nephews," Doogie said. "What did the star say to the black hole?" He paused for effect. "You suck." When there was no effect, he said, "Well, they thought it was funny."

"Here's one from my engineering days," Skunkworks said. "A priest, a rabbi, and a Xerox repairman walk into a bar. The priest says, I'll take a double malt whiskey. Then the rabbi says, ditto for me."

"Is that it?" Doogie said. "What about the Xerox repairman?"

"What about him?" Skunkworks said innocently.

"Doesn't he say anything? Why's he even in the joke?"

"I have no idea. In thirty years, we never did figure out what a Xerox repairman was good for."