🚀 go-pugleaf

                            The Defense Squad             QUOTE OF THE DAY:
                               Episode 180             "...at least I thought
                         The Last Turdian, Part 4       I was dancing, 'til
                                   or                   somebody stepped on
                          NorthByNorthWestworld:        my hand."
                      Chapter 1: A fistfull of turds       -J. B. White
                               Written by
                               Bill Paul
                       The man with two first names

CONTINUED FROM PART ONE...

        The jackhammer in the Superuser's head pounded on relentlessly
with each step he took towards Smartman's office. He'd originally written
off the headache as the result of stress, but it had been with him for
over three days now and it was getting stronger. Nothing could be that
stressful, he kept telling himself; nothing could be _that_ stressful.
        "Smartman?" he said, poking his head through the Squad Room's
door.
        "That's Mister President to you," DefenseCo's CEO responded
sharply, "Please come in and have a seat."
        "Nothing could be _that_ stressful," he whispered to himself
through clenched teeth. He could swear there were cracks forming in
his skull at this point.
        "I beg your pardon?"
        "Uh... it was nothing."
        "Right. Have a seat, please."
        "I think I'll just stand, thanks."
        Smartman took a long pull from his coffee mug and inhaled deeply.
        "I *said* have a seat, please."
        "I heard you the first time. And I said I think I'll stand."
        "Don't be snotty with me, boy. I could buy and sell you a hundred
times over!"
        "You know, I don't have to take this abuse from you, Dan. I've
got hundreds of people waiting to abuse me. And most of them are far
better at it than you. Now, you're not the school principal and I'm not a
child, so let's at least pretend to be civil long enough to get this over
with, okay?"
        "Fine. Then let's get down to business... excuse me a second.
Smithers!!!"
        "Yes sir!" said Smartman's personal executive assistant as he
snapped into place by his employer's side.
        "Smithers, there's still 3% of Apple Computer's stock available
on the market! I thought we bought it all two days ago!"
        "Yes sir, I know sir. It appears that Steve Wozniak still has
a few shares in his posession. We've made him several offers for them,
but he refuses to sell."
        "Dammit, doesn't he understand the what we're trying to accomplish
here?!"
        "Apparently not, sir."
        "What I'm doing is for the benefit of mankind!"
        "Of course, sir!"
        "Aren't my motives clear!?"
        "Crystal, sir!."
        "Then we'll just have to make him understand. Send out a legal
team to try and pursuade him. I'm not going to let some insignificant
upstart stand in the way of my plans."
        "Yes sir! Right away, sir!"
        Smithers departed quickly, barking orders to one of Smartman's
many secretaries as he went. The Superuser watched him go, then turned
back to Smartman just in time to see him witdraw a bottle of nondescript
pills from a compartment in his three-piece techno-suit. He dropped
two of them into the palm of his hand and quickly swallowed them,
then washed them down with another mammoth swig of coffee.
        "What are those?"
        "They're to help me stay alert. A man in my position can't be too
careful."
        "Uh, right... say, I just realized: you don't have the quote
ticker running on the monitor anymore. How'd you know about that stock?"
        "Video feed contact lenses. The live price updates are projected
directly onto my retinas. It's far less cumbersome that displaying the
quotes on the Tonight Show monitor, and I'm always kept up to date no
matter where I am. I can't take the credit for conceiving them though:
they were Smithers' idea."
        "Why am I not surprised. So, about this 'business' we're supposed
to get down to...?"
        "Right. I wanted to talk to you about this memo you sent me
concerning the Ginsu World Class armor."
        "You... don't approve of my dismantling schedule?"
        "I don't see why you have to dismantle it at all."
        "I have to dismantle it because Liz asked me to."
        "Oh, I see. And you do everything she asks?"
        "Well hey, wouldn't you?"
        "No."
        "Right. Perhaps I should go into some detail. See, there's this
thing called loyalty..."
        "There's no need to be flip. So, if I understand you correctly, you
poured millions of dollars of DefenseCo resources into this project, at
Liz's request, and now, again at her request, you're going to flush it all
down the toilet?"
        "Need I remind you that you were the one who adivsed me to humor
her?"
        "When I counseled you to build the armor, I never in my wildest
dreams imagined that you'd want to destroy it right after it's 'maiden
voyage.' The existence of the armor itself doesn't disturb me: what does
disturb me is your willingness to waste billions of dollars on a mere
whim, and then throw it all away."
        "I admit it's a shame, but it's for the best. The Ginsu World
Class armor is too dangerous. If it fell into the wrong hands, it would be
like... well, like having another Mighty Guy around."
        "If it fell into the wrong hands, yes. But if it fell into the
*right* hands..."
        "Where Ginsu World Class is concerned, there are no right hands!
I don't even trust myself with the bloody thing any more!"
        "That's why I propose we turn it over to the military."
        "What!? You...! You can't be serious! In Elvis' name, man, why?!"
        "Because I believe that our armed forces have the experience and
expertise necessary to properly manage the Ginsu World Class project.
And a defense department contract could mean billions in revenues for
DefenseCo. The Ginsu World Class armor could give our armed forces the
edge in the global arms race that it's been searching for."
        "It isn't a matter of them winning the arms race: with the Ginsu
World Class armor they could blast the other competitors to atoms before
they even cleared the starting blocks. It's just too dangerous: I won't
allow you to turn it over to the military."
        "You have no say in the matter. I've downloaded all your design
data from DefenseCo's computers and I've placed the prototype unit under
guard. You will no longer be allowed access to it."
        "You can't do that!"
        "Oh yes I can. You built Ginsu World Class with company funds.
Legally, it all belongs to me--erm, I mean to the firm. Furthermore, I
have documentation to prove that you misappropriated company resources
for your own personal gains. If you contest my claim, I can use that
documentation to have you charged with grand larceny. My lawyers assure
me that I'd have no trouble getting a conviction."
        "You wouldn't dare." the Superuser said breathlessly.
        "Of course I wouldn't. And I won't, so long as you behave
yourself. So: I propose we just forget about this little memo. Let me
worry about the Ginsu World Class armor from here on out. You should be
pleased, Bill: if I hadn't hit upon this idea I would have been forced to
recoup the cost of repairing the HQ by docking your pay."
        There were a great many things the Superuser wanted to say at
this point; things that would have no doubt have made Smartman's ears
burn. But the pounding in his head kept Bill from putting together a
single coherent sentence, nevermind a clever, obsenity-laced counter
argument. His frustration and anger mounted, each feeding uselessly on
the other. In the end, all he could do was stare harshly at Smartman for
as long as his stomach would allow him, then he bowed his head and left
quietly. Smartman impassively watched him go, then sucked his coffee mug
dry and called for a refill.
        Back in his own quarters, the Superuser flopped onto his bed
and buried his face in his pillows, almost as if he were trying to
smother the life out of his headache. He had only a few minutes to
himself before a chime rang out over his comm-line.
        "What is it." he grumbled.
        "Mr. Vice-President Superuser, sir, this is Nancy, your private
secretary..."
        "I signed your damned pay voucher already. Leave me alone."
        "And I'm eternally grateful for you generosity, sir, but that's
not why I'm paging you. There's somebody on the phone for you..."
        "Take a message. I'm not in."
        "But sir, he's quite insistent..."
        "It's not the Pope again is it?"
        "No sir."
        "I swear, there's no reasoning with that man. I tried to explain
to him that we're not allowed to make anti-abortion commercials but
he just won't listen. As much as it disgusts me to say this, I almost
wish we could buy the vatican just so we could fire him."
        "It's my understanding that Catholicism isn't for sale, sir."
        "Just you wait: if AT&T couldn't hold out, then neither will they.
If he does call again, transfer him to Jake for me. It'd serve them both
right."
        "As you wish, sir. Now about if we could please discuss Ramrod
for a moment..."
        "Ramrod!? Why do you want to talk about Ramrod?!"
        "Well I don't exactly want to talk about him..."
        "It's funny you should mention him, actually. I've been thinking
about him a lot lately."
        "Really."
        "Oh yes. It's the irony, you know. It just kills me."
        "I'm sure it does, but--"
        "It's just so damn bizarre. He's killed people, you know. Shot them
dead. Granted a few of them didn't have the decency to *stay* dead, but
still... he's killed people. With all the things he's done, nevermind the
things he may have done that we don't even know about, he's still doing
pretty well for himself. He's still a hero. And then there's the money."
        "I was under the impression Ramrod didn't have any money."
        "He doesn't. That's the point. Here we are with enough ready cash
to pay off the national debt, and we're miserable. Meanwhile, on the other
side of the country, Team Cynical has to scour the couch for change just
to be able to afford a pack of gum, and they're happy as clams. In Seattle,
no less. It just doesn't compute."
        "Well now, I wouldn't exactly say that _I'm_ miserable..."
        "Who asked you."
        "Look, do you want to talk to him or not?"
        "Well, maybe one of these days... we didn't really get to say too
much to each other the last time we met."
        "No, I mean *now.*"
        "What's your rush? And why do you care whether I talk to him or not?"
        "Because he's on the phone."
        "How do you know that?"
        "Because I have him on hold on line two!"
        "What... now!?
        "Yes!"
        "Ramrod's on the phone now!? Calling me?!"
        "Yes!"
        "Long distance?"
        "Yes!"
        "Wow. Must be important. Better put him through before his three
minutes runs out."

CONTINUED IN PART THREE, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING...