There I was. A working man once more. Terrified and crouching in the back of a limosine that had, no doubt, cost Chris a pretty penny.
He offered me a cigar, and I declined.
He offered me some brandy, and I declined.
I brought up the subject of money and how he had managed to pay for such expensive fripperies and transport and out of the kindness of his heart he gave me a hearty wallop around the back of my head.
Which was quite a feat, when you come to think about it, because he was sitting in front of me at the time...
“Soon be at the Complex, my lad. Nothing to worry about. You'll get what's coming to you.” he said. Chris loved spouting these type of lines - you know the kind; where the dumb informant expects payment, the villain he's working for utters them and then shoots him in the head - whenever he held his gun in his hand, and having ditched Ol' Reliable (Smith and Wesson), he traded up to a Magnum .45, so who was I to argue with what he said?
“Oh joy.” I said, joylessly. And before I could stop myself, I added;
“Ou-yay tupid-say it-gay.”
It was ridiculously suicidal I know now and I braced myself for the blow..that never came.
“Errm...I'm sure you're quite right there, my man.” he said, with a bemused expression on his face.
His confusion was nothing compared to mine. He hadn't taken righteous revenge on what he had clearly labelled one of the more hazardous sins - they were hazardous because he dealt out the punishment himself - which was Taking the (Web)Lord's name in vain (NO 69 in a long long list...).
But why hadn't he done anything? Unless...
“You flatter me ou-yay hort-say it-tay.” I ventured.
And waited.
He stared.
As did I.
“What is that you're saying?” he asked.
I could have jumped for joy. He didn't know Pig Latin! He just didn't get it in the same way he didn't get Jazz compilation CD's. (That had been a memorable Christmas at the office, let me tell you that. None of us can look fruit punch in the eye anymore...yes I meant it like I said it.)
“It's - er - a new prayer form. One that sings your praises in a special phonetic sequence. I intend to teach it to the rest of the staff as soon as I see them.”
“Good.” he said, sitting back and stroking his stomach. This was something else I found odd about Chris. In the truest tradition of villains everywhere, not only did he adhere to stupid dialogue that lets you know when the superfluous characters have outlived their usefulness, but he also needed to stroke something whenever he thought things were going his way. Normally, this would be a white fluffy cat, but Chris is allergic. For those of you who find that this tradition is an important part of villaindom in general, he sometimes takes his stick insect out and strokes that...however he does call it 'Sticky'. Just want to give you an idea of the imagination behind this evil genius.
I felt the limo stop and the driver got out and opened my door. I stumbled out and found myself in a surreal countryside setting. Everyone wore a uniform shade of beige-grey and looked at me in quiet fear. A couple of old ladys passed me and tutted in disgust at my black shirt and blue jeans. In front of me was the biggest building I had ever seen.
Actually not all that tall, it was wide, it seemed to run along the length of the entire street. No windows, no business plaques to inform you who dwelled within, just a beige door with a simple Yale lock.
“Welcome,” said Chris, getting out of the car. I noticed he didn't stumble out, he had to jump because his legs couldn't quite reach the ground, “to The WP Complex!”
I didn't want to tell him that he'd named his building after what sounded like a psychological problem, but I was impressed, that much was obvious. We were moving up in the world.
Chris took a key from a little chain around his neck and opened the beige door with it.
“Enter!” he proclaimed pointing at the door.
I did as I was bade, as I stepped over the threshold, I heard his footsteps following me in and then the door slamming shut. All was darkness, but with the flip of a switch I was transported into a magical mystery land of sweets and sunshine.
Wouldn't it be nice if I was, though?
What lay before me bore resemblences to office work floors, manned computer terminal lay in rows upon rows of...well, rows.
I heard a harsh cry off to my left and saw a gangling figure of a man, gesticulating wildly - but not too wildly because impressionable youth may have been present - at the people manning the terminals. Of course, how could I forget Le Doosh? The very man whom I had, with Alex's help, only a couple of days ago, abducted from his home in the US to disclose the exquisite displeasure of the Webmaster at the current level of his writing.
Which made no sense for two reasons;
1) None of us have been writing for the site in over a year, and
2) How could I have abducted him a couple of days ago, at Chris behest, if he had only just picked me from my nice peaceful life and bundled me into his limo?
But then, one thing I learned from working for Chris was that personal perception could never be trusted and Time/Space and the laws of physics were his itch-bay.
He was crying at the people at the terminals because he was trying to get them to throw off the bonds of Webmasterly Oppression (he once told me that they do deserve the capital letters) and live their own lives. Doosh didn't realise that these people were his kind of people - the kind of people who feed him the news of the incompetence of the government he lives under. Of course ours is no better but then it is more fun to bash foreigners than ourselves. Doosh just didn't get that. We needed people like this in order to do our jobs. Alex explained it to me once back in the original Office.
“It's natural selection. Top of the food chain is Chris. Then comes his Smith & Wesson. Next comes all the characters from Star Wars, then the mud that clings to Chris' boots. Then that's when we appear but - BUT - underneath us, are the numpties who research all the little incidents that go into the site.” he'd said one day.
“But,” I replied, “we don't have any researchers for the site.”
Alex didn't have time to reply because we were then chastised for talking while our maths teacher was spouting off some algebraic nonsense.
But I digress, the point is Doosh just doesn't get the chain of command. He doesn't get it in a big way, just like he never got the first Matrix movie. (I ain't counting the sequels 'cos I've yet to find someone who did get those.)
He saw me and Chris stride along the rows, nodded (this actually took 6 minutes and 17 seconds - because of the height of Doosh, what he would normally consider a nod merely grazes the celestial bodies that orbit our little mudball, so he has to do a full body fold so that we actually know that he is, in fact, nodding) and walked over to join us. We covered the length of the terminal rows and came to a set of glass double doors, and I peeked into them.
I didn't believe it, so I had another look.
Chris had added a library. Older readers will know how he feels about librarys and librarians who won't let him talk at his own choice of volume. He has issues with these people.
(Big issues - heheh, couldn't resist...)
In the library, at a computer sat someone else I have known in a life before...
Steve, the sites former sports correspondent, was there, just waiting.
At a blank screen.
Despite being the first of us to leave the site in it's former incarnation, his presence here is, maybe, my fault.
Possibly.
Very likely.
He heard about Chris tracking me down and laughed at me. He shouldn't have done that because misery loves company...hehehehe.
But then again, maybe I shouldn't have done that to him. He is a harsh, harsh man.
Time has changed the previous incarnation of Steve that we all recall from the original Office. Sure, we all keep in touch with each other but recently, I've been wondering where he got that nasty looking scar along his neck that looks like a second mouth smiling.
And he now asks all who talk to him to call him Stone-Cold.
He knows no pity. He is incapable of getting the concept of mercy, he cannot grasp it in the same way he cannot grasp the sublime comedy that is Father Ted or Black Books. (Don't worry, I'm working on re-educating him)
His eyes caught our reflection in the blank screen and turned around with a dead soulless look in his eyes. One I definitely recognised from a couple of months back when we were at a pub. The landlord has never been quite the same, the whiskey has turned sour and the bar maid still refuses to come down from her hiding place in the rafters. My eyes wandered over the stacks of books instead.
This was when I noticed the librarian.
“Gentlemen. Please be seated, and mind the noise level please. There are other people besides you here.” said the librarian gesturing around the otherwise empty library; it was Alex.
Chris raised his hackles at this pronouncement, not that we would have known if he did or not, because hackles are not something one raises lightly in polite company or around impressionable youth.
Chris had rehired Alex as well as the rest of us. Except Alex would never be broken, not for anyone, Chris had thought this extremely amusing. Thus far he had not, as such, produced an article for the site.
This Chris didn't find half so amusing, so Chris had locked him in the Complex until Alex bowed to his will.
Believing that two could play at the game - Alex took up the post of Chief Librarian and proceeded to get on Chris' its-tay whenever the chance arose.
Which was fine with the rest of us.
We sat around a table as the first meeting in three years began.
(N.B - I know I said we hadn't written anything for the site in over a year and having just stated that the first meeting for three years was just taking place I would like to refer to the section regarding Time/Space, the laws of physics and personal perception. Thank you )
THE LANG