Little Blue Men
by Michael S. Gentry (1998)
Genres: Satire
Horror
Science Fiction

This story is a joke. This story is a warning. This story is a satire. This story is inspired in equal parts by Vaclav Havel's "The Memorandum" and Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". This story is a big, stupid shaggy dog story.

action: %
response: Another day in the trenches. Another day of tooth-and-nail against a horde of sons of bitches who would chisel you out if you gave them half a second or half a chance. And if they can't take you down with a well-placed stab in the back, then they'll just wait you out and let the big, creaking wheel of routine slowly drive you mad.

Don't let them get to you. You've got to stay one step ahead. You've got to keep it covered. Get a grip on it. Stay in the loop.

And above all, you must remain. Totally. Frosty.
action: You examine the paperwork
response: A thick sheaf of workpapers with relevant carbon copies attached. All that fine print, all those tiny little scribbled blanks and check-boxes -- your eyes water just looking at it. Fortunately, you don't have to read it. All you have to do is stamp it.
action: You look at the desk
response: This cheap chunk of fake wood and Formica is your desk. Key word: it is YOURS. Any son of a bitch tries to move it, or go poking around in the little drawer on the side, they are meat.
action: You look at the phone
response: Oh yeah, the phone. You can't make outgoing calls on it; there's no dial. You don't even know why it's on your desk. Presumably, you're expected to answer it if it rings, but it never does. Never has. Not once. Not ever.
action: You open the drawer
response: You open the drawer, revealing an ink stamp, a little gray bottle and a little white bottle.
action: You take the stamp
response: Taken.
action: You examine the bottles
response: Which do you mean, the little gray bottle or the little white bottle?
action: Both
response: Sorry, you can only have one item here. Which exactly?
action: Gray
response: The bottles are where you keep your pills. Your pills are extremely important; sometimes, they're the only way you can stay frosty around here. One bottle contains your headache pills, the other your sleeping pills. Unfortunately, you've spent so much time gripping and squeezing and twisting the child-proof caps that the labels have long since rubbed away, and now you can never remember which is which.
action: You look at the dollar
response: Lousy crumpled dollar bill...
action: Stamp paperwork
response: (with the ink stamp)
You take a deep breath, raise the ink stamp high over your head, and slam it down as hard as you can.

Right in the middle, every damn time. It's thrilling, on a sort of visceral, primitive level.

[You have just become a little bit less steamed.]
action: Stamp paperwork
response: (with the ink stamp)
You've stamped it once already. Give it a rest.
action: You put the paperwork in the tray
response: Which do you mean, the in-tray or the out-tray?
action: You put the paperwork ithe out-tray
response: (first taking the paperwork)
Seconds after you drop it in, Benson scoots by your desk and whisks it away.

The work is gone from your desk. It's out of your hands. A deep sense of satisfaction and contentment fills your soul, and you smile. If you had a chair, you would lean back in it happily, smug with the knowledge that you've done a good job, and you are now utterly at peace with yourself.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You look
response: This is your own tidy little corner, your home away from home in the happy little community you like to call your office. All the security and companionship you could ever want is right here and always will be.

On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.
action: You go to the east
response: Why leave? You've never been happier than when you're right here, where you belong.

Furman zooms past suddenly, and tosses more paperwork into your in-tray. Your little bubble of happiness pops instantly and the gall comes rushing back.

The fucking nerve! As if you didn't have enough to do already! Those sons of bitches never let up, they never give you a moment's peace. Never a chance to catch up or take a breath or get even halfway frosty. One of these days, you'll make them all pay...

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You look athe in-tray
response: That's where they put work for you to do. They never seem to get tired of it. There's work in there right now, as a matter of fact. Lousy sons of bitches!
action: You take the work
response: As you take the papers, a memo slips out between two pages and lands on your desk face-down.
action: You examine the memo
response: (first taking the memo)
First thing you notice, turning the memo over: it's not on official firm stationery. You allow yourself a grim chuckle. Some poor slob's going to get it in the ass for that little slip-up, and for once it won't be you.

Then you read it.

All it says is: "How about a snack?"

Some kind of joke? Nervously, you glance around, but neither Furman nor Benson are anywhere in sight.

Not that it matters. Obviously, some son of a bitch is trying to mess with you. Either Furman or Benson, or maybe both. Or maybe that bastard Biedermeyer. Whatever. One way or the other, that son of a bitch is going to be sorry. That son of a bitch is going to find out just how frosty you can be.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You go to the east
response: As usual, Benson's corner of the office, is a filthy sty. Files, papers, supplies lying around everywhere. You don't know how anyone could work in these conditions. A vast bank of filing cabinets stands against the west wall, behind Benson's desk.

On the desk are some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: You are carrying a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is closed), a little gray bottle (which is closed), an ink stamp and a crumpled dollar bill.
action: Stamp paperwork
response: (with the ink stamp)
You take a deep breath, raise the ink stamp high over your head, and slam it down as hard as you can.

Right in the middle, every damn time. It's thrilling, on a sort of visceral, primitive level.
action: You examine the memo
response: All it says is: "How about a snack?"
action: You ask Benson about memo
response: Benson shrugs. "It didn't come from my desk."
action: You look at Benson
response: Benson is a lazy, ineffectual slob and everyone in the office knows it. He's in charge of Records, which puts him slightly below you on the totem pole, but it also entitles him to the use of the only stool in the office -- and he hogs that thing for all it's worth. He never actually uses it to get files. Just parks his pudgy ass on it and munches nougat bars all day.

Like your other co-worker Furman, Benson is short and slightly pudgy, and wears thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Benson shifts around on his stool, trying to get more comfortable.
action: You ask Benson about the nougat
response: "Man, I LOVE those nougat bars!" cries Benson happily. "I could eat those things all day long!"
action: You take the glasses
response: "Hey," says Benson, jerking his head away. "Keep your hands to yourself, will you?"
action: You ask Benson about the stool
response: "That's right," Benson says proudly, giving the side of the stool an affectionate slap. "She's all mine."
action: Kick stool
response: You give the stool a good, hard thump. You thump it again, a bit harder this time. Next thing you know, you're pounding on the stool again and again for all you're worth -- you stop yourself, feeling a bit light-headed. Damn. You hate it when that happens.
action: You examine the desk
response: It's an ordinary-looking desk. A bit smaller then yours, but everybody knows Benson's a lazy imbecile.
action: You kick benson
response: Oh, don't think you wouldn't love to pound Benson's face right through the back of his pointy little head. You never would, though, not with that bastard Biedermeyer watching your every move. Bide your time, though. Stay frosty. His day will come.
action: You ask Benson about the snack machine
response: "Generous of management, isn't it, to provide us working stiffs with that piece of junk, eh?" Benson smirks. "Still, he says, "I sure like those nougat bars!"
action: Describe the surroundings
response: As usual, Benson's corner of the office, is a filthy sty. Files, papers, supplies lying around everywhere. You don't know how anyone could work in these conditions. A vast bank of filing cabinets stands against the west wall, behind Benson's desk.

On the desk are some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.
action: Go north
response: What few pathetic nods to biological necessity are allowed by the firm have been shoved away into the northeast corner. There's a coffee maker in the corner, a vending machine against the east wall, and a door to the restroom to the north.

The vending machine stands there silently. Mocking you.
action: Go southwest
response: On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.
action: Bluemen 1
response: Enter saved game to store: Ok.
action: You put the paperwork ithe out-tray
response: Seconds after you drop it in, Benson scoots by your desk and whisks it away.

The paperwork disappears, and once again that inner serenity builds in you. Your anger subsides. Suddenly you realize that this is the secret, and it has been all along:

Work really will make you free.

It really is that simple. You've been so foolish, so needlessly frustrated all this time.

Furman zooms past again, dropping more papers into your in-tray. But it doesn't bother you. Smiling at the memory of your misguided ways, and looking forward to the beginning of a new era of goodness, harmony and team spirit you slowly raise the ink stamp and think:

I could never find a better job than this, if I spent my whole life looking.
action: You go to the northeast
response: The vending machine stands there silently. Mocking you.
action: You look at the machine
response: Ah, yes, the vending machine.

Like most vending machines, it is essentially a refrigerator-sized box with a glass front, behind which can be seen several rows of assorted treats. There is a panel of buttons to the side, beneath which is a slot for coins, a bill changer for paper money, and a cup for your change. Insert your money, make your selection, and your snack drops from the appropriate row into the receptacle bin at the bottom of the machine.

Simple.

But there is more to this vending machine than only that.

You hate this vending machine. You hate it more than just about anything or anyone else in this office. This vending machine was designed to hammer home a keen sense of the futility of existence; to taunt you with life's possibilities only to forever harass and frustrate your every attempt to grasp them. The machine never has anything you want. And even if it did, you couldn't buy it because you never have any change and the machine will only take mint-condition bills crisp enough to scoop bean dip with. And even if, by some fantastic stroke of luck, you did have change, and there was something remotely edible in the machine that you actually wanted, you'd still never be able to get it, because the merchandise invariably gets stuck before dropping into the receptacle, and no amount of shaking will bring it down unless you happen to be that son of a bitch Benson, who somehow always manages to retrieve his disgusting nougat bars with a single, insultingly skillful jiggle. Otherwise, forget it.

The machine is your nemesis. Someday -- and you know that day is fast approaching, you must destroy it... or it will destroy you.

Benson strolls by and heads straight for the vending machine, ignoring you completely. He pops a few coins into the slot and pushes 'A'.

The machine dutifully grinds out another nougat bar, which snags on the wire, like always, just before it can drop into the receptacle.

Benson leans his hip against the machine and gives it a deft shove. The nougat bar shakes free immediately and drops into the receptacle.. Satisfied, he retrieves his prize, digs his change out of the change cup, and heads back to his desk, already stuffing the end of the nougat bar into his mouth as he goes.
action: You look at the snack
response: Which do you mean, the vending machine or the merchandise?
action: Merchandise
response: There are ten rows behind the Plexiglass front, labeled A through J, corresponding to the ten buttons on the side of the machine. Row A contains those filthy nougat bars that Benson can't seem to stop stuffing down his fat, greedy hole. Every other row contains Beechnut gum. That's it. Nothing but Beechnut, Beechnut and Beechnut.

You hate Beechnut. You don't know anyone who doesn't hate Beechnut. Even Benson would probably start chewing on Furman's congealed coffee grinds before shelling out for a stick of fucking Beechnut...

Hey, wait a minute.

Down at the bottom, in row J, something is glinting. It's a little metal key. Second from the front. Right behind a stick of Beechnut.

How the mighty freaking hell did that get in there?

It's part of the joke. That must be it. Benson or Furman or that bastard Biedermeyer are sneaking around here somewhere, spying on you and laughing their asses off.

You are abruptly seized by an acute desire to get that key, get it no matter what the cost, and cram it down some poor joker's throat.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You examine the key
response: It's a little metal key, dangling right behind the first pack of Beechnut in row J. Damned if you know what it opens, though.
action: You look under the machine
response: Getting down on your hands and knees and peering under the machine, you notice that one of the legs is slightly shorter than the other. A thin wooden shim has been wedged under the shorter leg, preventing the machine from wobbling.

You also see a nickel which must have been dropped here earlier. You snooze, you lose, punk-ass, you think to yourself gleefully, pocketing the money.

[You have just become a little bit less steamed.]
action: You put the nickel in the machine
response: The nickel disappears into the slot and rattles down into the guts of the machine.
action: Press j.
response: The machine beeps at you -- not enough money!

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You press change
response: You are unable to.
action: You examine the machine
response: Like most vending machines, it is essentially a refrigerator-sized box with a glass front, behind which can be seen several rows of assorted treats. There is a panel of buttons to the side, beneath which is a slot for coins, a bill changer for paper money, and a cup for your change. Insert your money, make your selection, and your snack drops from the appropriate row into the receptacle bin at the bottom of the machine.
action: You press the a.
response: (the panel of buttons)
The machine beeps at you -- not enough money!
action: You examine the bill changer
response: It says "Insert bill in any direction," but that is clearly a gross misrepresentation of the facts.
action: You put the bill in the machine
response: (the crumpled dollar bill in the vending machine)
It isn't enough, sometimes, to simply know that your efforts are hopeless; sometimes you really have to watch yourself fail one more time -- just to drive the point home.

Carefully, painstakingly, you smooth the crumpled bill as best you can, then gently prod one end of it into the bill changer. The mechanism inside catches it, drags it in and starts working it over. When it finally spits the bill back out with a self-satisfied buzzing sound, the dollar looks even more masticated than it did before.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You get shim
response: You pry the shim out from under the vending machine, which wobbles a bit as the little wedge pops free.
action: You look at the shim
response: It's a thin wedge, made of wood.
action: You pick up the machine
response: That's hardly portable.
action: You pull the machine
response: You are unable to.
action: You look at the coffee maker
response: A simple device: push the black button on top, and it pisses a cupful of tepid nastiness into the little dispenser beneath. Not that you'd want it to. Furman's the only one who'll drink the revolting stuff.
action: Go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

Every wall, fixture and counter surface in this restroom is painted an intolerably bright, eye-bending nuclear orange. The reasoning behind this choice of decor is unclear -- perhaps the hope is that someone who is tense enough to crack walnuts with his ass cheeks isn't going to be spending lots of time on a toilet seat. Anyway, there's a sink and mirror in the north wall, and a stall to the east. Or you could just leave to the south.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

The fire extinguisher is sitting in its usual corner, gathering dust.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You examine the detector
response: That piece of crap hasn't detected so much as a bugfart since the day they installed it. It only (and always) goes off whenever someone actually enters the bathroom, letting forth with a piercing shriek high enough to break up kidney stones. A further deterrent for anyone too comatose to be bothered by the paint, probably.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine stands there silently. Mocking you.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You go to the south
response: On the desk are a half-eaten nougat bar and some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.
action: You take the bar
response: "Hey!" snaps Benson. "Keep your hands off the nougat, buddy!"
action: You examine papers
response: Which do you mean, the scattered papers or the paperwork?
action: You examine the scattered papers
response: Benson habitually keeps his papers in a state of hopeless mess, scattered all over his desk.
action: You examine the cabinets
response: The filing cabinets cover the entire east wall. Their drawers are perpetually closed. You've never even seen Benson go into them; then again, you've never handed him a stamped request form, either.
action: You read the scattered papers
response: (first taking the scattered papers)
You've got enough papers to push on your own desk without pushing any of Benson's.
action: You go north
response: The northwest corner is Furman's area. Everything is tucked away and tidy, which is exactly how that obsessive freak likes it. The photocopier squats over by the west wall, and a short corridor to the north leads to that bastard Biedermeyer's office.

On the desk are a microfiche reader and a file request form.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.

Furman himself is hunched over his precious microfiche reader, ignoring you completely.
action: You ask Furman about the memo
response: Furman frowns. "If you got a memo, it didn't come through me. And I refuse to believe that Biedermeyer would have sent you a message personally. Which means the memo is most likely unauthorized." He turns away from you with a sniff. "If I were you, I'd take it straight to Biedermeyer. I won't have anything to do with it."
action: You look at the jacket
response: Neat, creased and free of lint. It's enough to make you sick.
action: Examine form
response: Benson won't let anyone check out files unless they hand him a stamped file request form. Of course, you're not authorized to keep forms on your own desk -- you're forced to beg them off that son of a bitch Furman. This one, however, might be free for the taking, if Furman doesn't catch you. It looks like this one's already been filled out.
action: You get the form
response: You deftly swipe the file request form from Furman's desk. He's so absorbed with his reader, he doesn't even notice. Serves him right, if he gets in trouble for losing it.

[You have just become a little bit less steamed.]
action: You read the form
response: Benson won't let anyone check out files unless they hand him a stamped file request form. Of course, you're not authorized to keep forms on your own desk -- you're forced to beg them off that son of a bitch Furman. Or steal them, as the case may be. It looks like this one's already been filled out.
action: Stamp form
response: (with the ink stamp)
Carefully, you stamp the form right over the signature blank, pressing down good and hard to make it dark. If Benson doesn't look to closely, he'll never notice that Furman hasn't authorized it.
action: You go to the south-east
response: On the desk are a half-eaten nougat bar and some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.

Someone taps you on the shoulder. You turn around, and are startled to find that son of a bitch Furman away from his desk.

"Excuse me," he says in his most irritated voice, "I was looking for that." He plucks the file request form from your hand. "It's my last one, and anyway you aren't authorized to use them."

He sort of sniffs at you, then turns around and minces back to his desk.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: Examine bar
response: It's disgusting; Benson's been gnawing on it for God knows how long, and the end is all soft and melted and covered with Benson's slobber.
action: You eat the bar
response: (first taking the half-eaten nougat bar)
"Hey!" snaps Benson. "Keep your hands off the nougat, buddy!"

Benson takes another bite of his nougat bar and sets it back on his desk, ruminating thoughtfully.
action: You go to the north
response: On the desk are a file request form and a microfiche reader.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.

Furman himself is hunched over his precious microfiche reader, ignoring you completely.

This short, empty corridor connects the main office area, to the south, with Biedermeyer's office, to the north.

The door to Biedermeyer's office is closed.

A shiver runs up your back. You never come here. No one ever comes here. You are finding it decidedly difficult to stay frosty.
action: You open the door
response: It seems to be locked.
action: You knock on the door
response: Timidly, you knock on the door. No one answers.
action: You kick the door
response: You wouldn't dare. Your knuckles seem to curdle at the very thought.
action: You go to the south
response: On the desk are a file request form and a microfiche reader.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.

Furman himself is hunched over his precious microfiche reader, ignoring you completely.
action: You look at the form
response: Benson won't let anyone check out files unless they hand him a stamped file request form. Of course, you're not authorized to keep forms on your own desk -- you're forced to beg them off that son of a bitch Furman. Or steal them, as the case may be. It looks like this one's already been filled out. It's even been stamped.
action: You take the form
response: Taken.
action: You examine reader
response: Furman loves that reader; it's like his special toy. He never lets anyone else touch it -- says it's "too complicated," though it can't be that difficult if a terminal moron like Furman can operate it. Anyway, the only controls are a toggle switch and a small button.
The microfiche reader is currently switched on.
action: You go to the south-east
response: On the desk are a half-eaten nougat bar and some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.

Someone taps you on the shoulder. You turn around, and are startled to find that son of a bitch Furman away from his desk.

"Excuse me," he says in his most irritated voice, "I was looking for that." He plucks the file request form from your hand. "It's my last one, and anyway you aren't authorized to use them."

He sort of sniffs at you, then turns around and minces back to his desk.
action: You go to the north-west
response: On the desk are a file request form and a microfiche reader.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.

Furman himself is hunched over his precious microfiche reader, ignoring you completely.

Furman whirs through some more text on the microfiche reader. He makes some clicking noises with his tongue, and scribbles down a few notes.
action: You turn off the reader
response: "Hands off," snaps Furman, slapping your hand away. "This is a delicate piece of equipment."
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying a wooden shim, a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is closed), a little gray bottle (which is closed), an ink stamp and a crumpled dollar bill.
action: You press the button
response: Which do you mean, the black button or the panel of buttons?
action: You press the black button
response: The coffee maker shudders as though straining to pass a gallstone, and after a moment a plastic cup drops into its small dispenser. Then, with a horrible, thick gurgling sound, it spews a generous amount of terrible-smelling coffee into the cup. Voila; your swill is served.
action: You get the coffee
response: (the nasty coffee)
Taken.
action: You open the white bottle
response: You open the little white bottle, revealing some gray pills.
action: You take the gray pill
response: You toss one into your mouth and swallow it dry. It scrapes down your throat like a chunk of gravel.
action: You put the gray pill in the coffee
response: You drop one of the gray pills into the coffee, where it instantly dissolves into the murky depths.
action: Go southwest
response: On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.
action: Go north
response: On the desk are a file request form and a microfiche reader.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.

Furman himself is hunched over his precious microfiche reader, ignoring you completely.

Furman whirs through some more text on the microfiche reader. "Oh, ho ho," he chortles. He winks disgustingly at you and lays his finger alongside his nose.
action: You give the coffee to Furman
response: "Hey, thanks," Furman says, hardly even glancing at you. He swills down some coffee, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, puts the cup on his desk and turns back to his microfiche.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

Furman takes another sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving the microfiche screen.
action: You examine the coffee
response: The coffee is thick and sludgy looking, with a thin, oily film skimming the surface.
action: You open the gray bottle
response: You open the little gray bottle, revealing some white pills.
action: You put the white pill in the coffee
response: You drop one of the white pills into the coffee, where it instantly dissolves into the murky depths. Furman, absorbed with his microfiche reader, doesn't even notice.

Furman takes another sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving the microfiche screen.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

Furman whirs through some more text on the microfiche reader. "Hmm," he mutters, "very interesting..."
action: You open the grey bottle
response: That's already open.

Furman leans back from the microfiche, rubs his eyes and lets forth a jaw-cracking yawn. "Man, am I beat," he says, and then pitches headfirst across his desk like a pole-axed buffalo.

Clearly, your pharmacopeial cocktail must have shagged him -- the whites are obviously the sleeping pills. Potent ones, by the look of it.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You get the form
response: Taken.
action: Go southeast
response: Nothing. Not even a molecule of pocket lint.



On the desk are a half-eaten nougat bar and some scattered papers.

That lazy son of a bitch Benson is perched on his precious stool, leaning back against the files with his feet up on the desk like always.
action: You give the form to Benson
response: Benson takes the file request form, squints at it, turns it upside-down, then looks you over suspiciously. He checks the form again. He scratches his head.

"Well," he says finally, "all right... but try to stamp it closer to the edge next time, will you?"

He turns his back to you and starts digging through the file cabinets.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You take the stool
response: "Take a hike," snaps Benson. "I need this stool to reach the high files. You want one, get your own."

Benson turns back to you, shaking his head. "I can't find that file anywhere -- hey!" He leans over and snatches the sticky nougat bar from you. "Get your own, if you're that hungry!"

Benson stretches his arms noisily.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You eat the bar
response: You take a deep breath and scarf down the nougat bar. Almost immediately you begin to gag -- the stuff is essentially nothing but sawdust and cushion stuffing coated with a thin layer of brown, edible paste. But you force it down anyway, gobbling the whole thing in a matter of seconds.

Benson turns back to you, shaking his head. "I can't find that file anywhere in our archives," he says. "Sorry."

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You get the key
response: Taken.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You examine the machine
response: The machine is lying face down, its innards smashed and scattered across the floor. A ragged hole has been hacked into the back of the machine like some sort of crude, mechanical nephrectomy scar, providing access to the inner workings.
action: You examine the workings
response: It's a lot of mechanical stuff, mostly beyond you. Anyway, it never worked right when it was intact, so why should it be of any use now?
action: You examine Benson
response: Benson is finished; the heavy vending machine squashed him like bug under a brick. He lies face up and spread-eagled, half-under the vending machine, his glasses slightly askew.
action: You take the glasses
response: Gingerly you tug at the glasses, but they don't seem to want to come off. Looking closely, you see that this is because they seem to be attached directly to Benson's flesh, right behind the ears.

Pulling a little harder, you notice that the skin is in fact giving a little bit, pulling away from Benson's head like the edge of a rubber mask. And underneath the edge of skin, you can see...

... you can see something blue.

At that precise moment, Biedermeyer walks up behind you.

"Ah, thank you, but there's no need to mess with that," he says. Instinctively you jerk your hand away from the glasses and drop your gaze to the floor.

"I know you want to help and all but, well... you know how it is. Everything's fine here, everything's under control," says Biedermeyer awkwardly. "Your concern is appreciated, but there's, uh, there's really nothing more you can do." Effortlessly, he lifts the vending machine with one hand and pulls Benson's corpse out from under it with the other. "Go ahead and get on back to work now. Thank you." And he hauls off Benson as casually as if he had just cleaned up a spilled soda.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You go to the south
response: On the desk are some scattered papers.

You can see the stool here.
action: You take the stool
response: Taken.
action: You read scattered
response: (first taking the scattered papers)
You've got enough papers to push on your own desk without pushing any of Benson's.
action: Search scattered
response: You gingerly lift up a couple of sheets of paper, and discover a pair of scissors underneath.
action: Go east
response: On the desk are a pair of scissors and some scattered papers.
action: You examine the cabinets
response: The filing cabinets cover the entire east wall. Their drawers are perpetually closed. You've never even seen Benson go into them; then again, you've never handed him a stamped request form, either.

Well, except for today, anyway.
action: You search the cabinets
response: Eagerly, you pull open a drawer and start riffling through the manila folders inside, but all the folders in that drawer are empty. You slam the drawer shut and open another one. Those folders are empty, too. Drawer after drawer, each filled with manila folders, each manila folder blank and empty. These worthless filing cabinets have nothing in them, nothing in them at all.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You open the drawer
response: It's just empty folders. All of it. There's absolutely nothing in here.
action: You look at the scissors
response: They're blunt scissors. They only let you use blunt scissors here.
action: Go north
response: On the desk are Furman, a plastic cup (in which is some nasty coffee) and a microfiche reader.

Furman's jacket is hanging neatly up on its hook, just like always.
action: You examine reader
response: Furman loves that reader; it's like his special toy. He never lets anyone else touch it -- says it's "too complicated," though it can't be that difficult if a terminal moron like Furman can operate it. Anyway, the only controls are a toggle switch and a small button.
The microfiche reader is currently switched on.
action: You examine furman
response: Furman is sprawled across his desk, totally gone. His glasses seem to have gone crooked.
action: You take the glasses
response: Time to get to the bottom of this, goddammit -- you give the glasses a determined yank, stripping away a large swatch of Furman's face along with it.

The head underneath is small and perfectly round, like a shot-put ball. The skin is a uniform, creamy, day-dreamy blue. And the eyes...

"Go back to your desk now," Biedermeyer says brusquely, stepping between you and the body. He slips the glasses from your numb fingers. "There's work to be done."

You turn away, stomach heaving, as that bastard Biedermeyer bundles away the body. When you finally look back, both Biedermeyer and Furman are gone. As if nothing had ever happened.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: Examine toggle
response: It's a simple toggle switch with a symbol at either end, like this:

!
X

The switch is currently pointing toward 'O'.
action: You search it
response: Nothing. Not even a molecule of pocket lint.
action: You take it
response: You pull Furman's jacket down, leaving the empty hanger dangling on the hook.
action: You examine reader
response: Furman loves that reader; it's like his special toy. He never lets anyone else touch it -- says it's "too complicated," though it can't be that difficult if a terminal moron like Furman can operate it. Anyway, the only controls are a toggle switch and a small button.
The microfiche reader is currently switched on.
action: You look in reader
response: Finally! A peek at Furman's precious little secrets...

What the hell...?!

The screen is filled with nothing but line after line of scrambled mumbo-jumbo. There's nothing to this piece-of-crap microfiche reader at all. That son of a bitch Furman's been playing you for a sucker this whole time!

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You examine the small button
response: It's a simple button, labeled with a symbol like this:

>>
action: You look at the machine
response: Which do you mean, the microfiche reader or the photocopier?
action: You examine the photocopier
response: The photocopier is a hulking technological monstrosity that you've never been able to satisfactorily figure out. It's got about fourteen billion buttons on it and the only one you know how to use is the big green one marked 'COPY'. There's also a lid on top (paper goes in), and a small hopper off to one side (paper comes out). That's as familiar as you've ever cared to (or are ever likely to) get with this thing.

Currently, the lid is closed and the hopper is empty.
action: You open the photocopier
response: You open the copier. There is nothing on the glass.
action: You put the bill in photocopier
response: You put the crumpled dollar bill on the glass.
action: You press the button
response: (the big green button)
The machine beeps at you; it won't copy anything unless you close the lid first.
action: You close the lid
response: You close the photocopier.

That's already closed.
action: You press the button
response: (the big green button)
The copier vibrates ominously as its inner workings begin to churn. A ghastly light seeps out from under the edges of the lid, there is a terrible noise like a wet canvas being sucked through a mail slot...

... and a copy of the dollar bill drops out the other side and lands in the hopper.
action: You open the lid
response: You open the copier. On the glass is the original crumpled dollar bill.
action: You take the bill
response: (the original crumpled dollar bill)
Taken.
action: You examine copy
response: (the big green button)
Big, green and friendly. You can't go wrong with 'COPY'.
action: You take the copy
response: (the big green button)
That's fixed in place.
action: You cut the copy of the the dollar bill with the scissors
response: Carefully, you cut the excess paper from around the image of the dollar bill. The end product is a little ragged around the edges, but otherwise not too shabby.

[You have just become a little bit less steamed.]
action: Go northeast
response: If you feel like visiting that bastard Biedermeyer, you can go north; otherwise you can wander around the rest of the office to the east, south or southeast.
action: You go to the east
response: The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You put the dollar bill in the machine
response: Why bother?
action: You check your inventory
response: You are carrying the original crumpled dollar bill, a hanger, Furman's jacket, a pair of scissors, the stool, a shiny key, a wooden shim, a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is open), inside which are some gray pills, a little gray bottle (which is open), inside which are some white pills and an ink stamp.
action: You look in the hole
response: Which do you mean, the hole in the wall or the broken vending machine?
action: You look in the hole in the the wall
response: You hunker down and peer into the hole. It appears to go all the way through the wall, but you can't see anything but empty darkness on the other side.
action: You go east
response: You can go north to the restroom if you want, though you might want to save yourself some agony and just drive something sharp into your bladder, instead. Otherwise, there's west, southwest or south.
action: You examine the hole in the wall
response: It's about six inches across, just big enough to put your fist through. It's in roughly the same place that the hole in the vending machine would be, if the vending machine were still standing against the wall.
action: You examine the machine
response: The machine is lying face down, its innards smashed and scattered across the floor. A ragged hole has been hacked into the back of the machine like some sort of crude, mechanical nephrectomy scar, providing access to the inner workings.
action: You examine the inner workings
response: It's a lot of mechanical stuff, mostly beyond you. Anyway, it never worked right when it was intact, so why should it be of any use now?
action: You go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

The fire extinguisher is sitting in its usual corner, gathering dust.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You look at the hanger
response: It's a hanger. Big deal.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You get the fire extinguisher
response: Grunting, you pick up the heavy fire extinguisher, hefting it once or twice to get your grip.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You drop the stool
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
Dropped.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You stand on the stool
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

You can also see the stool here.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
You get onto the stool.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You go to the north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

You can also see the stool here.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You stand on stool
response: You get onto the stool.

That whine is killing you. Your head feels like it's trying to give birth to a crazed, pecking kiwi-bird. It's no good, you can't stay frosty here; desperately, half-blind from the swirling orange holocaust pressing in on you from all sides, you lurch to the door and stumble out into the office.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You take the gum
response: What the hell for? It's worthless garbage. Let that bastard Biedermeyer clean it up, if he wants.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

Hmm. A vaguely pleasant tingling sensation is crawling up your scalp from the base of your skull. Must be those pills kicking in.
action: Go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through. Predictably, the smoke detector goes off as soon as you walk through the door, cutting through your skull like a dull bone saw.

The plastic smoke detector is stuck to the center of the ceiling like a crazy orange limpet.

You can also see the stool here.

The tingling spreads throughout your entire head, making it all warm and numb and kind of floaty.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You stand on stool
response: You get onto the stool.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You open the detector
response: That's not something you can open.

The tingling is starting to fade.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You take the detector
response: That's fixed in place.

The tingling is starting to fade.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You examine the detector
response: That piece of crap hasn't detected so much as a bugfart since the day they installed it. It only (and always) goes off whenever someone actually enters the bathroom, letting forth with a piercing shriek high enough to break up kidney stones. A further deterrent for anyone too comatose to be bothered by the paint, probably.

The tingling is starting to fade.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You turn the detector off
response: It's just a featureless disk of orange plastic, no way to turn the damn thing on or off.

You're back to normal again, unfortunately, and the screaming is slowly pushing its way into your head again.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You hit the detector with the extinguisher
response: Furiously, you whale on the smoke detector until the plastic casing splits and cracks open. Its wiry innards hang in sagging loops like the guts of an eviscerated cow.

You're back to normal again, unfortunately, and the screaming is slowly pushing its way into your head again.

The smoke detector is still shrieking.
action: You cut the wires
response: (with the scissors)
The wires hiss and smoke and spray sparks in your face as you relentlessly gnaw through them with the blunt scissors -- but perseverance and a frosty attitude pay off in the end as the last wire snaps, and the smoke detector falls silent.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You look
response: Restroom (on the stool)
Every wall, fixture and counter surface in this restroom is painted an intolerably bright, eye-bending nuclear orange. The reasoning behind this choice of decor is unclear -- perhaps the hope is that someone who is tense enough to crack walnuts with his ass cheeks isn't going to be spending lots of time on a toilet seat. Anyway, there's a sink and mirror in the north wall, and a stall to the east. Or you could just leave to the south.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.
action: You examine the mirror
response: You're looking sharp as ever.
action: You examine the sink
response: It doesn't work. It's never worked. If you want anything to drink around here, you'll have to brave the coffee.
action: You go to the east
response: You'll have to get off the stool first.
action: You get off the stool
response: You get off the stool.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: Every wall, fixture and counter surface in this restroom is painted an intolerably bright, eye-bending nuclear orange. The reasoning behind this choice of decor is unclear -- perhaps the hope is that someone who is tense enough to crack walnuts with his ass cheeks isn't going to be spending lots of time on a toilet seat. Anyway, there's a sink and mirror in the north wall, and a stall to the east. Or you could just leave to the south.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.

You can also see the stool here.
action: You open the door
response: Which do you mean, the stall door or the restroom door?
action: You unlock it with hanger
response: You jam the coat hanger through the narrow gap and wiggle it around until it hooks onto the sliding bolt. Then, with a jerk, you pull the bolt back, unlocking the door.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You open it
response: You open the stall door.
action: You go to the east
response: Other than the nauseating paint job, there's not much to distinguish this bathroom stall from the thousands of similar ilk. Toilet; toilet paper dispenser; the door to your west; that's pretty much it.

Funny, though. As familiar as all this is, you're sure you've never seen the inside of this particular stall before. As far as you can remember, you've never been in here at all.
action: You look in toilet
response: Nothing, not even any water. Not even, you note with some confusion, a hole for the water to drain through. That's right, just a featureless porcelain bowl.
action: You close the door
response: You close the stall door.
action: You examine the door
response: Interesting. You've never seen it from this side before.
action: You examine the dispenser
response: A little metal box bolted to the side of the stall. There is no toilet paper in it.
action: You look in it
response: No toilet paper in there; not a single square.
action: You examine the toilet
response: Your standard fixture, sculpted from harsh orange porcelain.
action: You take the dispenser
response: That's hardly portable.
action: Flush toilet
response: There's no handle, no chain, no button. No way to flush it. And nothing in it to flush anyway.
action: You sit on the toilet
response: You turn around and lower yourself onto the seat. Aside from the fact that you are now facing the other direction, little has changed.
action: You look up
response: The ceiling is painted bright orange, just like everything else.
action: You examine the walls
response: The walls here are painted bright orange, just like everything else.
action: You hit the toilet with the fire extinguisher
response: You give the toilet a good, hard thump. You thump it again, a bit harder this time. Next thing you know, you're pounding on the toilet again and again for all you're worth -- you stop yourself, feeling a bit light-headed. Damn. You hate it when that happens.
action: You enter it
response: But you're already on the toilet.
action: You examine the dispenser
response: A little metal box bolted to the side of the stall. There is no toilet paper in it.

There's also a little keyhole on the side facing the toilet. You didn't notice it before, since you were looking at it from the other side.
action: You unlock the dispenser with the key
response: You insert the shiny key into the keyhole and twist it clockwise. A mechanism inside the toilet paper dispenser clicks, and the bathroom is filled with a rumbling sound. Suddenly, the entire rear wall of the stall spins on a hidden axis, taking the toilet and yourself along with it...

Behind the Restroom (on the toilet)
You're in a narrow, irregular passageway behind the east wall of the restroom. The walls are all dust and splintered wood and ragged plaster, and the floor is bare concrete.

A thin, cringing man in the tattered remains of a business suit is standing here, grinning and cracking his knuckles.

You wonder if any of the others know about this place. You sure as hell didn't.

The thin man grabs your hand and starts pumping it vigorously before you can even get up off the toilet.

"Hi there," he says breathlessly. "Robertson. You must have gotten my message."

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You examine man
response: A decrepit scarecrow of a man, Robertson appears to be in the advanced stages of some sort of horrific drug withdrawal. He jitters, frets, drools occasionally, and cracks his knuckles obsessively.

Also, you notice, he has a couple of odd scars on his head, one right behind each ear.

"I've been waiting back here for I don't know how long," he pants. "They tried to get me, too, you know?"
action: You ask the man about the glasses
response: Robertson recoils. "Don't ever let them put those on you! Don't EVER let them!" He rubs convulsively behind his ears. "Almost got me, you know. Almost made me love myself!"

"They tried to teach me... " Robertson suddenly straightens up, darts his skinny head around like a spooked heron. He cracks his knuckles a few times. Then he leans in close. "They tried to teach me how to love," he whispers.
action: You wait awhile
response: Time passes.

"But I got away, you know?" Robertson grins, and does a weird, shuffling sort of jig. "Dug my way back here. They can't find me. Don't know where to look. You know? I'm still digging, too. Pretty soon I'll break through to the outside, and then I'm out of here."
action: You ask the man about the outside
response: At the moment, you can't think of anything intelligent to say about that, so you wisely keep your mouth shut. No point in looking stupid.
action: You ask the man about Biedermeyer
response: Robertson shudders. "Worst thing about him is, we all know who he is, you know?" We just can't say."

Robertson snaps his fingers and makes a sound like a rocket ship lifting off. "Out of here," he whispers.
action: You ask the man about the hole
response: "I bored right through it with this," Robertson says, showing you the letter opener. "That's how I got my food, you know? That's how I put the key out for you."
action: You ask the man about key
response: "Yeah, that was me," says Robertson. "Slipped it into the machine, you know? Through the back. Figured no one'd be looking for it. Except you. Hee, hee," he giggles.
action: You ask the man about the toilet
response: "That's my secret way in, you know." Robertson grins and hunches his shoulders. "Like Batman."
action: You ask man about the memo
response: "It was pretty tricky, getting that note into your box, you know?" Robertson says. "But I did it. Can't tell you how -- it's a secret. But I had help. Chubby pink fairies." Robertson looks around furtively. "That's all I can say... for now."
action: You ask the man about Benson
response: "Took them even longer to change him than it did Furman." Robertson nodes. "Wouldn't have thought it, looking at him, you know? He was slippery. Not slippery enough, though, know what I mean? Ha! Ha!"
action: You ask the man about Furman
response: "Yeah, he went down pretty fast, you know? First to go." Robertson bears his teeth. "Scuttling little yes-man. A fucking beetle."
action: You ask the man about yourself
response: "Been watching you, you know? You're different; I can tell. Why I sent you the note."
action: You ask the man about himself
response: At the moment, you can't think of anything intelligent to say about that, so you wisely keep your mouth shut. No point in looking stupid.
action: You ask the man about man
response: Which do you mean, Robertson, Benson, Furman or Biedermeyer?
action: You ask man about Robertson
response: Robertson smiles. "That's me, know what I mean? Me. Is me. Not them." He taps the scars behind either ear with his index fingers. "Got away, see, and now I'm Robertson. I'm still me."
action: You ask the man about blue
response: Robertson suddenly grabs you by the shirt front. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, man! That's what's going on out there" That's what they're turning into! That's what they're trying to turn YOU into!"
action: You look
response: Behind the Restroom (on the toilet)
You're in a narrow, irregular passageway behind the east wall of the restroom. The walls are all dust and splintered wood and ragged plaster, and the floor is bare concrete.

Robertson hovers nearby, smiling and cringing like a pathetic sycophant.
action: Look around
response: You're in a narrow, irregular passageway behind the east wall of the restroom. The walls are all dust and splintered wood and ragged plaster, and the floor is bare concrete.

Robertson hovers nearby, smiling and cringing like a pathetic sycophant.
action: You go to the south
response: More of the same dirty, broken passageway. It looks as though the entire east wall of the office has been hollowed out from one end to the other.

A ragged hole in the west wall lets a dusty beam of light in.

Robertson follows you, fawning and cringing by turns. He points to the ragged hole. "Dug that out myself, you know?" he says proudly. "With this." He shows you a steel letter opener, its blade scratched and pitted. "Only way to get food. Guy's got to eat, you know?"

Robertson giggles suddenly, and then looks at you as though he seriously suspects you of being stark barking mad.

Then he smiles. "Got a water cache, too," he says, jerking his thumb toward the south end of the passage. "They're scared of water, you know? Can't stand the stuff. That's why nothing works around here. I managed to get some, though, so they won't be coming round here anytime soon, know what I mean?" And he throws his head back and laughs.
action: You ask Robertson about the water
response: "Only thing they're afraid of, you know," whispers Robertson. "Can't stand the touch of it. Won't have it anywhere near them."
action: You ask the man about the cache
response: "My private stash," says Robertson. He gives you a sly look. "It's right up ahead," he says, gesturing toward the south end of the corridor.
action: You look at the hole
response: It's about six inches across, just big enough to put your fist through. It's in roughly the same place that the hole in the vending machine would be, if the vending machine were still standing against the other side of the wall.
action: Go south
response: The passage narrows to a tight squeeze at the south end, little more than a glorified crack in the plaster, really.

An ancient, dusty water cooler is stashed way back in the far corner.

Most of the limited floor space is occupied by a large metal drawer sticking out of the western wall at roughly knee-level. You have to practically climb over it to maneuver.

You realize suddenly that Robertson has become very quiet. A dim reflection in the curved, plastic side of the water tank catches your eye.
action: You hit Robertson
response: You whirl around, fists up and swinging. But the shifty bastard is too quick for you. He fends off your bare knuckles with a strength born of desperation, and plunges the blade into your throat. You go down gurgling. That crazy son of a bitch never stops grinning at you like a starving hyena, the whole damn time.
action: You examine cooler
response: It's an old office water cooler -- you're not sure how you recognize it, but you're sure you've seen one before. There's a plastic spigot poking out the front, and there's even a little bit of water sloshing around in the tank.

Robertson suddenly lunges at you, screaming, "GUY'S GOTTA EAT YOU KNOW! GUY'S GOTTA EAT YOU KNOW!!"
action: You examine the reflection
response: The tank is a cylinder of clear, thick plastic sitting on top of the water cooler. There's a small quantity of water down in the bottom of the tank.

Growling and foaming like an animal, Robertson lunges again, and this time he's too quick for you. The letter opener punches through your abdomen and breaks off halfway down the blade. As you sink to your knees, clutching your gut, Robertson kicks you over onto your back, sits on your chest, and plunges the jagged stump of the letter opener into your throat again and again, drooling and yelping like a starved hyena all the while.
action: Look around
response: A ragged hole in the west wall lets a dusty beam of light in.

Robertson staggers after you, laughing and hacking at the air with his letter opener.

More of the same dirty, broken passageway. It looks as though the entire east wall of the office has been hollowed out from one end to the other.

Robertson isn't looking so good. He's eyeing you up and down in an decidedly un-frosty way.

A ragged hole in the west wall lets a dusty beam of light in.

Robertson suddenly lunges at you, screaming, "GUY'S GOTTA EAT YOU KNOW! GUY'S GOTTA EAT YOU KNOW!!"
action: You kick the wall
response: Which do you mean, the hole in the wall or the wall?
action: You hit Robertson with fire extinguisher
response: You whirl around, swinging the heavy fire extinguisher like a golf club, in a rising arc that catches him right under the chin. Everything below his nose flattens up into his upper jaw like a cheap piece of origami. He hits the floor, his precious letter opener clattering from his limp fingers.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You go south
response: An ancient, dusty water cooler is stashed way back in the far corner.

Most of the limited floor space is occupied by a large metal drawer sticking out of the western wall at roughly knee-level. You have to practically climb over it to maneuver.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You take cooler
response: That's fixed in place.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You examine the drawer
response: It's a rectangular, open-topped box made of metal, about five feet long, two feet wide and two feet deep.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You enter the drawer
response: You fold yourself awkwardly into the cramped metal box, noticing, as you do so, a small gray button mounted on the inside.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You go outside
response: As soon as you clamber out, the drawer retracts jerkily back into the east wall, slamming shut with a bang.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go west
response: On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.

Your phone is ringing.
action: You answer the phone
response: You pick up the receiver and place it against your ear. It's Biedermeyer.

"This is Biedermeyer," says Biedermeyer. "I would like you to step into my office, please. Immediately."

Then he hangs up.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You go north
response: On the desk are a plastic cup (in which is some nasty coffee) and a microfiche reader.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You take the cup
response: Taken.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Empty cup
response: You can't pour the nothing; it's not a liquid!

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Empty coffee
response: The nasty coffee can't contain things.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You pour the coffee
response: Stop trying to make a mess.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You drink the coffee
response: The nasty coffee might stick going down, don't you think?

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You go east
response: The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.

You can also see the stool here.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You go to the east
response: You can't, since the stall door is in the way.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You open the door
response: Which do you mean, the stall door or the restroom door?
action: Stall
response: You open the stall door.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go east
response: Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go west
response: The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.

You can also see the stool here.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You pour the coffee in the sink
response: You dump the nasty coffee into the sink, and it swirls harmlessly away.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You sit on the toilet
response: You turn around and lower yourself onto the seat. Aside from the fact that you are now facing the other direction, little has changed.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Unlock dispenser
response: (with the shiny key)
You insert the shiny key into the keyhole and twist it clockwise. A mechanism inside the toilet paper dispenser clicks, and the bathroom is filled with a rumbling sound. Suddenly, the entire rear wall of the stall spins on a hidden axis, taking the toilet and yourself along with it...

Behind the Restroom (on the toilet)
You're in a narrow, irregular passageway behind the east wall of the restroom. The walls are all dust and splintered wood and ragged plaster, and the floor is bare concrete.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You stand
response: As soon as you stand up, the wall spins again, whisking the toilet away and leaving you with nothing but a blank wall.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go south
response: Robertson is gravy. His digging days are over.

You can also see a letter opener here.

A ragged hole in the west wall lets a dusty beam of light in.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You go south
response: An ancient, dusty water cooler is stashed way back in the far corner.

Most of the limited floor space is occupied by a large metal drawer sticking out of the western wall at roughly knee-level. You have to practically climb over it to maneuver.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You take the opener
response: Taken.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You fill the cup with the water
response: The water is inside an enclosed tank -- you can't get at it.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You examine cooler
response: It's an old office water cooler -- you're not sure how you recognize it, but you're sure you've seen one before. There's a plastic spigot poking out the front, and there's even a little bit of water sloshing around in the tank.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You examine the spigot
response: The little plastic spigot is old, warped and corroded.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You open the spigot
response: The spigot is too corroded; it won't work.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You cut the spigot
response: (with the scissors)
You can't get the little blades around the spigot well enough to cut it.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You cut the spigot with the opener
response: You don't have anything to cut with!

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Stab cooler
response: You jab the letter opener into the side of the tank, puncturing the thick plastic. When you let go, the blade stays, vibrating slightly.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You get the opener
response: The blade pulls free with a sharp squeak. Immediately, water begins trickling out through the hole.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.

The water trickles slowly out of the tank.
action: You fill the cup with the water
response: You hold the cup under the thin trickle until it fills up with water, at which point the trickle dies away.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You enter the drawer
response: You fold yourself awkwardly into the cramped metal box, noticing, as you do so, a small gray button mounted on the inside.

Faintly, on the other side of the wall, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: You go outside
response: As soon as you clamber out, the drawer retracts jerkily back into the east wall, slamming shut with a bang.

Somewhere in the office, you can hear a phone ringing.
action: Go west
response: On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.

Your phone is ringing.
action: Bluemen umpty
response: Enter saved game to store: Ok.
action: You go to the north
response: On the desk is a microfiche reader.
action: You go to the north
response: The door to Biedermeyer's office stands just slightly ajar.
action: You open the door
response: You nudge the door slightly with your fingertips, and it slowly, slowly creaks open.
action: Go north
response: A cool, languid ribbon of fear uncurls inside your stomach as you step over the threshold...

Biedermeyer's inner sanctum: a featureless cube with smooth, gray walls, and his desk sitting in the exact center like a great black sarcophagus. There is one door. It is south.

The door to Biedermeyer's office stands open.

Biedermeyer taps his foot impatiently.

The door slams shut behind you.

Biedermeyer steps calmly around his desk. He takes a deep breath, and adjusts his glasses slightly. Then he looks at you and says, "Frankly, I don't know what we're going to do with you."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about the blue
response: "Yes, I realize that must have been upsetting to see," Biedermeyer says, nodding patiently. "But you have only yourself to blame. Soon you would have been ready, if only you had played by the rules."

"We tried," he goes on, his voice sad, "to provide you with an environment that was safe."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about Robertson
response: "Ah, yes, poor Robertson," he sighs. "A failed experiment. One I'm not proud of. The blame is entirely mine, of course. I should have looked after him more closely." He chuckles. "I almost made the same mistake with you."

"We tried to give you something familiar, something that you would have no trouble..." he pauses, searching mentally for the right word.
action: You ask Biedermeyer about the glasses
response: Biedermeyer smiles. "It's good to see you finally taking an interest," he says. "You would have been issued a pair yourself, soon, if you had only stuck with the program."

"-- accommodating," he blurts suddenly. "Yes. Something you would have no trouble accommodating. We never wanted this to be anything other than a most pleasant experience for you."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about the program
response: Biedermeyer spreads his hands in a curiously benedictory manner. "Why, this is your home," he says softly. "This is your salvation. Didn't you know that? This is your only hope of refuge from the demons that hounded you here from your former life. You should be grateful that we let you work here at all. I daresay, you could never find a better job than this, even if you spent your whole life trying."

"God knows, you needed it after what you'd been through out there."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about the former life
response: Biedermeyer shakes his head. "No remembering, now. Naughty, naughty."

Biedermeyer gives you a stern look. "But that wasn't good enough for you, was it?"
action: You ask Biedermeyer about Furman
response: Biedermeyer looks almost proud. "I couldn't ask for a more exemplary employee."

"You had to fight us every step of the way, didn't you? You really thought that you knew better than us what was good for you. You thought you could heal all on your own."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about the demons
response: Biedermeyer shakes his head. "No remembering, now. Naughty, naughty."

Biedermeyer shakes his head. "Well, I must say I have no patience for that. And I do not feel sorry for you. I will not tolerate busy-bodies, know-betters, or rule-scoffers in my office."
action: You ask Biedermeyer about office
response: "It's high time you got used to it," says Biedermeyer ominously. "You're staying here for a long, long time."

With a sharp tug, Biedermeyer pulls off his glasses. They come off with a small sucking sound. He rubs the bridge of his nose a bit, and when he looks up you can see translucent membranes nictitating briefly across his pupils.
action: You wait a while
response: Time passes.

"Your days of youthful rebellion are at an end, my boy," he says softly, stepping close to you. "I know you think this will be a bad thing, but I promise you: soon you will see that it had to be done. Soon you will see everything." And he reaches out while you are held paralyzed by his reptile gaze, and he slips the glasses onto your face.

There is a brief burning sensation as something worms quickly into your skull behind each of your ears.

"There, now," you hear Biedermeyer whisper, "isn't that better?"

And the funny thing is -- it is. It is much better. And he's right -- pretty soon, you DO see everything.
action: You throw the water at Biedermeyer
response: With a convulsive jerk of your arm, you dash the water into the bastard's smug, repulsive face. Biedermeyer stops dead, silent, just blinking at you stupidly as the water drips down his skin.

And then the hissing begins. And Biedermeyer's skin starts dripping along with the water.

With a sudden, strangled shriek, Biedermeyer lurches backward, digging his nails into the flesh of his face. "Oh, you miserable little shit!" he yells. "What the bloody fuck have you done?" Already his voice is starting to slur, gurgling as though he were speaking through a mouthful of cold maple syrup.

He turns to you, and his face is a dripping mess running with streaks of oozing blue. Whatever monstrous, cerulean visage lay behind his mask of skin is melting along with everything else. He holds his hands out to you imploringly -- the fingers are pouring away down his arms like superheated candle stubs.

"Uh cuhd... uhf duhn... suh muhsh... fuh yuh..." he gurgles, and then his entire body slops down into itself, leaving nothing but a bluish-pinkish puddle of ooze on the floor, with his thick black glasses lying unharmed in the middle of it.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You take the glasses
response: You gingerly pluck the glasses from the puddle and shake the worst of the goo off them.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: Biedermeyer's inner sanctum: a featureless cube with smooth, gray walls, and his desk sitting in the exact center like a great black sarcophagus. There is one door. It is south.

All that's left of that bastard Biedermeyer is a puddle of melted goo in the middle of the carpet.

The door to Biedermeyer's office stands just slightly ajar.
action: You get the goo
response: That's fixed in place.
action: You look at the desk
response: A huge slab of black marble, shot through with soft veins of gray and polished to a glassy brilliance. It looks more like something you'd lay a dead king on than a place to put your paperwork; and sure enough, its slick, cool surface is utterly pristine.

Set flush into the otherwise featureless side of the desk is a slim rectangle of dark metal.
action: You examine the metal
response: Which do you mean, the metal drawer or the shiny key?
action: Drawer
response: The metal rectangle is perfectly smooth and flat, and silvery-black, like polished hematite.
action: You look in it
response: In the metal drawer is a silver tile.
action: You examine the tile
response: (the silver tile)
It's a flat square of silvery metal, apparently blank on both sides.
action: You wear the glasses
response: You settle the glasses firmly onto your nose. They fit rather tightly, chafing uncomfortably behind your ears.

Your vision blurs momentarily as your eyes adjust to the strange lenses, but after a second or two you're seeing fine.
action: You look at the tile
response: (the silver tile)
Blurry, but just visible, you can see out the number 9070 etched across one side of the tile.
action: You remove the glasses
response: You take off the glasses.
action: You open the door
response: You nudge the door slightly with your fingertips, and it slowly, slowly creaks open.
action: You go to the south
response: The door to Biedermeyer's office stands open.
action: You look in reader
response: The entry currently on the screen reads:

::mnemonic distribution levels: IX-EJ-KD-2
::Subject in 5th grade. Subject arrives at school wearing shorts purchased by subject's mother (Xref C280274). The shorts are blue with white stripe, 60%-40% poly-cotton blend, size 8. Note: Subject has been experiencing growth spurts, and currently fits size 8 1/2. Subject experiences extreme apprehension re: social acceptance, fashion etiquette, inadequate fit of shorts. At 11:13, shorts split up the back seam when Subject sits down in front of Tracy Haddington (Xref P120884), triggering extreme shame response; subject undergoes...

You tear your eyes away from the screen with a shudder. For a moment, you can almost hear the ghostly echoes of children jeering, which gently dissolves into the sound of a woman's throaty chuckle. Then that, too, fades.

[You have just become a little bit less frosty.]
action: You examine reader
response: Furman loves that reader; it's like his special toy. He never lets anyone else touch it -- says it's "too complicated," though it can't be that difficult if a terminal moron like Furman can operate it. Anyway, the only controls are a toggle switch and a small button.
The microfiche reader is currently switched on.

Those damn glasses are still chafing. You wiggle them around on your nose a bit, trying to get comfortable.
action: You look in reader
response: You hesitate. The thought of looking at the screen again fills you with a vague sort of dread.
action: You remove the glasses
response: The glasses tug at your skin as you try to pull them off, gripping rather tightly at the flesh behind your ears. Unnerved, you pull harder -- and they suddenly pop free with a tiny sound like velcro.
action: Switch toggle
response: That's already on.
action: You examine the bill
response: Which do you mean, the counterfeit bill or the original crumpled dollar bill?
action: You go southeast
response: On the desk are some scattered papers.
action: Go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.

You can also see the stool here.
action: You wear the glasses
response: You settle the glasses firmly onto your nose. They fit rather tightly, chafing uncomfortably behind your ears.

Your vision blurs momentarily as your eyes adjust to the strange lenses, but after a second or two you're seeing fine.

Some random thought is nagging at you. You're not sure what it is.
action: You think
response: Yeah. Think real hard.

An odd prickling sensation crawls briefly along the back of your scalp, and your vision ripples again slightly. Funny; the glasses aren't chafing you anymore. They feel perfectly comfortable, in fact.
action: You remove the tiles
response: (first taking the floor)
That's hardly portable.
action: You remove the glasses
response: The glasses grip your flesh behind the ears with a frightening suction. The harder you pull, the more it hurts.

The fucking things won't come off!

There's that nagging worry again. Something you were supposed to do, and forgot... what was it?

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You take the papers
response: (the scattered papers)
You've got enough papers to push on your own desk without pushing any of Benson's.
action: You take the jacket
response: You already have that.
action: You examine the hook
response: It's a little metal hook screwed into the wall.
action: Unscrew hook
response: It is fixed in place.
action: Search jacket
response: Nothing. Not even a molecule of pocket lint.
action: You go north
response: The door to Biedermeyer's office stands open.
action: Look around
response: This short, empty corridor connects the main office area, to the south, with Biedermeyer's office, to the north.

The door to Biedermeyer's office stands open.
action: Go north
response: Biedermeyer's inner sanctum: a featureless cube with smooth, gray walls, and his desk sitting in the exact center like a great black sarcophagus. There is one door. It is south.

The door to Biedermeyer's office stands open.

All that's left of that bastard Biedermeyer is a puddle of melted goo in the middle of the carpet.
action: You look at the desk
response: A huge slab of black marble, shot through with soft veins of gray and polished to a glassy brilliance. It looks more like something you'd lay a dead king on than a place to put your paperwork; and sure enough, its slick, cool surface is utterly pristine.

A slim, metallic drawer extends from the otherwise featureless side of the desk.
action: You open it
response: The door is open already.
action: You examine the door
response: It is ominously unobtrusive. A pane of pebbled glass allows light to come through, but prevents you from seeing anything on the other side.
action: You look in the drawer
response: The metal drawer is empty.
action: You take the pane
response: That's fixed in place.
action: Go south
response: The northwest corner is Furman's area. Everything is tucked away and tidy, which is exactly how that obsessive freak likes it. The photocopier squats over by the west wall, and a short corridor to the north leads to that bastard Biedermeyer's office.

On the desk is a microfiche reader.
action: Go south
response: This is your scratching ground, your own little slice of the shit pie these sons of bitches call an office -- and don't think for a second that you didn't have to fight like hell to get it. Neatly shoved away into the southwest corner of the general work area, where they think you can't get into any mischief.

On the desk are an in-tray (which is empty), an out-tray (which is empty) and a telephone.
action: You look at the phone
response: Oh yeah, the phone. You can't make outgoing calls on it; there's no dial. You don't even know why it's on your desk. Presumably, you're expected to answer it if it rings, but it never does. Never has. Not once. Not ever.
action: Go northeast
response: What few pathetic nods to biological necessity are allowed by the firm have been shoved away into the northeast corner. There's a coffee maker in the corner, a vending machine against the east wall, and a door to the restroom to the north.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You go south
response: As usual, Benson's corner of the office, is a filthy sty. Files, papers, supplies lying around everywhere. You don't know how anyone could work in these conditions. A vast bank of filing cabinets stands against the west wall, behind Benson's desk.

On the desk are some scattered papers.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: You are carrying a silver tile, some glasses, a letter opener, a plastic cup, a fire extinguisher, the original crumpled dollar bill, a hanger, Furman's jacket, a pair of scissors, a shiny key, a wooden shim, a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is open), inside which are some gray pills, a little gray bottle (which is open), inside which are some white pills and an ink stamp.
action: Wait
response: Time passes.

An odd prickling sensation crawls briefly along the back of your scalp, and your vision ripples again slightly. Funny; the glasses aren't chafing you anymore. They feel perfectly comfortable, in fact.
action: You wait
response: Time passes.

There's that nagging worry again. Something you were supposed to do, and forgot... what was it?
action: You think
response: Yeah. Think real hard.
Suddenly, you remember -- the paperwork! It never got filed! How could you have let a careless mistake slip by? You chide yourself, then remind yourself that it's been a hectic day -- anytime an office undergoes a 75% staff turnover, you can expect there's going to be a few loose ends left around when it's all over.

Guess it's up to you to sort them out, then. Right?

You take your ink stamp firmly in hand. It's time to get to work. You're looking forward to it, really. After all, this is where you've always wanted to be, doing what you've always wanted to do. You could never find a better job than this, even if you spent your whole life looking.
action: You look at the button
response: You push it to get some coffee, if you think you can stomach it.
action: You break machine
response: You give the broken vending machine a good, hard thump. You thump it again, a bit harder this time. Next thing you know, you're pounding on the broken vending machine again and again for all you're worth -- you stop yourself, feeling a bit light-headed. Damn. You hate it when that happens.
action: You examine the workings
response: It's a lot of mechanical stuff, mostly beyond you. Anyway, it never worked right when it was intact, so why should it be of any use now?
action: You take the mechanisms
response: They're hardly portable.
action: Search mechanisms
response: You find nothing of interest.

You find nothing of interest.
action: You look at glasses
response: The thick, black, and somewhat sticky glasses are all that remains of that former bastard, Biedermeyer.
action: You look at gum
response: It's all over the place; dozens of nougat bars and hundreds of sticks of Beechnut, all squishing and melting underfoot.
action: You get the gum
response: What the hell for? It's worthless garbage. Let that bastard Biedermeyer clean it up, if he wants.
action: You examine the ceiling
response: The featureless grid of white, acoustical tiles hanging above your head is unbroken in every direction. Every third or fourth tile contains a softly humming fluorescent light.
action: You search the cabinets
response: It's just empty folders. All of it. There's absolutely nothing in here.
action: You examine the light
response: The ceiling is out of your reach.

The blue-white rectangles of brightly glowing plastic generate an irritating hum that just tickles the edge of human hearing. Occasionally, one of them will flicker slightly.
action: You get tile
response: (the silver tile)
You already have that.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: You are carrying a silver tile, some glasses, a letter opener, a plastic cup, a fire extinguisher, the original crumpled dollar bill, a hanger, Furman's jacket, a pair of scissors, a shiny key, a wooden shim, a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is open), inside which are some gray pills, a little gray bottle (which is open), inside which are some white pills and an ink stamp.
action: You listen
response: You hear that ringing in your ears again, just like always. Damn sound never goes away.
action: You go to the north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through.

Every wall, fixture and counter surface in this restroom is painted an intolerably bright, eye-bending nuclear orange. The reasoning behind this choice of decor is unclear -- perhaps the hope is that someone who is tense enough to crack walnuts with his ass cheeks isn't going to be spending lots of time on a toilet seat. Anyway, there's a sink and mirror in the north wall, and a stall to the east. Or you could just leave to the south.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.

You can also see the stool here.
action: You stand on the stool
response: Dropped.
You get onto the stool.
action: You look at the tiles
response: The featureless grid of white, acoustical tiles hanging above your head is unbroken in every direction. Every third or fourth tile contains a softly humming fluorescent light.
action: You jump
response: Your head slams painfully against the ceiling. Lousy, stupid, stinking, crappy ceiling! You try to rub your head and shake your fist at the same time, but the coordination required is beyond you.

[You have just become a little bit more steamed.]
action: You put the stool on the desk
response: You put the stool on the desk.
action: You stand on the stool
response: (getting onto the desk)

That's not something you can enter.
action: You drop it
response: Dropped.
action: You stand on it
response: You get onto the stool.
action: You put shim on the stool
response: You put the wooden shim on the stool.
action: You put the tile on the stool
response: (the silver tile on the stool)
You put the silver tile on the stool.
action: You stand on the tile
response: (the silver tile)
That's not something you can enter.
action: You take the tile
response: (the silver tile)
Taken.
action: Hint
response: Use the arrow keys to point to a question.
Press ENTER to select the question.
Press BACKSPACE to back out of the menu system.

> Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?
What do I do at my desk?
What do I do at Furman's desk?
What do I do in Biedermeyer's office?
So what do I do with this number?
action: You go north
response: The restroom door wheezes shut behind you as you pass through.

Every wall, fixture and counter surface in this restroom is painted an intolerably bright, eye-bending nuclear orange. The reasoning behind this choice of decor is unclear -- perhaps the hope is that someone who is tense enough to crack walnuts with his ass cheeks isn't going to be spending lots of time on a toilet seat. Anyway, there's a sink and mirror in the north wall, and a stall to the east. Or you could just leave to the south.

The gutted smoke detector hangs limply from the ceiling, its innards exposed and dangling.
action: You examine the ceiling
response: The ceiling is painted bright orange, just like everything else.
action: You hit the mirror with the fire extinguisher
response: You give the mirror a good, hard thump. You thump it again, a bit harder this time. Next thing you know, you're pounding on the mirror again and again for all you're worth -- you stop yourself, feeling a bit light-headed. Damn. You hate it when that happens.
action: You look at the detector
response: That piece of crap hasn't detected so much as a bugfart since the day they installed it. It only (and always) goes off whenever someone actually enters the bathroom, letting forth with a piercing shriek high enough to break up kidney stones. A further deterrent for anyone too comatose to be bothered by the paint, probably.
action: You cut the wall
response: (with the scissors)
You can't get the little blades around the wall well enough to cut it.
action: Hint
response: Use the arrow keys to point to a question.
Press ENTER to select the question.
Press BACKSPACE to back out of the menu system.

> Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?
What do I do at my desk?
What do I do at Furman's desk?
What do I do in Biedermeyer's office?
So what do I do with this number?
action: Go south
response: What few pathetic nods to biological necessity are allowed by the firm have been shoved away into the northeast corner. There's a coffee maker in the corner, a vending machine against the east wall, and a door to the restroom to the north.

The vending machine is lying face down and smashed amidst a pile of nougat bars and Beechnut gum.

There's a ragged hole hacked into the east wall, where the vending machine used to stand.
action: You take the phone
response: Silence. Nothing on the line but hissing silence.
action: You say
response: (to yourself)
There is no reply.
action: You turn the tile
response: (the silver tile)
Nothing obvious happens.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying a silver tile, a wooden shim, some glasses, a letter opener, a plastic cup, a fire extinguisher, the original crumpled dollar bill, a hanger, Furman's jacket, a pair of scissors, a shiny key, a memo, some paperwork, a little white bottle (which is open), inside which are some gray pills, a little gray bottle (which is open), inside which are some white pills and an ink stamp.
action: Hint
response: Use the arrow keys to point to a question.
Press ENTER to select the question.
Press BACKSPACE to back out of the menu system.

> Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?
What do I do at my desk?
What do I do at Furman's desk?
What do I do in Biedermeyer's office?
So what do I do with this number?
action: P.
response: Use the arrow keys to point to a question.
Press ENTER to select the question.
Press BACKSPACE to back out of the menu system.

Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?
What do I do at my desk?
What do I do at Furman's desk?
What do I do in Biedermeyer's office?
> So what do I do with this number?
Helpful Hints

Use the arrow keys to point to a question.
Press ENTER to select the question.
Press BACKSPACE to back out of the menu system.

Just what the hell is going on here, anyway?
What do I do at my desk?
What do I do at Furman's desk?
What do I do in Biedermeyer's office?
> So what do I do with this number?

Try typing it into the keypad.
action: You examine the copier
response: The photocopier is a hulking technological monstrosity that you've never been able to satisfactorily figure out. It's got about fourteen billion buttons on it and the only one you know how to use is the big green one marked 'COPY'. There's also a lid on top (paper goes in), and a small hopper off to one side (paper comes out). That's as familiar as you've ever cared to (or are ever likely to) get with this thing.

Currently, the lid is open and the hopper contains a pile of shredded paper and a counterfeit bill.
action: You examine reader
response: Furman loves that reader; it's like his special toy. He never lets anyone else touch it -- says it's "too complicated," though it can't be that difficult if a terminal moron like Furman can operate it. Anyway, the only controls are a toggle switch and a small button.
The microfiche reader is currently switched on.
action: You look at the keypad
response: It's a standard numeric keypad with keys from 0 to 9. It's looks simple enough, but you don't really know what it does.
action: Examine shredded
response: You did a handsome job; there isn't a scrap left big enough to be recognizable.
action: You type 9070 on the keypad
response: As you punch in the final digit, the copier starts to hum. Ominously. It's never made that sound before; not even the time you got your necktie caught in the collator and, in a fit of panic, started bludgeoning the cables in back with Furman's rolodex. No, that was more of a guttural wheeze. This is most definitely a hum.

Ever-wary, you take a few prudent steps back.

Suddenly, the lid flies open! A blinding white light pours out through the glass, a coruscating torrent from the machine's inner core!

This is it, you think, throwing up your arms to shield your eyes. The whole thing's going nova. I'll never be frosty again --

...and then the light is gone.

Slowly, you open your eyes.

Where the copier once stood, there is now only a slightly lighter patch of carpet...

...and a door.

[You have just become a little bit more frosty.]
action: You examine the door
response: It's an utterly plain wooden door, painted white. There is a brass doorknob on it.
action: You open the door
response: Timidly, you reach out and turn the brass doorknob. It turns smoothly. You take a deep breath. You pull the door open.

The hinges creak, very slightly.

Looking through the open doorway, you note with no small relief that the other side really is everything you'd always hoped it would be. Without an ounce of trepidation, you step through...
Hillside
You are standing at the top of a hill of velvety green, overlooking a scene of pastoral delight. In the valley below, young men and women in wispy robes frolic chastely about, dancing together amongst the wildflowers and the romping sheep. Everyone is laughing. Everyone has a pretty pink balloon that they hold by its string. It is innocence and carefree, everywhere you look.

Also, you notice immediately, you are naked. Completely naked. This doesn't bother you as much as part of you thinks it should.

The sun is just setting, and the sky is the beautiful color of the inside of seashells.
action: Inventory
response: You are carrying nothing.

As you stand there, dumbfounded, you notice something large and pink gently bobbing toward you from out of the gorgeous sky. As it draws closer, you see that it is a naked fat man. He alights on the grass next to you and smiles in greeting.

"Welcome," he says in a comfortingly avuncular voice.
action: You ask the man about the fairy
response: He smiles and answers, "My job is merely to ensure that your transition here is as comfortable as possible.

"We were hoping you would make it. It's been a long, difficult time for you, I know. But you'll find it much different here."
action: You ask man about the blue
response: "All that is behind you now," says the fat naked man.

"You'll need these," he tells you, handing you a pink balloon and a gown of diaphanous material. "They'll help you fit in. We've tried to provide an environment for you that is safe. Something that you'll have no trouble," he adds, indicating the valley with a sweep of his pudgy hand, "...accommodating."
action: You ask the man about Robertson
response: "All that is behind you now," says the fat naked man.

"Well, enjoy your stay," says the fat naked man, clapping you heartily on the back. "Don't misbehave, now." He raises his eyebrows and taps the side of his nose, and for the first time you notice that he's wearing thick, black-framed glasses.

"Remember to stay frosty," he says as he floats away into the sunset.

But you hardly hear him. You are filled with a rapture, a fantastic sense of belonging like you have never before felt, as you skip down the hillside, balloon in hand. The young men and women welcome you with open arms, and everywhere sheep are bleating.

You know, then, that you could never find a better place than this, even if you spent your whole life looking.
action: You wait a while
response: *** You have learned to love yourself ***

In this game, you have finally managed to love life.

This, technically, is the actual "end" of the game. You can RESTART, RESTORE and all that jazz, if you want to, just like usual, or you can read the author's POSTSCRIPT.
action: You drop the balloon
response: But if you let go of the string, your balloon will fly away!

"Well, enjoy your stay," says the fat naked man, clapping you heartily on the back. "Don't misbehave, now." He raises his eyebrows and taps the side of his nose, and for the first time you notice that he's wearing thick, black-framed glasses.

"Remember to stay frosty," he says as he floats away into the sunset.

But you hardly hear him. You are filled with a rapture, a fantastic sense of belonging like you have never before felt, as you skip down the hillside, balloon in hand. The young men and women welcome you with open arms, and everywhere sheep are bleating.

You know, then, that you could never find a better place than this, even if you spent your whole life looking.
action: You look at your surroundings
response: You are standing at the top of a hill of velvety green, overlooking a scene of pastoral delight. In the valley below, young men and women in wispy robes frolic chastely about, dancing together amongst the wildflowers and the romping sheep. Everyone is laughing. Everyone has a pretty pink balloon that they hold by its string. It is innocence and carefree, everywhere you look.
The fat naked man beams at you seraphically.

"You'll need these," he tells you, handing you a pink balloon and a gown of diaphanous material. "They'll help you fit in. We've tried to provide an environment for you that is safe. Something that you'll have no trouble," he adds, indicating the valley with a sweep of his pudgy hand, "...accommodating."
action: Break balloon
response: You give the pink balloon a good, hard thump. You thump it again, a bit harder this time. Next thing you know, you're pounding on the pink balloon again and again for all you're worth -- you stop yourself, feeling a bit light-headed. Damn. You hate it when that happens.

"Well, enjoy your stay," says the fat naked man, clapping you heartily on the back. "Don't misbehave, now." He raises his eyebrows and taps the side of his nose, and for the first time you notice that he's wearing thick, black-framed glasses.

"Remember to stay frosty," he says as he floats away into the sunset.

But you hardly hear him. You are filled with a rapture, a fantastic sense of belonging like you have never before felt, as you skip down the hillside, balloon in hand. The young men and women welcome you with open arms, and everywhere sheep are bleating.

You know, then, that you could never find a better place than this, even if you spent your whole life looking.