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Trex Wolrd, Redux Part 26a

kelson.philo's picture

[[[I've split part 26 in two for easier consumption of it's rewrite. tanx.]]]

Link to part 1

Tickity-takky wikity-wakki that was the only sound one heard on the prep floor. Every industry, whether churned out by one person or a multitude, involved in effective production develops over time their own jargon, their own way of calling reality into being. Floor 23 was a file preparation floor, part of the great cosmic landscape known under the compendious word “composition”.

Paul’s soundless steps parsed out through the inspirational displays and onto a gantry that that served as the walkway behind thirty other method layer analyst cubicles. His was number seven, currently occupied by Noel. The nerd must gobbling up some OT, Paul thought. More power to him.

Tall, taller than Paul, and lanky with big bushy eyebrows and a salt and pepper goatee with matching foppish hair, Noel was, to coin a phrase, out there. With a blinking pattern on his jumpsuit proclaiming, “Born to Tag”, Noel would frequently regale Paul with factoids he had acquired over the last twenty-four hours. From treetek and bushtek aspiration rates to the number of cups of joe he could down between work breaks without having to go to the hospital, Noel shared his compendious mental database with Paul while disengaging from the cubicle’s chair every morning that Paul wasn’t late, chuckling the whole time about how amazing it all was. Usually, Paul would nod politely and echo how amazing it all was in an effort to keep Noel moving so as not to bring Geoff over and start bantering about tardies and other official dandruff, but today Paul glad the goofy smile and genuine kind-heartedness Noel offered up for free every day was waiting for him.

He hit the biometric pad in the wall divider between his and no. 6 and said in a light-hearted fashion, “Noel, yah bastid, what are you still doin’ here?”

After the ’metric started glowing green, his/Noel’s chair eased itself out from it’s cubbyhole like a great malformed hand opening up to receive something special, some bit of candy, perhaps. They’d have five minutes, tops now, to exchange pleasantries. Noel’s gangly body seizured itself to standing and the tall man stretched and asked in a voice like drunk peanut butter, “I think the more apropos question would be, ‘How is it that you still work here?’”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. It’s not like you take some over-time, though.”

“Your super has a silver tongue, what can I say?”

“You could say ‘no’. You could say ‘fark off G-dawg, you su--’”

Noel held up one hand as a stop sign and another to his mouth to contain his laughter. “No, sir, no! You’ll rupture my spleen. And I have imperious use of it today.”

“Imperious use of your spleen?”

“Yes, I’ve volunteered for a new trex Realtime biopsy procedure. Investigations of the Human Reticuloendothelial System. It’s rather exciting. Did you know that the spleen is about as big as your fist and that approximately 10% of the population have one or more accessory spleens? Fascinating stuff!”

Paul shook his head and chuckled. Noel would have gotten along great with his dad. Might as well dive right in. “Sounds intense, Noel. You gettin’ paid for that, right?”

“Oh, of course, of course. I’ll be swimming in raisins.”

“Coolio. Lemme know when it’s on the feeds, ‘k? But, hey man, before you go, what do you think of a dude blinking out in one spot on the Expanse and then well, blinking into another spot without taking any time at all between the, er, blinking…”

“Fascinating,” Noel said, his eyes staring off into some unknown distance, “That would be tremendously useful. No fighting on footpaths, no paying for tubes...You’ve got quite an imagination there Paul…it’d be the perfect pick-me-up for this day, let me tell you--”

“No let me tell you,” boomed Geoff’s voice from out of nowhere. It seemed localized to the space Noel and Paul occupied. Paul’s gaze instinctively darted out to the super-circle, but due to the dubious floor design, he didn’t see his redheaded nemesis. “That’s right, Paul,” the voice continued. “Some of us actually get to our stations on time. Noel, thanks for all your help today. Be seeing you. Now.”

How much had Geoff overheard? An impossible question to answer at the moment. Noel shrugged, smiled a big wooly smile and strode off, brows furrowed, his stride so determined that he almost bowled over someone on his way out, “Born to Tag” nearly taking on new meaning. Paul sighed and settled into the vacant seat and felt the tangy taste of the galvanics interfacing with his nervous system. Dammit, Geoff, there were more questions I wanted to ask. What do you know about dolls, Noel? What do you think about terrorism?

As the monolithic screen in front of him lit up and the keyboard mesh huffed and puffed itself into his customized settings, Paul looked at the small painted figure in his hand and sighed. So many questions all of the sudden. So little time for answers. The chair adjusted to his height and he got started with two things: the day’s mundane activities, and his plot to post to the Triple M.

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A w00t for Noel

Damn those supervisors--they always have messed up priorities!

kelson.philo's picture

Hahahaha...tis tru. Not

Hahahaha...tis tru. Not that they're all bad, but I'm going to guess we've all had run-ins with some. Now if I can put him over the top without going too far into camp, he should be set.