posted on Oct, 31 2005 @ 12:58 AM
Manfred licked his lips and double-clicked the Outlook icon, his right leg bouncing like a caffeinated metronome. The mouse arrow turned into a
somersaulting hourglass. -damn virus software. Worse than the viruses I swear.G He stared at the clutter on his desk. Status reports and
spreadsheets blended into so much useless crap. The same tired Dilbert cartoons were posted to his cubicle wall. The phone blinked that a voice
message was waiting.
"Hey Manfred!, did you get my message?" Gloria walked up behind him. "No Gloria, I've been kind of busy, look at my desk!" He swiveled his chair
around so that he could stab her with his eyes. She hugged her stack of portfolios closer to her chest, "Well, I was just trying to let you know some
army guy was here to see you, sheesh!" She didn't budge. Manfred looked into her brown eyes. She was young, attractive, and way too nice to work at
McFaddon Talent Agency. Her eyes seemed to glisten. "Oh for fck's sake Gloria, does everybody know?!"
"Know what?" she played dumb.
"Nevermind...is he still here?"
"No, he said he had some business at Maize Plaza, and that you should meet him there later."
"Here," she handed him a slip of paper, "It's his cell."
He took the paper and swung his chair back around. The program's intro screen gave way to his inbox. There was a new message from
email@example.com. Gloria continued to stand behind him. He turned his head and raised his eyebrows at her. She left. He opened the email.
We are sorry to inform you that your request has been denied.
Please report for active duty at once.
-Army Reserves automated dispatch
**Do not reply to this email**
This was getting more serious. Manfred had tried calling and emailing, but he could only seem to reach automated services. He had never signed up to
be in ANY branch of the armed services, and he sure as hell wasn't going to now. Not with that rebellion flaring up in western Utah. Shooting at
U.S. citizens? Fk that! How the hell could they get this wrong? He was the only Manfred P. Dutchweissler around, or at least as far as Google
could tell him. He looked at the scrap of paper in his left hand. Scrawled in puffy handwriting only a female could produce was the name Sgt. Turkman
and a phone number. He stuffed the paper into his pocket and headed for the elevator. It was only six blocks to the Strategic Dynamic's building and
Maize Plaza. Lunch could wait...