2062.06 Game Over
Posted: Fri Jan 24, 2025 8:14 pm
The Next Day…
GM Rob McMonigal, refreshed from sleeping in his own bed (after taking a shower of record-breaking length), got in early to the Yellow Springs offices. He was still worried about what Bo had told him the night before, but he had too many things to do to worry about whether or not he'd need to sell his house.
He opened the door to his personal office and let out an audible gasp. The room was full of empty candy, chip, and other snack wrappers, soda bottles and cans with sticky bits of liquid coming out of them, and more to-go bags than your typical college dorm. His comfy chairs were utterly ruined. The large, antique oak desk was scratched, possibly also beyond repair. The computer monitors were set to various sites that probably were going to get McMonigal looked into by HR.
"What the hell happened in here?" asked McMonigal to no one.
He knew the answer: Eric Russell.
McMonigal wasn't sure who to call first, the ass-istant General Manager who kept spelling McMonigal's name wrong on the press releases or a hazmat team.
Unsure if it was the right choice, the GM gingerly pressed the buttons on his also-sticky phone and called Russell.
"Get the hell in here," he rumbled.
"Who is this and why are you calling from my phone?"
McMonigal threw the phone down in pain. He felt like he'd just heard the sound of when a set of broken glass was used as a bow for un-tuned violin that was then broadcast at full volume on a station losing signal in the mountains.
"Hello?" the sounds from Satan continued. "Is anyone there? Am I being pranked by Vancouver again?"
Reluctantly, McMonigal picked up the phone again.
"This is your boss," he said, trying to control his bile.
"Jordan? You sound sick. Are you feeling okay?"
"No, you moron, this is Rob McMonigal, the GM!"
"Wait, really? You exist? I thought you were a figment of a senior citizen's imagination."
Give me strength, thought McMonigal.
"Look, just get your ass in here. I need to figure out just how badly you've screwed things up. Did you at least re-sign the minor league free agents?"
"I can't come in right now," said Russell, the voice making each word torture. How did Bo stand this?
"And why not?"
"I'm playing the hottest new game, Vancouver's 'Ten Degrees of Traderation!' It's awesome! You see how many of your players you can trade until every single player in the league was a Mountie at one point in time. I'm getting so close. I only have about 37 players left to acquire and then send back out again."
"You know what, Eric," said McMonigal. "I've got two words for you: Game over."
"But I can't quit now."
"No, you can't."
"Exactly! Glad you're seeing things my way, Roquefort."
"That's Robert, you imbecile. And you can't quit because you're FIRED."
"Ok, cool. More time for my games then."
The line mercifully went dead.
Now for that hazmat team...
GM Rob McMonigal, refreshed from sleeping in his own bed (after taking a shower of record-breaking length), got in early to the Yellow Springs offices. He was still worried about what Bo had told him the night before, but he had too many things to do to worry about whether or not he'd need to sell his house.
He opened the door to his personal office and let out an audible gasp. The room was full of empty candy, chip, and other snack wrappers, soda bottles and cans with sticky bits of liquid coming out of them, and more to-go bags than your typical college dorm. His comfy chairs were utterly ruined. The large, antique oak desk was scratched, possibly also beyond repair. The computer monitors were set to various sites that probably were going to get McMonigal looked into by HR.
"What the hell happened in here?" asked McMonigal to no one.
He knew the answer: Eric Russell.
McMonigal wasn't sure who to call first, the ass-istant General Manager who kept spelling McMonigal's name wrong on the press releases or a hazmat team.
Unsure if it was the right choice, the GM gingerly pressed the buttons on his also-sticky phone and called Russell.
"Get the hell in here," he rumbled.
"Who is this and why are you calling from my phone?"
McMonigal threw the phone down in pain. He felt like he'd just heard the sound of when a set of broken glass was used as a bow for un-tuned violin that was then broadcast at full volume on a station losing signal in the mountains.
"Hello?" the sounds from Satan continued. "Is anyone there? Am I being pranked by Vancouver again?"
Reluctantly, McMonigal picked up the phone again.
"This is your boss," he said, trying to control his bile.
"Jordan? You sound sick. Are you feeling okay?"
"No, you moron, this is Rob McMonigal, the GM!"
"Wait, really? You exist? I thought you were a figment of a senior citizen's imagination."
Give me strength, thought McMonigal.
"Look, just get your ass in here. I need to figure out just how badly you've screwed things up. Did you at least re-sign the minor league free agents?"
"I can't come in right now," said Russell, the voice making each word torture. How did Bo stand this?
"And why not?"
"I'm playing the hottest new game, Vancouver's 'Ten Degrees of Traderation!' It's awesome! You see how many of your players you can trade until every single player in the league was a Mountie at one point in time. I'm getting so close. I only have about 37 players left to acquire and then send back out again."
"You know what, Eric," said McMonigal. "I've got two words for you: Game over."
"But I can't quit now."
"No, you can't."
"Exactly! Glad you're seeing things my way, Roquefort."
"That's Robert, you imbecile. And you can't quit because you're FIRED."
"Ok, cool. More time for my games then."
The line mercifully went dead.
Now for that hazmat team...