Potato Of The Day Episode 98

“Slimcado.”

It was just a word, a simple idea really, but the room was in immediate agreement. How could they not be? This was Bravo-Toaster presenting after all. Sure, he’d had a few misfires with purple cauliflower and tie-dyed bell peppers, and sure, no one could really point to any specific successes he was directly responsible for, but he was the fastest rising executive in the entire firm, skipping the corporate ladder entirely, instead crawling up the pile of bodies he’d thrown under the bus. Interns, hippies, old men hiding in the shadows waiting for retirement – they were all gone now. And Bravo-Toaster had made sure of that.

Bravo-Toaster had a cemented confidence about him now, matched by his final hair form, the comb-over, his accession from #MILLENIALEXPERT to full-on business god completed thanks to the webinar series Grab Your Boss By The Balls: A Guide To Getting Promoted (later retitled, in reaction to negative PR, Grab Your Boss’s Junk: A Gender-Proof Guide To Promotion, and then, after more negative press still, re-retitled Don’t Touch Anyone Ever For Any Reason: Getting Promoted The Asperger’s Way.). This was a man born then reborn then rebranded again, an ever-evolving marketing cyborg programmed to hashtag and retweet its way to the top.

The product itself was a fat, slimy Florida avocado. How their firm was able to land another produce client after their past debacles was a puzzling mystery to most. The Head Account Executive who’d brought in the business knew the answer, but he was on forced administrative leave following a sexual harassment suit levied at the firm. He’d acted shocked when the papers were served, not understanding how one measly grope, twelve suggestive drunken text messages, and a not-even-fully-erect dick pic constituted as harassment. He was a leftover relic of an era in marketing that no longer existed, a dinosaur who’d forgot to fossilize, and the firm’s younger uprising of board members were happy to push him out, leaving Junior Executives scraping over each other in bloody backstabbings, passive-aggressive memos and peer-reviews of past-failures, for a shot at his leftover clients.

Of course it would turn out later that it was Bravo-Toaster who’d convinced the intern, a woman he’d had fired for mangling a job she wasn’t qualified for to begin with, to levy the suit. He’d played both sides perfectly in the ensuing chaos, even comforting the Head Account Executive’s wife (a woman who’s dosage of Oxy for the treatment of “migraines” had reached such a point she wouldn’t have felt a beheading, let alone a headache) with a hand-written letter, an idea he’d gotten from a popular listicle entitled Ten Things Old People Wish Still Existed, while simultaneously showing in-house initiative with his introduction of DiversifiHiRe, a proposal for shifting HR hiring practices away from the men who considered other white men who dared wear khakis in the workplace diverse, lauded for its creative incorporation of capitalization and vague spelling.

The resulting hires from DiversifiHiRe were a young, ambition-crazed marketer’s wet dream, an army of diversely colored and gendered robots, all programmed to spout the same ridiculous social media market trends and ideas for improving return on investment, an ROI or DIE squad. Slightly younger, impressionable, and eager to save the world through viral marketing, Bravo-Toaster worked them over one by one, adding them on Instagram, Twitter, hell, LinkedIn, collaborating on memes and memory shares, building relationships, networking nightly, until at last, they all adored him, backing him in every meeting and #THINKSPACE forum.

And there they all were, stacked to the brim in his technicolor ark, hanging by the edge of their seats, waiting, wondering how their mystical savant marketing savior would deliver the word of the Slimcado, a bigger, heftier avocado, to the legion of granola moms concerned about their Fitbit regulated caloric intake.

“A webinar, obviously. I didn’t get where I am by NOT watching webinars now, did I?”

And as it began, so did it end.

Fuck 3-5pm On Friday Afternoon

For real, fuck 3-5pm on Friday afternoon. Why does this chunk of time even exist? It’s an actual time prison, crushing down on your false delusions of freedom and hope. Oh hey, you see the weekend out there, so tantalizingly close? Just reach out and touch it. Oh wait, you can’t! Because it’s still the stupid fucking work week so you’re still chained to your stupid fucking desk for some stupid fucking reason. Fuck.

You know how much work has gotten done between 3-5pm on Friday afternoon (I’m talking CUBE work here, not the real work provided by heroes like doctors and plumbers and Happy Hour bartenders)? One. Now, you might say, “Ben, ‘one’ doesn’t seem like an applicable or complete answer to that proposed question. One of what?” To which I say, it’s fucking Friday afternoon between 3-5pm, so one of whatever, dude. One work unit. That’s all that has been done ever in the history of forever. In some dial-up, prehistoric sundial confirmed 3-5pm block of a Friday afternoon, one unit of work was accomplished once, by what I assume was a wide-eyed, newly hired, desperate-to-please intern before they looked up and realized everyone else in the office wasn’t doing jackshit, and abandoned that stupid idea forever. Yes, even misguided overachievers desperate to make a head first impact on the top rung of the corporate ladder don’t do shit on Friday afternoons from 3-5pm. SO WHY ARE WE HERE?

You know how I know work doesn’t get done between 3-5pm on a Friday afternoon? Because you’re reading a blog post titled Fuck 3-5pm On Friday Afternoon. You’re doing that right now. ON A FUCKING FRIDAY AFTERNOON. I was going to write my normal half-assed, week ending Potato Of The Day, but instead I was like yo, it’s Friday afternoon, why the fuck should I do anything? To which you’re probably thinking to yourself, “Truth.”

Anyway, I’ve got two hours til I can waterboard my liver with tequila. That’s nothing on a Monday. But on a Friday? That’s damn near impossible. It’s fucking torture by Friday cubicle. Yet, we always mange to endure that slow strangle of Friday afternoon time, finding trivial novelties to fulfill our meaningless Friday afternoon existences, don’t we? So let’s go do that. That thing that gets us by. I’ll probably go Snapchat some racially charged emojis or look at pictures of head tattoos or some shit. I don’t know. Hell, maybe I can kill eight whole minutes asking everyone for their weekend plans. Again. Fuck 3-5pm on Friday Afternoon. Fuck it long. And fuck it hard.

Potato Of The Day Episode 97

Thanks for seeing me, doc. I’ve been having a really hard time lately. With what, right? Well, where to start… I’ve been having these dreams, doc. I guess you could call them nightmares. They’re real vivid and animated and whatnot, manifesting nearly every night now. Now doc, it ain’t nothing morbid or sexual, it’s just odd. In them, I’m me, well sort of, we’ll get to that in a second, but I’m mostly me, I guess. I sure feel like me, anyway, minus a small detail. But anyway, in these dreams, I’m always getting chased, I feel like I’m running for my life. I know you’re probably wondering who’s chasing me, but that’s the thing, doc… It’s not a who, it’s a what.

They always start out the same. I’m just minding my own business, relaxing at home, when all of a sudden, the ceiling crumbles open, and I’m ripped from my home! Ripped, doc! Right into the air! Then, boom, I’m thrown on the ground. I get up, look backwards, see it, and I just start running as fast as I can. I run and I run and I run, but every time I look back that thing is gaining on me. Massive paws, flopping ears, bouncing closer and closer with every step. It’s horrifying, doc.

But that’s not the weirdest part. That almost makes sense, getting chased by a crazed buck-toothed ball of fur. That’s just a monster dream, ya know? Deep down, we’re all a little scared of monsters. But doc, it’s when I look at myself, when I see my reflection as I’m running away from whatever that thing is, that I feel the most concerned. Cause doc, in my dreams? I’m orange.

Now I don’t know about you, but I ain’t ever seen an orange parsnip before, doc. That ain’t right. It’s like my subconscious wants me to be something I’m inherently not, transforming me like a cartoon or something. Like I’m not being who I really am, you know? But I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t know where that’s coming from. I’m happy as me. I’m happy as a parsnip. But those dreams, doc. They’re haunting me. Orange. Why orange?

You know, doc, you ain’t said much this entire session. That’s not like you. Normally you cut in, interrupting me and what not. But today? Nothing. In fact, why are you sitting over there in the shadows? Got a headache or something? Long night out? Uh, doc? Why are you standing up? Gosh doc, you don’t look so well. Awful lot of hair on your face, doc. You forget to shave? Been to the dentist? I don’t remember your front teeth looking so big. You know you sat on a cotton ball? It’s stuck on ya pants. Why ain’t you talking, huh? What’s going on here? Say something, doc! Go on! Tell me what’s going on here! Tell me something! Anything! Please. Just… WHAT’S UP, DOC?

Potato Of The Day Episode 96

Sorry if I’m a little subdued today guys, but this morning I suffered a little trauma. Some dude hit my Roma tomatoes. Yeah, I know. It’s just not right. I’m still recovering, still a little sore over the whole ordeal. Frankly, right when it happened, I wanted to puke. But I didn’t. I’m a man. Have to stay strong in the face of adversity and all that, you know? So I just knelt down and held those hurting Romas in my hand, and I nurtured them. And then I tried to go about my day, but dude, that Roma hurt is still there.

What kind of man hits another man’s Romas? That’s sacred fruit we’re talking about! You don’t do that. It’s not cool. No, it’s not. Romas are precious. They should be treated like the fragile Faberge eggs that they are, protected and guarded like family jewels. Because really, they need our protection, and our consensual agreement not to attack them. They’re helpless! You don’t attack the garden area, man. That’s gotta be in the Geneva Conventions. Someone please look that up for me. I would, but, I’m so hurt, I can’t bear the thought of standing. I’m drowning in a pool of deeply emotional physical pain, you know?

Can you picture how hard it would be to be a Roma? To live that life? The same thing, day in, day out, unless your world is ripped apart by a sudden and unexpected attack. Sure, there’s minor variance in the Roma world, they come in different shapes and sizes, varying in color and hue, some wrinkling, some smooth, some filled with way more juice than others, but in the end, they’re all biologically the same. They’re all Romas! They all get by with nothing more than a thin layer of skin covering their seed. They all bruise. They all dangle just below the vine.

I can’t stop thinking about all those other poor Roma tomatoes suffering rampant abuse in the world. It might be accidental, a little love tap. It might be intentional, a deliberate kick. But either way, it’s all pain. There’s nothing good that comes from Roma hurt. You know what happens when you get hurt, like a real nasty, cut or scratch? You have to sterilize the wound. Well the same is true for your Romas. If they get hurt badly enough, they get sterilized. We can’t have that. It’s bad for their species. It’s bad for our species. Protect the Roma tomatoes, dude. It’s the right thing to do.

Potato Of The Day Episode 95

Hey guys, your momma’s so fat, the grocer sold her as a plantain! HAHAHAHAHA! Oh what’s the matter bananas, you feeling a little red? You know, because your skin’s pigmentation and whatnot! #BURN. Just like your sunburnt looking ass! GOTCHA AGAIN! So I heard that red bananas have a slight mango flavor. You know who else has a slight mango flavor? YOUR MOM! Because she’s also a red banana, and human beings like me eat red bananas so therefore I’d know what she tastes like. HA! Get it? No? Gosh, you red bananas really aren’t enjoying this, huh? What gives? Seriously, why so angry guys? What are you, Bruce Bananer? Well two can play that game. YOU WON’T LIKE ME WHEN I’M HUNGRY! HAHAHA!

Oh hush, calm down guys, there’s no reason to get yourself in a bunch. #TOOLATE! #SICKBURNTHESEQUEL. I didn’t realize you guys had such thin peels! You know, instead of skin. That’s a sick play on words, banabros. Woah, woah, woah! Where are you guys going? Okay, okay, my bad! There’s no reason to split! HAAAAAAAAA! Sorry you guys, I just can’t help myself. Unless we’re talking about a profitable export from East Africa, in which case, I can’t help you because you’ve already been picked! Haa… wait, that one wasn’t very good. Kind of like you, am I ripe? HIGH FIVE THIS PLAYA! Oh wait, you can’t! Because your fruit is called a finger, not a hand!

Alright, alright, I know I’m not being fair. I need to give you a chance to return fire. So hit me with it red bananas, give me your sickest burn. ROAST ME!
…
Annnd… that would have been a great comeback for a SILENT film. You know, because you didn’t say anything? You know, because you don’t have mouths to make sounds with? You know, because silent films also didn’t have mouth sounds in them. HA! Man, am I on a roll today or what? Just like you when you’re covered in cream cheese! BOOM! Pastry recipe humor in the house! I like you guys. Really, I do! I think it’s all that potassium. Without it, you’d really be cramping my style! Oh boy, someone spray me down cause I’m on FIRE! Just don’t hose the bananas, that’s their skin, not flames! #TWOTHINGSTHATARERED

Okay, this has been fun guys, but I need to run. You’ve been great, a real top banana! For real guys, you don’t need to listen to anymore of my banana oil! I mean this has been a real banana skin for you! #SEQUENTIALBANANAIDIOMS Okay, maybe just one more! PENIS, YOU LOOK LIKE A PENIS. Ha! Well, that one could use some work. It was sort of low hanging fruit! I know, why don’t you go hang out in a banana hammock until I figure it out… HA! Get it? Because, penis. From before. Jokes. Ben out!

Potato Of The Day Episode 94

I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting really sick of this creeping acorn squash season bullshit. I mean, come on. It’s not even September yet. Why the hell are acorn squashes on display? Can’t we let our kids finish going back to school before we put those out? Do we really need to just sweep all the bright red Delicious apples under the rug already? This is madness. NO ONE NEEDS AN ACORN SQUASH IN AUGUST. No one. No, shut up. You don’t need one. I know you don’t. You’re just being a dick.

Think about it. When was the last time you bought an acorn squash? Maybe, what, January? Exactly. Because it’s a fucking WINTER squash. Does it look like winter outside to you right now? If it does, ease off the LSD dude. You’re in too deep. There’s no logical explanation for a winter squash to be rocking the grocery store shelf in late August. The first day of FALL isn’t for another month. Sure, sure, call me a denialist all you want, but I don’t need to be rocking winter seasonal squash when we’re over an entire SEASON away from winter. THAT’S LUNACY!

And it’s not just acorn squash. It’s everything. Halloween candy is in stock now! Because who wouldn’t want to stock their cabinets full of high fructose corn syrup 67 days before they’ll need it? You’ll only be at the store, what, a dozen, a dozen and a half, more times before then! WHAT IF YOU FORGOT?!!!? (Okay, shush, don’t be person who brings up my paper towel problems. It’s not fair to use me against me.) And heaven forbid you don’t have your candy corn ready to rock before Labor Day. WHO COULD BEAR THAT FUCKING TRAVESTY?

This isn’t acorn squash’s fault. Acorn squash didn’t decide to put itself on display in August. In fact, acorn squash has never made a decision in its entire life. That’s because it’s squash, a decidedly non-sentient object. But you know who is sentient? You know who can think? You know who can make decisions? You. Yes, you can. Even you, LSD dude. So when you’re out grocery shopping this week, make the right choice. Don’t give in. Don’t buy an out of season acorn squash. Don’t be an enabler to the creep of acorn squash season. You’re better than that. We all are.

Potato Of The Day Episode 93

Once upon a time, the White Button family had decided to go on vacation, a long road trip to do some sightseeing. They were all set, packed, and ready to go. Well, that is except for Little White Button, who was having a very difficult time deciding what to bring with in the car.

“But Pa, I need all my clothing,” said Little White Button.

“All your clothing?” asked Pa White Button.

“Yes! What if it gets cold, or hot, or it rains, or snows, or there’s wind, or I spill, or get uncomfortable, or need a disguise?” replied Little White Button.

“Okay, if that’s what you need, that’s what you need,” said Pa White Button.

And so he loaded all of Little White Button’s clothing into the car, packing parkas and pants, swimsuits and sweaters, tights and Toadstool costumes, and on and on and on, until the closet was empty and there were no more clothes to pack.

“Are you ready to go now?” asked Pa White Button.

“No, no! I need my books! It’s a long trip. I’ll need to read,” said Little White Button.

“Okay, if that’s what you need, that’s what you need,” said Pa White Button.

And so he loaded all of Little White Button’s books into the car, packing away Where the Wild Truffles Are, and Chanterelle’s Web, and Goodnight Morel, and on and on and on, until the bookshelves were bare and there were no more books to pack.

“Okay, are you all set now?” asked Pa White Button.

“Oh Pa, one more thing! I need my toys! What if I get bored, or lonely?” said Little White Button.

“Okay, if that’s what you need, that’s what you need,” said Pa White Button.

And so he loaded all of Little White Button’s toys into the car, packing away stuffed bears and bobcats, and jackals and jaguars, and leopards and lions, and on and on and on, until the toy box was barren and there were no more of Little White Button’s collection of Harmless Stuffed Carnivores left to pack.

“Okay, that’s everything, Pa. I’m ready. Let’s go!” said Little White Button.

“Ah, I’m sorry Little White Button, but you’re not going anywhere,” replied Pa White Button.

“We’re not?” asked Little White Button.

“No, no. We, that is your mother and I, are going, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay behind,” said Pa White Button.

“Why’s that, Pa?” asked Little White Button.

“Because with all your stuff in the car, I’m afraid there just isn’t mushroom left!” spouted Pa White Button.

And everyone laughed happily ever after! The end.

Potato Of The Day Episode 92

Whenever I’m rocking the old chef’s knife on a fresh white onion, I like to pretend I’m an incredulous doctor preforming exploratory surgery on an alien species for the first time, recording my thoughts into an imaginary tape recorder (Yes, tapes. I’m a very old doctor and stuck in my ways. Goddamned technology is ruining society! I remember when we didn’t even use anesthetic, they just sliced you open like a MAN!), reveling in the absurd discovery of the onion’s insides. It’s cathartic to release like that, to give away to the world of pretend, embracing your inner child, or, more honestly, crazy person.

“Subject presented with a unique case of flaking dandruff. After initial scrub and cleanse, the outer flake shell broke off on its own. I can only conclude the husk provides some sort of protection. Deeper analysis into the creature’s makeup is necessary. I’m making the first cut now, a vertical incision along the creature’s center axis. The skin gives way easily, peeling back, revealing… MORE ONION? Holy shit! I’ve never seen a creature like this before. Dual layers of skin. Quite an evolutionary quirk! I need to explore deeper. But first, the top most layer of skin must be completely removed. Forceps, please.”

Which makes me realize I would be a HORRIBLE doctor. You’re really not supposed to remove the entirety of your subject’s skin just because you’ve noticed something interesting inside of them. Imagine if you did that to a human. “Oh, looks like you’ve got a unique bone spur on your heel there. We’re going to have to remove all of your flesh to get a better look.” That’s basically what I do to the onion. That’s not real Hippocratic oath-y of me, so I inevitably switch roles, transforming into an interrogator, a real rule-ignoring bastard of a man, for a secret shadow government agency.

“TELL ME WHAT YOU KNOW. Don’t make me remove your second layer of skin, White Onion. We know you have the codes! WE KNOW YOU HAVE THEM. Oh playing tough and silent, huh? WELL I’VE GOT THE KEY TO UNLOCK YOUR ASSHOLE, BUTTHEAD. And by asshole, I mean mouth, because you’ve got a butt for a head. THERE’S PLENTY MORE WORDPLAY WHERE THAT CAME FROM. Nothing? Then it’s time to rip off your skin and… OH MY GOD MORE ONION. WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

But by that point the onion has gotten to me, and my eyes start welling up. You don’t ever see any black-hearted bastard torturers with tears in their eyes, do you? No, of course not. There ain’t no empathy in the torture game. So I have to switch again, this time taking on the role of a heartbroken woman, having arrived home to find her husband tortured to death after a botched surgery.

“White Onion, honey, are you home? I picked up brisket at the market.I know it’s your fav – OH MY GOD! WHITE ONION? Oh no… oh no, no, no, no! THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING! WAKE UP YOU SON OF A BITCH! WAKE UP!”

And that’s about the point in time when I realize I’ve gone too far… again. I need to stop playing with my food.

Potato Of The Day Episode 91

Hey, kids! ARE YOU READY FOR AN INCOHERENT SMORGASBORD POST? Cause I sure am! Rapid fire multiple personalities now! Who can roll with the punches like a Purple Rose Aprium? Is it YOU! Show me, children! Let’s pound round fruits into square holes! Can holes even be square? I always thought “hole” implied a certain roundness, but that’s a debate for another day! BECAUSE THIS PARAGRAPH IS ENDING, KIDS! HOORAY!

PURPLE ROSE APRIUMS DEMAND SQUARED ORDER BE CONSTRUCTED FROM THE ROUND CHAOS OF THE WORLD. HALT HUMAN, SUBMIT TO THE GRID CONSTRUCT. YOU WILL CONCEDE YOUR FREE-FORM WAYS. YOU WILL GIVE UP YOUR UNSTRUCTURED MOUNDS. YOU WILL CONFORM. PURPLE ROSE APRIUMS DEMAND THIS OF YOU. YOU WILL CONSUME OR BE CONSUMED. END TRANSMISSION.

Yo dudes, if I’m being straight up with you for a second here, Purple Rose Apriums are the fucking DOPEST. It’s all in that naming, that top-shelf branding. Purple. Rose. Aprium. As in apricot-plum. A fusion. Just like we fused two of the mothafuckin’ dankest colors together in the first part of the name. Purple. Rose. Fused fusions fused! That name is hitting on you layered levels of mental real estate, bro. PURPLE. ROSE. APRIUM. I’d go into more detail, but I’m working on a perfecting a purple rose #HASHTAG.

So a pluot is a cross between a plum and an apricot, but an aprium is also a cross between an apricot and a plum. A pluot, as the name structure would imply, lends itself more to its plum ancestry, a more stoic path. But the aprium, in its unique genetic modifications, actually skewers more on the wild side, letting its dangerous apricot fly its crossbred flag. It’s an interesting line to draw in the sand. Where does the pluot end and the aprium begin? It’s much like question of the Purple Rose Aprium itself. Does it line up in staggered horizontal rows, starting left and ending right? Or does it prefer columned organization, one after another, from bottom to top? Let’s ponder that significance with a transitional sentence serving no substance, lost in pseudo-science sludge.

Let’s throw a bunch of pop culture references at your ass. Ready? Go. Purple, the color of Barney the Dinosaur and the McDonald’s anthropomorphic being, hugging mascots polluting our children with morality and morsels. Rose, dropping blue diamonds off the starboard port, whispering, “Paint me like one of your Golden Girls, Jack”. Aprium, a large open foyer, filled with rows and rows of folding chairs, occupied by cloned Gorilla Grodds and Donkey Kongs, tickets purchased well in advance, a conference promising the secrets to primate life, presented by King Kong. Is that enough? The narrators move on, Huck Finn and Ishmael, ushering you to your seat.

Who am I? I can’t remember. The fog sits heavy in my mind, a clouded bank of memories not functioning correctly, stagnated strands firing on incomplete electrical signals. I reach for my pockets, searching for warmth from a sudden and unforcasted fit of summer chill, finding instead a crumbled piece of paper. I pull it out, unfolding it with one hand, more a nonchalant gesture than deliberate action. Fragmented handwriting, scrawled through wrinkled sheet, stares up at me, scratched in hurried ink. “Purple Rose Aprium knows.” Knows what? My answers stretch out of reach, words tumbling from a paragraph at the end of page.

Let it all go now.
A Purple Rose Aprium
is to eat. Not THINK.

Potato Of The Day Episode 90

“Ground Control to Starfruit, come in Starfruit.” This was my second attempt at communication, my first having gone unanswered. Things happen. It’s not unusual for delayed response on first contact. But still. There was something crawling around in the back of my head, a stray thought that wouldn’t die. Today felt off. First contact was one thing, but this was second contact after all. That’s classified as more than standard delay. I held the handheld coms unit ready, but there was no response, just searing static.

“Ground Control to Starfruit. Starfruit, do you copy?” Again, nothing. I stared up at the ceiling, willing my vision through the drop-hanging textured tiles, peering beyond into the great dark abyss above. I could picture her up there, on the edges of imagination, her yellowed edges floating tantalizing outside of Earth’s reach, a ripe Carambola you couldn’t touch. What was going on, Starfruit? Why weren’t you answering?

“Ground Control to Starfruit, be advised, your responses are not being heard. Switching to reserve, emergency frequencies. Follow protocol Avverhoa.” I turned the dial on the hand com, setting it to the reserve bandwidth, and sent out a signal response detector, a simple beep that Starfruit would return upon successful reception. I waited.

No response.

That wasn’t good. The reception return signal was an automated process. If there was no response, that meant there was no Starfruit. I felt my breath start to quicken. I swallowed it back slowly, not allowing panic to seep. I picked up the emergency contact phone, a direct line to mission command headquarters. No dial tone. What was going on? Were all coms out? I set my handheld to broadcast all frequencies, sending out a standard response call. Nothing came back. Where the hell was the communication network? There should have been dozens of replies. What else was down? My cell phone? No signal. The internet? Not connected. The handheld HAM radio in the storage closet? Dead air.

I roamed the building, normally bustling, home to hundreds of employees, accountants, scientists, mechanics, repairmen. No one was there. I went up to the observation room, a glass giant of a wall overlooking the city at large. No movement from afar.

I was alone.

Breath suddenly failed me, my lungs raspy, my chest tight. Sweat. Where did all this sweat come from? I felt so very hot, my consciousness teetering on the edge of faint. Where did everyone go? No. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Not to me. I closed my eyes, praying for normalcy when my vision returned. But no. It was all gone.

I ran back to the communications room, my heart racing harder still, pounding like a piston. I snatched up the coms unit, desperately broadcasting to all channels. “STARFRUIT COME IN. STARFRUIT DO YOU COPY? STARFRUIT, PLEASE, YOU MUST COPY? DO YOU HEAR ME?”

The sound of steps accompanied by rubber wheels echoed into the room from behind me. No, not yet. They’d come for me. I needed more time. There must be someone else out there. There must be something out there! Anything! This couldn’t be happening again! “STARFRUIT! PLEASE!”

And there I was, still yelling into my hardened breakfast croissant, ass exposed in a medical gown, crying “Starfruit”, when they wheeled me away.