Like clockwork, Zeb conks out.
The whole crew proceed to veer
their heads over conveyor belts,
around electric pallets driven by
speedots of or nimrods of indeter
minate origin and, just beneath
the balcony’s leftmost stack of
said pallets, (propping up the
goods, these), there he is, sure
enough. It’s two minutes to conk-time
for Zeb, our man from Quality Control.
“How does everyone know, though?”
asks a very green engineer, who’s just
caught wind of Zeb’s condition (without
even knowing from which cog in which
wheel the old man’s home of imp-ment
spun). “Oh, you catch on real quick on
Zeb,” someone was heard responding
to a third or fourth question that the
engineer has about this zonk-o conk-o
phenomenon. “So guess what? From
10:45 to about 3am, there isn’t a spare
tab of quality in this entire warehouse,” he
“How does everyone know, though?”
asks a very green engineer, who’s just
caught wind of Zeb’s condition (without
even knowing from which cog in which
wheel the old man’s home of imp-ment
spun). “Oh, you catch on real quick on
Zeb,” someone was heard responding
to a third or fourth question that the
engineer has about this zonk-o conk-o
phenomenon. “So guess what? From
10:45 to about 3am, there isn’t a spare
tab of quality in this entire warehouse,” he
helped contextualize.” “You mean....”
the engineer began in a bit of a stutter.
“Yep, this place is one helluva blast for
around four hours every night.” And
both the questioner and answerer
let out extended guffaws to that. Only
the engineer’s was more in that not sure
what I’m laughing at room while the answer
man’s words cackled with utter confidence.
the engineer began in a bit of a stutter.
“Yep, this place is one helluva blast for
around four hours every night.” And
both the questioner and answerer
let out extended guffaws to that. Only
the engineer’s was more in that not sure
what I’m laughing at room while the answer
man’s words cackled with utter confidence.
