Like clockwork, Zeb conks out.
The whole crew proceed to veer
their heads over conveyor belts,
around electric pallets driven by
speedbots or other indeterminate
nimrods and others squint toward
just beneath the balcony’s leftmost
stack of said pallets, (propping up
the goods, these), and 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 with
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 with
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
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 at all certain what I’m
laughing at zone while the answer man’s words
came back in clipped cackles of utter confidence.
