Lights up on SKOT, seated at his desk at work. He is puzzling over some BAFFLING HORSESHIT on his computer.

Skot: What a bunch of baffling horseshit.

An INTRUDING COWORKER enters.

Intruding Coworker: Hey, Skot? Got a minute?

S: Sure, come on in.

(As this is a cubicle, there is no "in" to come to, but the IC declines to point out Skot's demented fantasy of having a real office.)

IC: Thanks. We've pretty much got the site worked up in the test database, and we were wondering . . . *

Skot's Brain: I'd like a cigarette now.

IC: . . . anyway, the mockups for the tracking system have been coded and . . .

SB: Hey. Stupid. I want a cigarette.

IC: . . . because the site visit is coming and people are stressed . . .

SB: All right. Have it your way. Enjoy.

IC: . . . the database people are going to move it into production . . .

SKOT suddenly is blindsided by a massive sneeze, and barely gets his hand to his mouth in time to catch a large handful of warm, clingy snot.

IC: Wow! Bless you!

S: Thanks.

IC: Uh, anyway, like I said, once it gets into production, you'll want to . . .

SB: Yum! Yum! A big handful of mucus! Feels kind of squishy, doesn't it? Man, that stuff really sticks!

IC: . . . so I've been drinking before work a lot lately . . .

SB: Not much you can do with a couple ounces of snot in your hands, is there? Want to wipe it on your pants? No? And you don't want to get a tissue and wipe it off in front of this guy? Huh! Golly, what a dilemma!

IC: . . . I mean, a pistol's no good without bullets, you know? I don't even see them as people any more, really . . .

SB: You're probably really glad you didn't give me that cigarette, huh? Because now you can sit here while this guy babbles and do nothing but think about that little horror in your palm! That's almost as good as a cigarette!

IC: . . . a killing rain is a cleansing rain after all . . .

SB: Well, I'll let you get back to your office chat. Sounds like he's winding up. Enjoy your befouled hand! Think of that the next time I ask for something!

IC: . . . just like in Isaiah. So, sorry to ramble at you, man. So is Wednesday good for you for getting this done?

Skot: Yeah, no problem, man.

IC: Thanks.

(Exit INTRUDING COWORKER. SKOT sits, regarding his hand.)

Skot: Man, do I need a cigarette.

Blackout.

*All coworker dialogue is approximated for obvious reasons, and I don't generally understand what the hell they're talking about most of the time even in the best of circumstances.