Now! Yep, late that evening, The Pornmeister sits alone in the darkened cubicle farm, shouting, "Come on!" at his recalcitrant computer screen, and when his MS-DOS prompt kicks back an "No Files Found" error message, The Pornmeister wigs. "All that work gone!" he exclaims. [Wait, has he been searching for the files well into the night, rather than attempting to start the work over? He'd have been done by now! - Zach] "Failed!" he whispers to himself, and unfortunately for The Pornmeister, that whisper rides an exhalation of breath made visible by the chilly presence of something most foul, indeed, so I'm thinking The Pornmeister's not long for this world. "Hooray!" And I know you'll like this one, too, Raoul. "Really?!" Yes. "But how!? Surely you can't be that attuned to my delicate sensibilities!" Knock it off, houseguest -- I know because you nearly blasted my eardrums clean out of my goddamned skull at this point last Thursday night, what with the shrieking and such. "Oh, I do apologize, I'm sure! But if that's the case, then why are you dallying! Hurry along, you silly little man!" Well, I was hoping you'd promis-- "Chop-chop!" Crap.
So, The Pornmeister rises from his desk, stalks deliberately into the break room, retrieves a plastic fork from the counter, snaps off each tine, jams the resultant stump into the microwave's locking mechanism to fool the oven into thinking the door's closed, and sets the timer to ten minutes. And then? "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE!" Yep, the suicidal Pornmeister sticks his bespectacled head into the microwave oven and hits Start, immediately triggering a series of skin-searing electrical arcs that jump from his glasses to dance around his increasingly charred face. "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!" And as his gargled screams fill the break room, the camera rises with the black smoke now streaming from the gaping holes burned through his nose, forehead, cheeks, and ears to take in the following politely worded sign: "DON'T HEAT UP YOUR FISH HERE IT STINKS!" I bet Xandir wrote that note. And The Pornmeister's screams and the racket on the soundtrack crescendo until they all cut out abruptly with the act-ending blackout. And then? The microwave goes, "Ting!" HA!
The next morning, horrified tech support staff watch as gents from the coroner's office wheel The Pornmeister's charred remains out in a body bag. Among the gawkers is, of course, Sam Wesson, who eyes the stretcher as it rolls by with an expression of frowny concern that almost reaches Super-Special Puppy-Dog Eyes levels but fails, because at the very last instant, Sam Wesson spots that midget dickbag from the elevator at the other end of the hall. The gentleman strangers do, however, exchange A Look Fraught With Significance across Dead Pornmeister's corpse before Sam Wesson breaks the gaze and turns back to his desk. Dean Smith, meanwhile, asks of his similarly besuited colleague, "Does something about this seem not right to you?" The colleague's all, "Um, which part, dickbag?" before regretfully admitting, "I'll never eat popcorn again." Success! Seriously, if the entity responsible for this evening's supposed crisis has that effect on the survivors, then we need to send it to every single office in North America -- hell, every single office in the world. Only then shall we once and for ever wipe the scourge of microwaved office popcorn from the face of the earth! Huzzah! "Demian!" WHAT?! "I do apologize, I'm sure! But you're beginning to sound positively unhinged!" Oh, I'm sorry, Raoul. But, you know, have you ever smelled that stuff? And it lingers in the air the entire goddamn day, and you end up walking out of the fucking place REEKING OF IT, and I...I...I think I should take a moment to collect myself. "Please do!"