Memos. Forms. Pencils. Judging by Xandir's change of shirt, it's the next day, and Sam Wesson's gone from absentmindedly playing with his bobble-head Dracula to somewhat more consciously doodling the heads of Hell's spawn onto a legal pad while instructing his stupid callers to try turning their stupid shit off and on before bothering the goddamned help desk with their stupid, useless calls. Except he's a lot more polite about it. He does, however, surreptitiously Google "vampires" while on his latest call (receiving nothing more than ten pages of Gothtard MySpace photos for his troubles, natch, though it would have been hysterical if he'd landed on this instead), and almost gets busted by Xandir because no one on television knows how to Alt-Tab, but that's not important at the moment, because Xandir's arrived with some depressing news: He, too, has been called up to human resources for a little chat, likely because someone finally caught him "snaking all those office supplies." Xandir's upbeat enough about it all, though, so maybe he won't emerge from the ordeal transformed into a corporate zombie more than willing to drive a pencil through his carotid over the slightest workplace offense. Ooops. Pretend you didn't hear that, Raoul. "Hear what?!" Excellent. Once Xandir's gone, Sam Wesson calls up his search results page again until he notices some agonized moans floating across his cubicle wall from points elsewhere. He rises to investigate the keening's source, and it's Paul The Pornmeister, who's flung himself into a mad frenzy because his computer froze, thereby deleting -- get this -- an entire day's worth of work, which doesn't happen, ever, which is something television writers would know had they ever held down a real job in their lives, but whatever, because all you need to know is that The Pornmeister's about to self destruct, which should happen in about three... two... one...

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.