Robert Davies tried to log onto FuckedCompany.com, and he could not, and he knew he was fucked.
      The chair squeaked as he leaned back. He double-checked the URL in the browser’s address bar; it was correct. He pursed his lips and typed the URL again. Again, Microsoft Internet Explorer showed him its regular, unhelpful, the-page-cannot-be-displayed screen. It suggested he might want to check his browser settings.
      Robert typed in www.nTropics.com, the address of the Web servers sitting in the large, bomb-shelter safe room in the basement. His company’s site popped up, with its neo-Aztec cursive logo and gold bar icon. He typed Instapundit.com, and the popular blog loaded. His Internet connection was indeed active. But when he tried to get to FuckedCompany.com again, the same.
      The first time was happenstance, the second time coincidence, and the third time, Auric said, was enemy action. This was the other shoe, and the axe was going to fall, and he wanted to be sure, so he went looking for Daryl.
     Daryl was the local guru. Whenever someone with less than three months’ experience at nTropics.com needed some help with his or her workstation, that person went to the two network administrators in the unlit office that probably was a supply closet before nTropics took over the building. Those who had more than six months’ experience, few as they seemed to be, would go to the same guy that the certs-from-a-book weenies did: Daryl Simon. So Robert made his way up a half flight of stairs into the Customer Support Room.
      Daryl studied his computer screen. His visibility, and the high level of background noise imposed by fourteen other technical service reps all in open cubes, didn’t bother him. When Robert got close enough, he saw Daryl was reading some system board review, dazzled and probably slightly intoxicated by the speed of the front side bus and the RAID capabilities.
      “Ahem,” Robert mentioned after standing for a moment at the edge of the half wall, just over Daryl’s shoulder and conveniently noticeable for anyone, probably, but Daryl.
      “What’s up, Robert?” Daryl said.
      Robert dropped his voice. “I can’t get to F Company.”
      “What?”
      Robert hated to say it, so he hissed, instead. “I can’t get to FuckedCompany.com!”
      “You kick your Cat5 out?”
      “No, I haven’t lost connectivity, I just can’t get to the site. That means they’re blocking us, and that means we’re going out of business.”
      “What’s up, guys?” Kevin Horton appeared and asked.
      “Robert can’t get to Fucked Company, so we’re all fired.” Daryl tapped on his keyword.
      “What’s Fucked Company?” Kevin said.
      “The Dot-Com Deadpool,” Robert said.
      “It’s a rumors site,” Daryl said. “When a company’s thinking about layoffs, someone drops Fucked Company an e-mail and the guy puts it up on the Web. A lot of times he’s got actual e-mails and whatnot. Mildly amusing.”
      “As long as you’re not on it,” Robert said.
      “If you can’t get to the Web site, why don’t you just can the net admins, Robert? Why do we all have to pay for their incompetence?” Kevin rubbed his cheek with the arm he was leaning on. Elbow up, he looked foolish instead of nonchalant, Robert thought, but Robert’s idea of nonchalance tended to parade rest. Hands behind the back in a non-threatening way. Kevin liked to repose like that, in his Dockers and collared shirts, dressed in business casual to rank him somewhere above the casual information technology rabble. He probably stuffed a sock down his trousers, too.
      “Yeah, I can’t get it either. Their server’s probably down.” Daryl’s machine displayed the non-helpful Internet Explorer screen, too.
      “Pud’s always saying that other companies block the site from their intranets right before they lay off forty percent.”
      “Who’s Pud?” Kevin said.
      “He runs Fucked Company,” and Robert knew he wasn’t getting anywhere.
      “Robert gets laid off and fired more than Chicago Blackhawks coaches.” Daryl said.
      “I used to work in a grocery store,” Robert offered as an explanation. He’d seen more mustached Mikes start out as assistant managers or store managers, only to be canned when the store failed to pull in its four percent in a declining economy and a declining urban environment.
      “Can’t you get around it?” Kevin said.
      “Get around what?”
      “If they are blocking it out. Go ahead, show him.”
      “All right.” Daryl looked around.
      “You going to spoof your own IP address to get around the firewall?” Kevin said.
      “You been taking community college classes again? Spoof your own IP and the domain server won’t talk to you.” Daryl tapped at the keyboard, zooming through the menus and dialog boxes in his Internet browser without the mouse. He liked that. Seventies hackers didn’t need a mouse back when the MIT and Bell Labs boys stayed up for days with machines with less power than a cell phone and loved it. He was born fifteen or twenty years too late, into a world where to be a computer guru, you had to be esoteric. But he was. He looked around to make sure no supervisors or collared shirts besides Kevin were around him. “This is a proxy server in Vancouver that doesn’t keep logs. Forget this address.” And before they could see it, he had typed it into the edit box and tabbed to the OK button and hit the space bar.
      He hit the combination of keystrokes to refresh the screen, and it started downloading, and Robert felt the flash of triumph that trumped his dread.
NTROPY.COM

The going-nowhere travel company http://www.nTropics.com started the day with a lame-ass pun for a name and is going to end the day with 33% less staff as they begin the slow decay to nothingness. Rumor has it, they’ve also blocked us, too. Enjoy your vacations, suckers.

      “Oh, shit,” Kevin said.
      “I knew it,” Robert offered as consolation.
      “That does suck,” Daryl said.