I am a corporate-type - haircut, suit, gold tie. The whole deal.
I work on the 23rd floor of a high rise. And these things spark terror in me, I've got to tell you. Terror like the sight of an unfettered 0.5 gpm inline aerator with nothing left to lose.
And to add to it all - the Germans were attacking.
I said to myself:
"Buddy, if we can get out of this situation with a gun and a cold beer, I'll consider this event a success".
The military had set up a command centre in the building. I understand this is common practice, particularly when office-types are still wandering about - photocopying things.
I picked up what appeared to be an MP5 sub-machine gun (thanks Counterstrike) from the kit of a soldier named Ramirez (whoa - lack of cultural awareness or what) and said to myself:
"Tick. Gun: Achieved. Now for that beer."
And at that moment - gun clutched in well-manicured hands, the Germans attacked!
Mortar fire lit up the sky like a 1 aa battery fiber illuminator for hobbies and i was concerned, to say the least - because as you know (thankyou 9/11) buildings will collapse given the slightest provocation.
Well - the unthinkable happened - and the building begins to curve, bend and sway.
Human Resources women begin to panic - these things are not in the handbook - and the floor begins to tilt:
10 degrees
20 degrees
30 degrees
I say to myself:
"Buddy, once it gets to 45 degrees, we're going to need a plan"
40 degrees
50 degrees
And that's roughly sliding-slant. That's the sort of slant that business shoes just do not take.
So I run. I run like some crazy parkour frenchman, and by the time I get to an exit-facing window, the slant is nigh-90 degrees.
You know - the thing about eating a lot of fish, is the positive effects it has on your joints.
I hit the ground and run - just run
All the while people are screaming, and smoke is billowing into the air, and my mental checklist is flashing:
"Beer"
"Beer"
"Beer"
And it's dark - my friend. It's dark - it's silent. The Germans have won. It's silent. German restaurants have sprung up, German cars patrol the streets, and I am running, in cool desperation.
And I am at the beach - a small hut with a bar is on the water. The waves lap at the shore. The German bartender hums a segment of Wagner's ring cycle.
My dress shoes hit the bar and he turns around.
I smash his brains in with the butt of my gun.
The fridge only stocks Corona.
I can't understand this.
But - "Beer: Tick"
The day was a success.
And as I gulp down the last dregs of beer... I think to myself....
"oc830m"