At a desk in the corner of an office that might have been considered modern in the eighties there sat a bespectacled, dumpy little snow leopard. Although he had been somewhat rotund since he was a cub, the feline maintained his girth with a combination of junk food and a sedentary lifestyle of which an exercise-nazi fur like Richard Simians would not approve. His friends and co-workers called him by the unflattering moniker "Plonq". They did not do this out of spite or contempt but because, unfortunately, that was his name. Plonq tugged on his unfashionable necktie - which seemed to have tightened up again of its own accord - and considered reading his email. The frowsy little cat placed email at work somewhere down his priority list below chasing his tail, staring out the window, and making meandering treks across the office to see if Bill the puma morph had brought in any more of his smoked trout. Aside from the occasional pieces of interesting junk mail that snuck through the company's filters, his inbox usually accumulated nothing but work requests and multiple tracers on prior work requests. The snow leopard was tentatively clicking through the junk mail when he accidentally opened a "please handle" message. Oops. The problem with reading a work-related message was that many of them were tagged with a "send receipt" flag set. Since the sender was probably already getting a note saying that he had read the message, the cat was obliged to do something with the message. He either had to handle the request, or forward it to somebody else who was also perfectly capable of acting on it. He scrolled down in the message through a veritable maze of "forwarded", "FYI" and "Please Handle" headers in an attempt to find the email's original content. Plonq was impressed; this one had made the rounds through Administration, IT, Marketing, Industrial Relations, Customer Service, The Executive, Engineering and ultimately Employee Resources department before coming to him. It had even made the full rounds in many of those departments before moving on. When he finally got to the meat of the message, the little morph gave a small cry of indignation. "Ack!" "To whomever it may concern in administration," it read, "the stock room is out of staples. Please get some more. Thank you. Plonq." The feline was about to forward the message back to Administration when it occurred to him that if he actually handled the message then it would get him out of the office for a couple of hours - possibly for the rest of the day if he worked it right. He glanced at the time and sucked a quick breath between his teeth: a quarter after nine. It would be tight, but he could probably burn up the whole day buying staples, perhaps taking in a matinee as part of the process. He sent the message off to the laser printer and could not contain a smug purr as he toddled over to retrieve his prize. "What are you up to now?" demanded Fig, jamming his horned muzzle under the partition that separated his desk from Plonq's. "I'm going to buy staples," said Plonq matter-of-factly. "Like hell you are," said Fig sourly. "You're right in the middle of a hot project that you're doing for me. I know you, and you'll be gone the whole day doing that. Who authorized this?" Plonq flashed the message at the rhino morph. "This comes straight from Employee Resources so it must be important," he said. The rhino snatched the paper away from Plonq and peered at it suspiciously. His beady eyes followed the chain of forwarded messages from start to finish. His mouth worked silently for a moment before he tossed the paper back in the general direction of the snow leopard. "This is too weird," he fumed. "I mean, I've worked for this company for years and I never... hell with it. I'm going for a smoke." The rhino pulled his head back, hooking his horn on the bottom of the partition. He uttered a quick, scatological curse and twisted his head to free it before stomping off. An important part of using the company's own incompetence against it is wandering through the office to gloat about it. Plonq wound a circuitous path between the desks, searching for co-workers to taunt, but to his disappointment the first desk he stopped at was vacant. Giblet had not been gone for long judging by the partially drained mug sitting by his terminal. That was odd! The otter was never one to abandon a cup of coffee without finishing it - or, more accurately, he was wont less to simply draining a cup as to licking it clean of coffee residue when he was done. On a whim, Plonq picked up the cup and drained its content in two big swallows. "Ow!" he yelped, slamming the mug back on the desk with one hand and frantically fanning his scorched tongue with the paper in his other hand. "Hot! Hot! Ow! Hot! Bleah!" "Of course it's hot." said a mongoose at the neighbouring desk, glancing at the panting snow leopard over the top of her terminal. "He just left it there a minute ago." There was little sympathy in her gaze as she watched the snow leopard pull out his tongue and try to assess the damage through watering eyes. "Why are you drinking somebody else's coffee anyway?" she asked. "I didn't want it to get cold," mewled the feline pathetically. "I was just doing him a favour before I went out to buy staples." "Staples?" she asked, perking up her neck with interest. The mongoose adjusted her glasses and squinted at the paper flopping around in the snow leopard's hand. "Don't tell me you got that chain letter about the staples. That thing has been making the rounds for weeks. Apparently if you forward it to all of your friends then Bill Gatesmorph will credit your bank account with two-thousand dollars." Plonq blinked and took a closer look at the letter - his scorched tongue momentarily forgotten. Now that she had mentioned it he recalled seeing that somewhere in the extended message body. He shook his head and concluded that he would never understand the strange mechanics of their internal email system. For a few heartbeats he considered wandering back to his desk and forwarding the message on to his friends in order to collect the two thousand dollars from that multibillionaire. He had doubts about the veracity of the offer though, and he couldn't remember if he had any friends. "Otter approaching at oh-one-hundred," hissed the mongoose softly. The tone of her voice left the obvious allusion unspoken. "How are you going to explain his empty coffee cup and the smell of fresh coffee on your breath?" "Why can't they make the cigarette equivalent to Jolt Cola?" demanded the otter when he spied the snow leopard standing by his desk. The smell of a recent smoke preceded the little mustelid's approach. "I want something with all the flavour and twice the nicotine of a regular cigarette. There's never enough though, even in the high-octane ones. You smoke it and ten minutes later you just want another." "You could always buy unfiltered ones," said the snow leopard helpfully. "Spoken like a cat who has never tried to smoke unfiltered," replied the otter. "They're way too harsh. I'm surprised that you'd even suggest that, given the rate at which you bum smokes from me ya big deadbeat. I'd have thought there would be some motivated self-interest at work." Giblet sighed. "I guess I'll just have to keep doing what I am now. At least I can chew on the filter when I'm done to get that last bit of tar and nicotine that I'd normally be missing." He leaned over the recycle bin and spat out a soggy butt. "Bleah. I think I've sucked all the goodness out of that one. Thank god for coffee or I'd probably never get the taste out of my mouth. Speaking of which, do you feel like going for a coffee?" "I'm going to buy staples," said Plonq, heaving an inward sigh of relief that the otter had miraculously forgotten about the coffee on his desk. Giblet's nose twitched as the snow leopard spoke. He took a step closer and sniffed again. "Smells like you've already had coffee," he said. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Since when did you start taking three sugars in your coff..." the little otter trailed off and pushed hastily past the other morph. He took one glance at his desk and let out a gasp. "You drank MY coffee? Oh my God... you DRANK my coffee!" Plonq began to mumble out an apology, but the otter brushed it aside in a fit of giggles. "I can't believe you actually drank that," said Giblet. He cupped a hand over the end of his muzzle to try and stifle his giggles, but something about the gesture made him laugh even harder. "Oh my god - if you only knew. I can't believe you drank that." "Why? What was wrong with that coffee?" demanded Plonq. He bowled past the otter and snatched up the empty mug for closer inspection. The snow leopard sniffed at the still-warm cup, but any untoward odour that he had been hoping to detect was hopelessly overpowered by the rich aroma of Ethiopian Harrar. The otter laughed until his eyes filled with tears, then he glanced at the snow leopard and began giggling again.. "As long as it tasted okay to you, that's all that matters," said Giblet enigmatically, but he refused to elaborate. "What was it you were saying about staples?" Plonq handed the little otter his printout from Employee Resources. The smaller fur poured through the layers of forwards and follow-ups before shaking his head. "I dunno," he said grimly, "I've sent these things off lots of times and he's never credited MY account." "You didn't read far enough," said Plonq. He extended a claw and politely tapped the bottom of the message to call the otter's attention to what was written there. "See? It says to get more staples. And it came from Employee Resources so it must be important." "Wow," said the otter, bouncing eagerly. "Do you realise what this is? It's carte blanche to take the rest of the day off! That's it, I'm coming along. You'll probably buy the wrong kind if there isn't somebody along to guide you." "Wrong kind of what?" asked the amiable voice of an approaching fur. The cat and otter glanced over to address the approaching buffalo morph. "Staples," enthused Giblet. "We're heading out to buy staples. Word came down from Employee Resources - some new company initiative or something, I guess." "Out?" demanded the buffalo, "as in outside? Out in the fresh air and sunshine? Away from the flood of positive ions, and excessive carbon dioxide that pollute the stagnant air of this so-called modern office?" Bob flicked an ear in thought. The buffalo was not stupid - quite the opposite - but neither was he the fastest thinker in the world. "Can I tag along?" he asked at length. "Sure," said the otter. "Let's cut the talk and shake a tail here - I could use another smoke before we go." "Go where?" Growled the feminine voice of an approaching warthog. She had been passing with some files in hand and had detoured slightly to see what the three other furs were doing. "You guys are going for lunch and you didn't invite me?" "Not lunch, staples," said Plonq. He held up the letter for inspection again. "He's on a mission from God," giggled Giblet. "Lunch... staples - makes no real difference to me. I'll just leave the files here for now and pick them up when we get back." The mongoose, who had been listening to the conversation with growing interest, logged off her phone and pushed back her chair. "Sounds like this is turning into a party," she quipped. "I could use a break too. Mind if I join you?" The snow leopard, otter, buffalo, warthog and mongoose had barely taken three steps in the general direction of the elevator when a voice called out in challenge. "Just where the hell do you five think you're going?" "To get staples," they called back in an approximation of chorus. The tiger who had called out to them nodded sombrely. "That's as good an excuse as any," he said, pushing back his chair. By the time the little group reached the elevators, their number had swollen to twenty-six. When the first elevator arrived, the inevitable happened; nobody moved. Twenty-six morphs exchanged glances, as they each waited for somebody else to go first. After its pre-set timeout, the elevator dinged again and its doors slid slowly closed. "Oh no," said Giblet with growing alarm. "Do you people know what just happened? We've reached critical mass and become something we all hate!" "Management?" asked a gruff voice from behind him. "A committee!" wailed the otter. "Doomed to stand here and mill about forever without accomplishing anything productive. This is NOT how I had planned to spend my day. You people go ahead without me." "Now hang on," said Plonq, "you can't just walk out like that. I suggest we put it to a vote to see if you should leave." "I second that," called out a goat morph. "Do we have enough here for a quorum?" demanded the mongoose. Giblet screamed. * * * Roberto the possum did not get to be Manager of Resource Products by being inattentive. When he noticed that nearly a quarter of the staff had disappeared from the floor, he wandered down to the office of the director and knocked politely. "Roberto," said the weasel behind the opulent oak desk, "come in and sit down. What can I do for you?" "Well," said the possum, stepping into the office and sliding into one of the patent leather seats reserved for important visitors, "have we reduced staff lately? Today even?" "Reduced staff?" asked the weasel, sitting back in his chair and tapping his fingertips together over his chest, "we're due to winnow out a couple pieces of deadwood in the next month or so if we can work out the logistics to make it look like an accident, but we haven't reduced any FTEs today." The weasel slid his feet off the desk and leaned forward to flip open his appointment book. He studied its contents for a moment before nodding. "Nope - definitely no staff cuts today. None this week, actually." "I see," said Roberto. "There must be some other explanation then." "Hm?" prompted the weasel, spinning his hand in a "spit it out" motion. "There must be an explanation for what?" "For the disappearance of about a quarter of our staff," said Roberto. The weasel sat back I his chair and rubbed his chin in thought. "That IS perplexing," he admitted. "Do you have any theories regarding the sudden absence of our employees? I don't recall hearing about any union meetings from our moles." There was a polite knock at the door, and a well-groomed wolf stepped apologetically into the office. He gave a soft "woof" and said, "I hope I'm not interrupting an important meeting here, but have either of you seen my customs department?" "Yes," said the weasel. He pointed through the vertical blinds toward a distant part of the office. "Over in that corner I believe." "Understood," said the wolf meekly, though the nape of his neck rose in contrast to the calmness of his words. "I was just over in my department, and I assure you that the department is still there. What I mean more specifically is, do either of you know where my STAFF have disappeared to?" "Well," said the weasel sagely, "I think it might be safe to presume that they are currently with Roberto's staff - wherever they are. Do you concur, Roberto?" "Seems plausible to me..." began the possum, but a badger burst into the office and interrupted him in mid-sentence. "Is there some function going on here that I should know about? Where the heck are all my billers?" "That's it," growled the wolf, shedding all semblance of his earlier meekness. "I think we've got a wildcat strike of some kind in the works here. People don't just disappear without reason." "Oh God, no!" wailed the possum. "This will look bad on my mid-year review!" "I say we lock the bastards out," said the badger. The weasel slapped his palms sharply on the desk to re-establish order in the room. "Now let's not jump to rash conclusions," he said, "There could be an equally less sinister explanation for the disappearances. Alien abduction, or a mass suicide for instance. Roberto, Tom, go out and gather the other managers for an emergency session so that we can consider all of the possibilities and plan strategy if needed. Remember your visions and values. We are furs of action." "Who would organize a wildcat strike in this office?" asked Roberto as he and the wolf stepped out of the office. "A cat... I presume," said the possum. * * * "DING," said the empty elevator as the doors closed again. "Okay," said Plonq, rubbing a hand over his eyes, "So the original proposal was to enter the elevator in alphabetical order, with a counter-proposal to enter it in reverse-alphabetical order. Both proposals resulted in split votes. Does anyone else have any ideas?" The mongoose raised her hand. "I propose that we either ask Giblet to stop screaming or wrap his muzzle in duct tape." "Seconded," barked another fur. "Do we have duct tape?" asked somebody else, "I mean, we obviously don't have staples or we wouldn't all be standing here now." "I vote we spawn a sub-committee to go forage in the stock room for duct tape," "I'll second that if they can pick me up a new highlighter while they're in there," said one of the Car Control morphs. "I'll head up this sub-committee," offered the buffalo. "Is there anything else we should look for while we look for duct tape and highlighters?" Plonq sighed and looked at his watch. Another couple of dozen furs had wandered in to join their staple run since they had arrived at the elevator. With the speed at which the group was coming to a decision it would soon begin to eat into his coffee break. He glanced at the crumpled message in his hand, and at the gathered group of furs - who were apparently in the process of splitting into three factions. "Who'd have thought that heading off to buy staples would be such a complicated affair," he thought glumly. "It's no wonder everyone else just forwarded the message along." * * * The weasel stood at the front of the ad-hoc management meeting and tried not to look unduly smug. "These people are all subservient to me," he thought. He let the heady feeling of power wash over him until he felt the beginnings of an erection forming. Since he considered it to be bad form to sport a chubby in front of his entire management staff, he quickly purged his mind (no major feat) and focused on the task at hand. "As I am sure you are all aware, we have a potential crisis building in our office. I've spoken with our HR representative and asked her to assess the situation for us. Ah, here she is now. Do you have the numbers, Patricia?" "Fifty-two staff are confirmed missing," said the mink silkily, "and another fifteen have been observed as inactive, but given the time of day we have reason to suspect that they may be on break." "Or it could be passive support for the strikers," said the wolf darkly. "Lousy union bastards. Tell me which ones in my department are inactive and I'll can their asses." "There's NOBODY IN your department," pointed out the bear morph in charge of technical support. "Oh - right." "If I may," said Roberto, "I've heard unconfirmed reports that the missing staff are all milling about by the elevators." "Has anyone checked into this rumour?" asked the weasel. "No," admitted the possum. "Then we'll have to treat it as unsubstantiated hearsay and move on. Yes, uh, Fig?" "Has anyone seen Plonq?" said the Rhino sourly. "How does he always manage to weasel out - er, begging your pardon sir - avoid these meetings?" * * * "Has anyone seen Plonq?" bellowed the warthog over the buzz of voices around her. Silence descended on the group as fifty-one furs glanced hurriedly about. "He's buggered off," said one of the more astute among them. * * * The snow leopard breathed a sigh of relief as the stairwell door closed behind him. Even a snow leopard of his girth could move very quickly and silently if properly motivated. From the sound of animated discussion three floors above he assumed that his absence had been noticed. At least Giblet had stopped screaming. Plonq winced slightly in sympathy with the otter; he hated committees too. Pausing only to adjust his tie again, he trundled down the hall toward the mailroom. As he had hoped, Sapphire was sitting at her station, busily sorting mail. "Hullo," he called, rapping lightly on the doorframe. The skunkette glanced over her shoulder and waved cheerily. "Hi Plonq," she said. "What brings you down to my part of the office? There's no mail for you today." "Oh, um, nothing really," said the cat shyly. He ambled into room with an affected air of indifference. "I was just running a chore and thought I'd drop in and say hi on my way past." "That's very sweet," she said, turning around in her stool to face him. She yawned and gave one of those luxurious, hands-over-the-head, tail-quivering stretches. Plonq felt his own tail quiver a bit at the sight. "I'm not that busy if you want to stay and chat or - oh, hey, it's just about coffee time. I've got some stale stuff in the other room if you'd like to stay for some java." The cat morph stuck out his tongue. "I'm a little off coffee at the moment," he said. The snow leopard fidgeted with the paper in his hand while his tail thrashed up a merry storm. "Actually I'm running an errand," he said quickly, "and I was wondering if you wanted to come along for the walk. I've got to go buy some staples, and maybe get some sushi or something." The skunk blinked. "Sushi?" she said. "Plonq, I've only got ten minutes for my break. I'll have to pass." "Oh no!" blurted the snow leopard. "This isn't a break - we'd be running an errand." "You said you were heading out to pick up staples," she said practically. "Going for sushi is hardly picking up staples." "Sushi is a staple of sorts," argued the feline. "It's okay - I've got managerial privileges for this kind of thing. You won't get into any trouble if you're with me, and you said yourself that you're not that busy." "Well..." hedged the skunk. "I'll buy." "Okay, you've talked me into it," said Sapphire. She bounced out of her chair and hooked the feline by the arm. "You're bad. I always knew you had a devious streak in you." "It's a cat thing," said Plonq as he led her out into the hall. "You're not going to order sea urchin, are you?" "Yum!" "Plonq, that's disgusting!" * * * "Order!" bellowed the weasel, looking somewhat less kempt than he had earlier in the meeting. "In answer to your questions in the order that they were asked: No, we cannot just shoot the bastards. No, we cannot string them up with piano wire either. No, you cannot all have the day off because there is no staff to manage, and YES this WILL affect your mid-year reviews." He drew a few ragged breaths before he continued. "Lastly, I DON'T know why we call her an HR officer if her office is called Employee Resources. Now you have all been assigned stations to watch during this crisis, so if there is nothing else to add to this meeting..." "Um," said Fig, who had been standing by the door. He glanced out into the office and said, "I think I see people heading back to their desks again." He craned his neck to look around the corner and said, "seems to be about all of them to. They don't look very happy for some reason." "I vote that we adjourn this meeting and all go get drunk," said one of the managers of Shift Operations, who also did not look very happy. "Seconded." "I have a better idea," said the weasel in an eerily calm voice. "How about if you all return to your stations and resume your jobs - all of you, that is, with the exception of the last person out that door who is FIRED!" There was a pregnant moment of silence in the room. The stampede that ensued became the subject of legend.