Chapter Two: Dial M for Moider, D for Duh, and P for Pizza.


One comes to many revelations when one is cowering in a darkened closet, struggling to get her pants on, whilst balancing a laptop on her head. The first and foremost is that one will invariably be hungry. I could go for a pizza. I'm sure I should have been more worried about the foreign footsteps echoing in the house, or terrified by the fact that, in spite of my reputation, I cannot shoot daggers into the crotches of my enemies with my eyes. I am, in the purest sense of the word, defenseless, and at the mercy of the ogre (I'm assuming, of course) who owns the ominous footies making the syncopated and most probably psychopathic thumping towards my very being.

The footsteps were deliberate and slow, like my unknown intruder was pausing every step for dramatic effect, or possible needing to go to the bathroom really bad. Either way, I was as ready as I ever was to confront the evil on the other side of the door, with my laptop under my arm, and my pants on backwards with the zipper caught on the back of my underpants. I crouched as a dragon lying in wait, hoping not to fart as that would give away my position, if not by sound, then probably by other means.

Da THUMP. Da....THUMP. DA.....(oh freeking golly)....THUMP. The handle jiggled on the closet door. With a mighty banshee shreech, a flurry of red hair, and the agility of a large water animal flopping on the deck of a ship, I lunged out, swinging the laptop wildly. Unfortunately, the only thing I connected with was the floor. As I struggled to get my bearings back and determine if I had wet my backwards pants, I peered at the three hulking figures before me.

Clad in midnight black ninjas costumes with the pants pulled up to reveal stark white tube socks and boat shoes, it was my worst nightmare made manifest. The dreaded and deadly system administrator nerd ninjas of Senegal. Not highly athletic nor particularly coordinated, the system administrator nerd ninjas of Senegal are deadly nonetheless. They barrage their victim with technospeak and self important computer blather until their victim either stabs themselves in the head with a nearby sharp object or reels from an aneurism. Jabber about firewalls and warnings about anonymous email attachments filled the room. PWHEEWWW. PWHEEEWWW. Floppy disks flew by my head, embedding themselves in the wall. Windows XP discs came flying at me with lethal speed, only to be deflected by my sturdy little powerbook.

And then came the Linux server configuration instructions.

Deviously cunning devils, they started a detailed account, step by step, explaining the configuration of a Linux server. I felt myself go weak. With my waning strength I looked around for escape. I spied the open window, and knew if I could only distract them, I could dive out into the alley and run like a bat out of hell. How. HOW COULD I DISTRACT THEM?

"Macintosh is a GREAT gaming platform." The ninjas let out a howl, as they doubled over, temporarily paralyzed. The flurry and fury of the impending and lengthy repudiation of my statement had overwhelmed my attackers. I leaped towards the window, Mac in hand, escaping out the window....

I landed with a thud and as I scrambled to my feet, one thought was in my mind.... WHO THE HELL WERE THOSE GUYS?

Next Time-
Chapter Three: WHO THE HELL WERE THOSE GUYS?

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