doubt it,” says Coffen, “but I’m not sure.”
“That means no. I won’t make that mistake again. One mighty big check I had to write those buffoons who are too dumb to know the specifications of their own roof. While we’re alone, I wanted to tell you that the layoffs I was mentioning are probably going to happen soon for some of our teammates. We need to whittle some pudge. And while we’ll miss those members of our family who are no longer our teammates, truthfully, it probably could not come at a more ideal time for them to take a hiatus. They’ll thank me in the long run. Go to Paris. Go backpacking. Fish in Alaska. Big things are afoot outside these walls.”
“Big things are about to be afoot inside these walls, too,” Coffen says. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“I’m pro-information. I want my people knowing as much as my people can know. Especially those who are plock-worthy. Those who hold plocks hold a special place in my heart. Some things, of course, are for my eyes and ears only. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, if you get my drift. Don’t worry about the pudge purge for now. Hopefully, your new game will help the layoffs be more of a simple cleansing than an all-out flush.”
“I’m glad there’s no pressure.”
The team scampers into the conference room, planting themselves on various beanbags.
“We’re all yours, Bob,” Dumper says, smiling.
Coffen launches Scroo Dat Pooch. What makes this tricky is the possibility, nay, the probability that Dumper won’t much care about the game’s feel, the game’s overall look. It’s conceivable that he won’t be concerned with such analytical components once he observes that Malcolm Dumper himself is the main character of the game, the head honcho of pooch screwing.
Bob has used a JPEG of Dumper’s face to build the avatar, so the likeness is top-notch. It’s almost a perfect match. And if Bob is too biased to make any objective observations about the facial likeness, as the test level launches, all of his teammates crack up and clap. Everybody in the conference room, except Dumper, is hysterical and nothing’s even happened yet.
All that’s on the screen is Dumper in his signature Gretzky sweater, #99.
All that’s up there is Dumper and his big, thick tongue lolling stupidly from his mouth.
All that’s there is Malcolm Dumper licking his filthy, bestiality-loving chops.
Kiss’s “Rock and Roll All Nite” starts playing in the game.
All Bob’s teammates tap their feet.
The mouth-breather says, “Awesome!”
Coffen is the only one standing in the conference room. His movements control the avatar. He now marches in place, his movements moving the Malcolm in the game. It’s an empty cityscape. Malcolm prowling the barren street. Then, over behind some dented garbage cans, he spots a collie. It’s looking generally frightened. Coffen’s even incorporated some audio: a sad, furtive series of whimpers and whines coming from the collie.
Coffen runs in place, quickly moving Malcolm toward the crying dog. Malcolm leans down and pets the mutt, strokes its head. A voice comes from the game, Malcolm saying, “There, there. There, there. Shhh. Hey, do you like to party?”
The collie turns its head to look at whoever is playing the game. The dog’s eyes bulge, seeming to say: Did this creep just say what I think he said?
Seconds later on the screen, Malcolm is undoing his belt and dropping his trousers.
Seconds later, he picks up the collie and mounts the poor thing.
Bob furiously pumps his hips in the conference room.
“Scroo dat pooch!” says the avatar of Malcolm, giving the hang-loose sign.
His teammates go crazy.
Coffen is practically hyperventilating.
The faster Bob pumps, a series of graphics appear above Malcolm’s head—lightning bolts, throbbing hearts, pulsing stars. Bob goes as fast as his out-of-shape physique can handle and about twenty seconds later a message flashes across the center of the action:
Money shot!
Malcolm finishes giving his business to the dog.
Coffen gives his hips one last pump.
The mouth-breather whistles.
Once Malcolm’s done sullying the collie, he sets the dog down and it wanders off with an awkward gait. Then the avatar pulls up his pants, buckles his belt. Then he says, “Me want the next one.”
Bob says to his teammates and Malcolm, “That’s all I had time to put together, but you can see the direction. From here, he’d move on to the next breed. What do you think?”
None of the teammates utter a peep. Everyone’s waiting for Dumper to take point on this one. It’s tough to read the boss’s face, utterly