Chris Threadgill sat in his rented car in shorts and a Battle Quest T-shirt and watched the two trucks drive past, turn wide, back up, and finally come to a shuddering stop in front of the loading dock doors on the far side of the building. They jutted out from the side of the building and blocked most of the view of the vacant lot and the train tracks, but that was inconsequential to Threadgill. All he cared about was that they were here. His nightmare was almost over. He got out of the car and waited.

Any other industry would have shelled out the cash to hire professionals to move the offices, but MageWorks, for all its money, had the same problems as the rest of the industy: they were positively Scottish with their cash. This was cultivated out of hardly ever having money in the first place, largely due to the fact that the whole fantasy role-playing game market was nothing more than a cottage industry. What that meant, in practical terms, was that everyone had to pitch in and do their part, because, as any of the CEO's from any of the game companies would be quick to point out, "they were one big happy family." Threadgill shook his head. In the few short years that he'd been in the industry, he'd seen more OSHA and union and liability insurance violations than he could comfortably count, and from every single company in the business, from the manufacturers on down to the distributors. Especially the distributors, he amended.

That was why he had been sent to supervise the move, why the creative staff was moving their own desks, and why two of the biggest idiots he'd ever known were getting out of the rented trucks at that moment. He shook his head. Fucking gamers, he thought, spitting on the ground.

The trucks were large, faceless and featureless things, as big and long as they could be without being unmanageable. Threadgill watched as Otto and Stacy jumped out of each truck, slapping high fives. They both worked at the MGC warehouse in Spokane. It was ultimately easier to hire a couple of the warehouse guys to drive two trucks down to Tempe, load up everything not sold or given to Goodwill, and drive back. The CEO thought, and Threadgill agreed, that it would offset the cost of flying the creative staff up to Washington.

Otto sauntered over to where Threadgill was leaning against his car and sipping on a Starbuck's. He was almost as tall as Threadgill, but much thicker. Otto had kept the same hairstyle (short and spiked in the front, long in the back) since 1983. "Chris, you sexy, sexy man," he growled. "You look like shit."

"Otto, my man, please, please tell me you're holding," answered Threadgill. He had, over the course of the rest of the week, smoked all of his medicinal dope, which was part of the reason he looked like shit. Otto wasn't exactly a connection, but he knew that Otto was chemically well-hooked up, and the two had an understanding about such things.

Otto was about to reply when Stacy interrupted. "Hey, man," said Stacy, leering and holding out his grimy hand to be shaken. "Weird, how, like, you're here when we're here, but, like, we're not all really always here. It's just, you know, like temporary."

Threadgill shook Stacy's hand, watching the muscles in Stacy's forearm bunch up with the effort. Stacy was perfect warehouse help in that he had a low center of gravity, was strong as an ox, and was so completely out to lunch that he could be told to do practically anything and he would do it. Like, for example, drive to Tempe and load up an office building.

"Yeah, Stace, it's a trip," Threadgill said.

"No shit," said Stacy. "No shit" was conversational punctuation for Stacy, a way of announcing to himself and everyone listening that Stacy was officially finished talking. Or thinking.

"You guys hungry?" asked Threadgill. "We've got an hour before the rest of the people show up. I'll buy you breakfast."

"That would be good," said Otto. "You're wearing shorts," he said, noting Threadgill's casual attire. "That mean you're going to help?"

"Well, I kinda shot my mouth off," said Threadgill. He ushered the two drivers to his car. Otto called shotgun.

Threadgill took them to a Waffle House he'd run across. They loved it. It was one of the things that Threadgill liked about warehouse guys; they weren't pretentious about where they got a steak and eggs breakfast. They didn't want any black beans and baby new potatoes for a garnish, or avocado on their eggs for two dollars extra. Food was meant to be eaten, and preferably quickly. Maybe food was the dividing line between sales and marketing and the warehouse, he thought. If your breakfast cost seven bucks and came with black coffee and bacon, you were warehouse. If your breakfast cost fifteen dollars and came with sun-dried tomatoes and a latte, then you were in sales. As Threadgill watched them eat and tell each other lesbian jokes, he realized in spite of being on the same page as him when it came to food, Otto and Stacy were still cultural retards. Still, in a foreign land such as Tempe, any fellow countryman was an ally.

They talked about the weather in Seattle, the dry heat in Arizona, and what little was going on at MageWorks. "Everyone's just waiting for this deal to go through, man," confided Otto, as if he had the inside track. In truth, Threadgill thought, he probably did.

"So, what's it been like down here?" asked Stacy.

Without really meaning to, Threadgill dumped the whole story of his trials and tribulations out for them, omitting only that he'd gotten high every night since he'd been there. By the time he was finished with his story, Otto was nodding understandably, a funny grin on his face, and Stacy was bored stiff. "I'm gonna take a piss," he announced as he stood up.

When they were alone at the table, Otto leaned in and said to Threadgill, "Dude, have you been straight all week?"

"No, I brought a little, but I've been so stressed, I burned right through." Threadgill didn't dare tell Otto exactly how much he'd burned through.

"Right," said Otto. "Well, dude, I can't help you."

"What we need to do," said Otto, as Stacy rejoined them, "is go out tonight and get fucked up!"

Threadgill smiled. "That's a good idea, but you guys have to drive, remember?"

Stacy started to say something, but Otto shut him up with a look. "Well, then, you need to go out on your own. You need to tie one on. And I do mean, tie one on. Dance, drink, and if you can, get laid. When do you fly back?"

"Sunday," said Threadgill.

"See? We'll be done tonight. You can go out, get fucked up, spend all day Saturday recovering, and then fly back on Sunday."

"Man, I'm like, totally jealous," said Stacy. "That's a work schedule."

"You guys are probably right," said Threadgill. "I need to cut loose. Some good distractions. That kind of thing."

"No shit," said Stacy.

When they got back to the Gamesmen offices, Threadgill found to his delight that everyone had already started moving things into the warehouse. He called a quick meeting.

"Okay folks, this is the home stretch," he said. Indicating his breakfast companions, he said "This is Otto and Stacy. They're good guys. They're going to help us with the move. They have the plan. You guys have done all of this before, right?"

"Sure," said Otto, smirking. "Not a problem." He walked over to the cluster of desks that had migrated out from the various offices. "We'll start with these. Everyone put your name on the side with masking tape. Then, we'll start stacking them on the pallets."

"Four up?" asked Stacy.

"Yeah, let's show 'em." He and Stacy effortlessly moved two desks onto an empty wooden pallet and pushed them together. Then they took two more desks and placed them, inverted, on top of the first two. "See? This makes a nice, symmetrical package to move."

"Then we shrink wrap it," said Stacy.

Everyone was very impressed.

Otto said, "If we pack smart, we can be done by five o' clock today."

Threadgill stepped in. "And then, ladies and gentlemen, I'm buying a lot of beer for everyone."

There were cheers, and then everyone scattered to resume their packing. Threadgill watched Hillary sashey back to the accounting office and wondered if he'd found his dance partner for the night.