Around 2 am, I heard my completely disabled cell phone’s ringtone. The phone produced a series of ringtones, each more irritating than the last. By 2:15 am, my tablet came to life, making noises like a manual type-writer. Before the neighbours called the police (again), I picked up the phone. A cheery, flushed face appeared on the screen.
My “Boss, 2 am is kinda early . . .” was drowned out by squeals of delight, and a certain smugness. “Socitedsociocordanniconfer.” (Translation: So excited that I was elected as Social Co-coordinator. We get the Annual Conference.) The “we” woke me up since we usually =’d me.
I’m personal assistant to a member of the Secret Guild of Techno Tricksters. When flint knapping was perfected, the guild was born. Several years ago, I said some choice words thus becoming part of that secret guild.
After a particularly frustrating series of techno-fails, I screamed at my laptop: “Come ‘on out, you [words I don’t share online]. I want to met the [more words] who makes my life a living hell.” My soon-to-be boss’s sunny terabyte-pixeled smile materialized on every device in my apartment with a screen. “So nice that you want to met me.” (My boss usually hears what she wants to.) “You’re perfect for my personal assistant. I’ll screen by tomorrow.”
So, that’s why at 3 am I watched my printer spew out paper with suggestions for her “anniconfer.” The tricksters can bring down a country’s entire computer-based system, thus causing panic and finger-pointing – members of the infamous 010101; the government of _______ (place country name of choice in blank.); or perhaps lone wolf 101010!. Yet, still like to see piles and piles and piles of paper – on their virtual and my real desk. I can work just fine paperless.
Keep this to yourself. Tricksters take the “secret” part of their guild tittle VERY seriously.
You hear of bizarre accidents caused by technology.
Accidents? . . . . . . .
Inspired by Tale Weaver’s Prompt: Guild Director