[Carol leans back in the pilot's chair. She slaps a doobie to her lips and fires it up with a Swan Vesta. Before her, laid out on the desktop of the Cherrywood, is Goldman's Killing Miss Pope. On the pages are a few burn marks, some gravy smears. She puffs on the joint, holds the smoke in her lungs, holds it, holds it, holds it, and she exhales. She looks around the Floor, wanting whiskey]
This fucker, Ken Goldman, is going up to the Terminal.
[Carol stands, a little wobbly, and she staggers over to the Porthole. She opens the window and looks out on the deluge. Trees are whipping left to right, garbage reigns and rats wave their tails. Carol turns from that hole and staggers over to DePlancher's desk]
Fuck. I. Am. Stoned.
[Carol bends and grabs the bottom edge of DePlancher's desk and she tips it over, revealing the underside. She kicks aside the catbox and she places the current capital into the blackhole that makes up the entire underside of DePlancher's desk. The capital gets sucked in, and it disappears. Goes otherwhere. Goes Terminal. Carol steps back, marveling at the weirdness of life on the Floor]
[Carol's examined the current capital, splayed across the desktop of the Cherrywood, and she's furrowed her brow and burped. Twice. She flips the edge of the cap, twists her lip. She's standing behind the damned desk, shaking her ass to Juliette and the Licks Shelter Your Needs, rebounded out the Bose speaker, angling off the mirror ball, splatting off the glass tiles, totally rocking the Floor. She grabs up the capital, crumples it into a ball of failure and tosses it up, catching it in her gloved claw. She looks around the Floor, her eyes like a searchlight, scanning left to right, up and down. She sees no one at DePlancher's desk. She sees no one else what the fuck on the Floor what so ever. Carol babies the ball of cap to her chest, and she leans in, cradles it, whispers to it. And then she takes the capital and shoves it into her pants. And she works it around until it's gone. Where'd it go? We don't know. We're Microsoft workers, we are dumb as fucking dirt, cousin. We're happy to go wherever they tell us to. Microsoft! Dumb as a fucking turd. Seriously. I've friends that've found tons of money in some foundry or other, but these Microsoft dickheads, wow. I mean, how incredibly daft could you be before absorbing into this uncomfortable group sex-commune business weirdness. But I'm just the narrator, so...]
Jay Seate, if that's his real name, seems a little weird, cousin, is not going upward. The cap is going to hell. Examined it, and it did not fluff my vagina. And I don't mean to upset the Christians and Republicans, I want to live in a world where we all get along and hang out at the nearest bbq joint, but and but. I will never not stop talking about my pussy, cousins. So powerful, my pussy. Any the fuck what, the capital is going south. Out the window.
[Carol wanders over to the Porthole and tosses the capital out the window]
[Carol's well examined the capital spread out before her on the cherrywood's desktop. She gathers it up, squares it, tap, tap, tap on the desktop. She twists her lips and purses them, sucks in cheeks, looking very David Bowie]
We've um fully examined the shit out of this current cap, motherfuckers. And we like it. The monkey likes it. I like it. It'll be a tough win. It's a war story. But it's not totally boring, like real war. Oh, shit, damn. I can see it in your faces, your upset I said war is boring. Okay, well, those of you who are upset by what I said can just go rub one out and drink some whiskey. I mean, wow, what is the world's most boring thang? War. Pretty much, most of the time spent warring is doing fuck all. So, if you didn't already know that, I am sorry. But it is true.
[Carol wraps herself a nice joint, and she sips off a nice Washington IPA, smacking her lips. She goes to her watch and turns up the volume on Prince's Sign of the Times. She shifts her ass left to right in the pilot's chair]
I'm throwing this shit up, Williams.
[She grabs up the current capital, and she stuffs into her back pant pocket. She scrambles up the side of the wardrobe, and she stands atop it, looking left to right like some sort of secret spy, and then she leaps and grabs hold of the rafter above, and struggles to lift herself up atop the rafter. She strains and struggles and pulls herself up into the rafters, gets a foot up, good girl, and then she climbs up above the spinning mirrorball. She's like one of those crazy dudes that free climb up the side of mountains. Mountains! Crazy fuckers. And it becomes clear to us that she is leaving. She is going away. And we look up at where she was, and we see her boot heels, climbing, rising, ever upward.
[The Floor is empty. We look at DePlancher's desk, and she is like extremely absent. We look at Boligard's Cherrywood and we see nobody sitting on the pilot's chair. We look at the cleaning room closet door, and we see it not opening. We look for a cat, none found. Outside, the deluge rumbles, and the Porthole inches open, and the whistling wind invades. The wardrobe doors clack]