"Name?"

"John Spooner, ma'am. I'm up on seven, corner office."

Keys are pressed, data entered, information transmitted.

"Division?"

"Covert ops. Scratch that, I meant to say web development."

Fingers fly.

"Assignment?"

"Classified, and also trademarked. No portion of this mission may be rebroadcast without the express written consent of Major League Baseball or its affiliates."

She nods gravely and hits a key. Identity confirmed. "Go right in, Lieutenant Spooner. They're expecting you."

Double doors swing back to reveal the Fingerhut command center, a converted conference room with gross profit reports still pinned to the corkboard. A tactical display looms against the far wall, showing the grim convergence of enemy troops arrayed around the building. Salutes are exchanged.

"Spooner, if you can pull this one off..." The general can't go on. He knows the risks. It's a suicide mission. Nobody's coming back from this one.

"Don't worry, General. Remember my background."

Yes, that special forces operation, The Sportmens Grid. Hand-picked by Gary Olen, field-tested under battle conditions, subjected to extremes of temperature, pressure and smell. A long and distinguished career, soon to be cut short by those cold-blooded bastards outside in the parking lot. The moat isn't going to hold them for long.

The general is not a man given to tears, but his eyelids are squinted against the sudden threat of condensation. "Good luck, soldier," he says, but what he's really thinking is goodbye.

Spooner turns smartly, meds clattering in the ninth pocket of his nine-pocket BDUs. He won't be needing them for this mission and he knows it. He shoulders his pack and heads for the elevator. They've got a van waiting for him in the underground garage, if Marketing has done their job for once. Otherwise, nobody's getting out of here alive.

Ten minutes later, he's out in the parking lot easing his foot off the clutch. Good God, they're everywhere. The urge to run them down is overwhelming, but there are too many of them, advancing like Armani's own legion of the damned. Instead, he flips a switch and pulls over. Music rides the skies, amplified a hundredfold by stereo components salvaged from a warehouse in Jakarta.

A rumble of recognition spreads through the troops, a dim memory, illuminated by the summer sun of childhood. Heads turn, eyes narrow, salivary glands ramp up for production. Then the first voice rings out and it's all over but the stampede.

"ICE CREAM MAAAAAAAAAAAN!"

The van almost flips over from the impact, but he's seen worse. He leans over the stainless steel counter so cool you'd never know there's a war on.

"What can I get you, pal?" he asks.

"Triple-Delicious Extra Almond Crunch, please."

"We've got Chili Mac and Beef Stroganoff."

"One scoop of each, then," says his first customer and from there on it's clockwork. Scoop, rinse, repeat.

Four hundred customers later, lawyers are strewn like spent shell casings across the parking lot and there are sirens in the distance. Moans of agony are drowned out by the retching. Polyester foil wrappers flutter in the wind, promising freshness through the year 1972.

The lone survivor puts the van in gear and grins secretly. That employee discount came in handy.

Back in the office:

"Report, Spooner."

"I think that's the last we'll hear from Viacom about a takeover."

The board of directors nods wisely, as though they were somehow involved. The military trappings have disappeared, the general has been "promoted" to field office liaison and Dilbert has crept back onto carpeted walls.

"Alright then, what are you waiting for? Back to work, mister."

Someone sighs. It's not so different after all.

Chip Howland
howland@skypoint.com