Image Credit: Beeple

“No matter what you do, do not let the plasma burn out. If it does burn out, the entire planet goes dark. Oh, don’t worry. This is the easiest job, son. Even an idiot can do it,” were the final words during his training.
“Of course, sir,” Poindexter said, nodding like a madman. “I’ll keep it running no matter what.”
“Good lad,” his supervisor said and walked away.
So, there he was, Poindexter and plasma reactor, plasma reactor and Poindexter. It was a big, ringy thing, a ringy glowing thing. It was actually too bright to look directly with any comfort. He checked the gauges, nothing was saying anything catastrophic so everything was fine. The control room was Spartan, with most of the indicators and lights on a big panel. He had a well-worn seat, the spot where every single person doing this job spent his working hours.
Poindexter brought out his coffee, his tupper full of broccoli and his book. It was a nice book, about tall, muscled heroes in faraway planets saving beautiful damsels from aliens that wanted to eat them. Or worse.
He sipped his hot coffee and read on from his last point. He had a bookmark, he’d never dog-ear the page like a crazy person. He didn’t remember to bring an actual bookmark, but anything could be used as such so he grabbed the first thing he found in the control room when they left him alone in there earlier. It was a thing like a mask, it folded up like glasses but instead of lenses it had horizontal slits.
Such a curious thing.
It worked just fine as a bookmark, so Poindexter was satisfied with that.
The book was amazing, and just as the hero saved the beauty and he was about to get her back in his rocket, where she’d surely be very, very thankful for the rescue…
Alarms blared.
“Oh, no,” Poindexter said, kicking himself up and spilling his now cold coffee all over the place. He heard a clang behind him but ignored it. “Uh, uh… What do I do? Training, right,” he flailed around like a fish out of water. He found the AR goggles and put them on.
He took a breath of relief when they showed him helpful arrows and indicated which buttons to press. He followed the instructions to the letter. “Press here… Then overflow… Plasma levels dropping. Oh no… Press this… Heat rising. Plasma levels rising. Good. Is it good? It is good. Excellent.”
Poindexter sagged back on the chair. He felt something wet on his thigh. “Oh, damn,” he said, checking the coffee spill. It was all over the control panel and on his chair. And now on his pants, but that was the least of his concerns. He glanced at the control panel and the bottom row of buttons, waiting for the industrial AR to tell him something. No warnings meant no problems.
Cool.
He went, “Ugh…” and looked around, careful not to touch anything. He’d made a mess, and his coffee was extra sugary so it made everything nice and sticky. Bits of broccoli were all over the buttons. “Napkins, right. “There must be some in the bathroom,” he said, and went towards it, hands in the air in the usual gesture of someone having done something messy.

“No matter what you do, do not let the plasma burn out. If it does burn out, the entire planet goes dark. Oh, don’t worry. This is the easiest job, son. Even an idiot can do it,” were the final words during his training.
“Of course, sir,” Poindexter said, nodding like a madman. “I’ll keep it running no matter what.”
“Good lad,” his supervisor said and walked away.
So, there he was, Poindexter and plasma reactor, plasma reactor and Poindexter. It was a big, ringy thing, a ringy glowing thing. It was actually too bright to look directly with any comfort. He checked the gauges, nothing was saying anything catastrophic so everything was fine. The control room was Spartan, with most of the indicators and lights on a big panel. He had a well-worn seat, the spot where every single person doing this job spent his working hours.
Poindexter brought out his coffee, his tupper full of broccoli and his book. It was a nice book, about tall, muscled heroes in faraway planets saving beautiful damsels from aliens that wanted to eat them. Or worse.
He sipped his hot coffee and read on from his last point. He had a bookmark, he’d never dog-ear the page like a crazy person. He didn’t remember to bring an actual bookmark, but anything could be used as such so he grabbed the first thing he found in the control room when they left him alone in there earlier. It was a thing like a mask, it folded up like glasses but instead of lenses it had horizontal slits.
Such a curious thing.
It worked just fine as a bookmark, so Poindexter was satisfied with that.
The book was amazing, and just as the hero saved the beauty and he was about to get her back in his rocket, where she’d surely be very, very thankful for the rescue…
Alarms blared.
“Oh, no,” Poindexter said, kicking himself up and spilling his now cold coffee all over the place. He heard a clang behind him but ignored it. “Uh, uh… What do I do? Training, right,” he flailed around like a fish out of water. He found the AR goggles and put them on.
He took a breath of relief when they showed him helpful arrows and indicated which buttons to press. He followed the instructions to the letter. “Press here… Then overflow… Plasma levels dropping. Oh no… Press this… Heat rising. Plasma levels rising. Good. Is it good? It is good. Excellent.”
Poindexter sagged back on the chair. He felt something wet on his thigh. “Oh, damn,” he said, checking the coffee spill. It was all over the control panel and on his chair. And now on his pants, but that was the least of his concerns. He glanced at the control panel and the bottom row of buttons, waiting for the industrial AR to tell him something. No warnings meant no problems.
Cool.
He went, “Ugh…” and looked around, careful not to touch anything. He’d made a mess, and his coffee was extra sugary so it made everything nice and sticky. Bits of broccoli were all over the buttons. “Napkins, right. “There must be some in the bathroom,” he said, and went towards it, hands in the air in the usual gesture of someone having done something messy.

He cleaned himself up and brought the roll of toilet paper with him. He cut a piece and made a corner, then carefully, slowly, attempted to clean up the buttons. He did them in-between, at the edges, careful not to press anything.
“Damn this broccoli, it’s like it blew up or something.” He picked up the tiny little pieces of the green stuff, along with the sticky coffee.
He was doing rather well if you asked him, when another alarm blared and he froze in place, hand holding the napkin over the buttons. Had he touched anything?
“Plasma levels, dropping,” he read out loud from the warnings. They were blaring in red. That was never a good sign. “Haven’t I just stabilised them?” He huffed and stood up, going over the troubleshooting again. The AR goggles told him what to do and just like a hairless monkey, he simply followed the instructions and pressed whichever button the system told him to. It was like those silly games with the notes and the songs, where you just pressed buttons at the right time.
When the instructions stopped coming, he took in a breath and looked up. The plasma reactor was glowing. That was… Well, expected. It was neon light held inside a magnetic field or something exotic like that, Poindexter didn’t pay enough attention during the VR training.
But the problem was, that the plasma was streaking out in brilliant arcs.
Okay, now that, was definitely not supposed to happen.
“Oh, crap. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap,” Poindexter said and ran left and right with no real purpose. “What do I do? Stupid goggles…” he said, and slapped them. They showed nothing to him. They were supposed to show him things! Things to do, buttons to press. This was an easy job, dammit!
Poindexter let out a tiny wail and he ran up to the reactor. It was far too brilliant to make anything out. He squinted hard and covered the light with his hands, but he could barely see what was happening. He knew enough not to wear anything that could be attracted by the magnetic field, everything in this room was meant for that. That’s why the control panel was so old-school, that’s why he wore the special suit, and that’s why the electronics used in here were from some non-magnetic material.
“There are arcs. Are there supposed to be arcs?” he wondered, scratching his head.
Poindexter ran back to the control panel and located the manual, it was a big, very big folder. “Uph,” he blew his cheeks as he lifted the heavy thing. He dropped it on the desk and opened it, looking through the pages.
“No, no. That’s not it. Nope. Arcing, there it is. In case of plasma arcs, that means containment is failing. The plasma will escape, burn everything and then cool down. That is bad,” he read out loud. Yes, it said that last bit in the manual. This job really was meant for idiots. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen.
He kept reading. “Look directly at the plasma reactor and try to guess how long the arcs are.”
He looked up, squinting.
“If you can’t assess them because of the brightness, use the Eskimo goggles.”
Poindexter looked around. “Where is that? Arrgh, it doesn’t say.” He was ready to tear his hair off when he saw it, peeking out of his book. The bookmark. “Oh, right.”
He put the Eskimo goggles on and approached the plasma reactor. Yup, he could see just fine through the slits. It required a little bit of adjustment, but he could see the arcs. They were about his arm length. Now, how long were his arms, he wondered?
He ran back to the manual, flipping the page. “If the arcs can fit in your palm, they are manageable. If they are about the length of your arm, you are near catastrophic failure.”
Poindexter looked up, terrified. Through the Eskimo goggles, he could see that the arcs were stable, for now. He carried on reading. “If they are as long as your own height, you have failed and the plasma will leak out and the reactor will stop. But not before incinerating everything in a forty kilometre radius, so don’t even bother trying to evacuate.”
Poindexter sagged back in the chair. He was screwed. He didn’t know what to do, the manual wasn’t helping at all, and the industrial AR goggles didn’t show him anything. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Should he call somebody?
He picked up the phone, it was an archaic version with a thing that you held to your ear and mouth and with a spiral wire. The magnetic field, remember?
Okay, but who should he call? Did the manual say?
Oh, he noticed an emergency number written at the bottom of the phone.
“I’ll just dial that, then.”
12345.
Ring-ring. Ring-ring.
He waited.
No reply.
Crap.
He dialed again.
12345.
Ring-ring.
He squinted through the Eskimo goggles. He pushed them up on his nose a bit, adjusting the very fine slit to his eye-level.
The arcs were getting bigger!
Crappity crap-crap.
He stood up, running around like a headless chicken. What was he supposed to do? What?
WHAT?
In a fit of inspiration, or madness some might say, he grabbed his tupper with the remaining broccoli and ran up to the plasma reactor. He just threw the contents inside the plasma arcs.
There was a searing spark and a dash of black smoke.
“Huh. Just like burnt broccoli,” he said, covering his eyes from the extreme light.
The arcs became smaller, and then eventually stopped completely.
He ran back to the control panel and pressed the buttons from before, he’d learnt the troubleshooting procedure.
“Plasma levels, nominal,” he read out loud, trying to calm himself.
He breathed slowly to get his heart-rate down and sagged on the chair once more.
It was still wet.
The supervisor stormed inside.
Poindexter stood up, his heart-rate back to ‘EXTREME ANXIETY’ levels. He snapped at attention, no reason why since this wasn’t the army, but he just did.
“I forgot to tell you, everything you might need is in the manual,” the supervisor said, looking around. “Oh. You’ve found it. And started to read it already, I see. What a diligent worker, excellent,” the supervisor said and clapped Poindexter’s shoulder with pride. “Good, good.” Then he chuckled. “Heh. Everybody fools around with those.”
“T-Thank you sir,” Poindexter said, pulling the Eskimo goggles from his face.
The supervisor sniffed the air. “Is that burnt broccoli I smell?”
“Yes. My snack.” Poindexter just blurted out things at this moment, so he forced himself to shut up and not say anything about the near blackout.
“Healthy. I like it too. But it brings me gas,” the supervisor said, holding his tummy.
“I see,” Poindexter said and pressed his lips shut.
“Good lad. Carry on,” the supervisor said and left the control room.
Poindexter turned to the plasma reactor, his shoulders slumped.
This job was gonna kill him.
And this was only his first day.
Oh, he found a broccoli stalk on the floor, burnt nicely.
Poindexter threw it in his mouth, humming away.
He wanted to see how his book was going to end. He was right at the good part, after all.

See also  😷 regram @mutant101😱...I kid. I kid. 👍#mutant101 #deadpool #hewhomustnotbenamed #harrypotter #wolverine #xmen #marvel #comics #funny #waybackwednesday #joke @teenagemillionaire @vancityreynolds #wbw

The End.

He cleaned himself up and brought the roll of toilet paper with him. He cut a piece and made a corner, then carefully, slowly, attempted to clean up the buttons. He did them in-between, at the edges, careful not to press anything.
“Damn this broccoli, it’s like it blew up or something.” He picked up the tiny little pieces of the green stuff, along with the sticky coffee.
He was doing rather well if you asked him, when another alarm blared and he froze in place, hand holding the napkin over the buttons. Had he touched anything?
“Plasma levels, dropping,” he read out loud from the warnings. They were blaring in red. That was never a good sign. “Haven’t I just stabilised them?” He huffed and stood up, going over the troubleshooting again. The AR goggles told him what to do and just like a hairless monkey, he simply followed the instructions and pressed whichever button the system told him to. It was like those silly games with the notes and the songs, where you just pressed buttons at the right time.
When the instructions stopped coming, he took in a breath and looked up. The plasma reactor was glowing. That was… Well, expected. It was neon light held inside a magnetic field or something exotic like that, Poindexter didn’t pay enough attention during the VR training.
But the problem was, that the plasma was streaking out in brilliant arcs.
Okay, now that, was definitely not supposed to happen.
“Oh, crap. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap,” Poindexter said and ran left and right with no real purpose. “What do I do? Stupid goggles…” he said, and slapped them. They showed nothing to him. They were supposed to show him things! Things to do, buttons to press. This was an easy job, dammit!
Poindexter let out a tiny wail and he ran up to the reactor. It was far too brilliant to make anything out. He squinted hard and covered the light with his hands, but he could barely see what was happening. He knew enough not to wear anything that could be attracted by the magnetic field, everything in this room was meant for that. That’s why the control panel was so old-school, that’s why he wore the special suit, and that’s why the electronics used in here were from some non-magnetic material.
“There are arcs. Are there supposed to be arcs?” he wondered, scratching his head.
Poindexter ran back to the control panel and located the manual, it was a big, very big folder. “Uph,” he blew his cheeks as he lifted the heavy thing. He dropped it on the desk and opened it, looking through the pages.
“No, no. That’s not it. Nope. Arcing, there it is. In case of plasma arcs, that means containment is failing. The plasma will escape, burn everything and then cool down. That is bad,” he read out loud. Yes, it said that last bit in the manual. This job really was meant for idiots. Nothing bad was ever supposed to happen.
He kept reading. “Look directly at the plasma reactor and try to guess how long the arcs are.”
He looked up, squinting.
“If you can’t assess them because of the brightness, use the Eskimo goggles.”
Poindexter looked around. “Where is that? Arrgh, it doesn’t say.” He was ready to tear his hair off when he saw it, peeking out of his book. The bookmark. “Oh, right.”
He put the Eskimo goggles on and approached the plasma reactor. Yup, he could see just fine through the slits. It required a little bit of adjustment, but he could see the arcs. They were about his arm length. Now, how long were his arms, he wondered?
He ran back to the manual, flipping the page. “If the arcs can fit in your palm, they are manageable. If they are about the length of your arm, you are near catastrophic failure.”
Poindexter looked up, terrified. Through the Eskimo goggles, he could see that the arcs were stable, for now. He carried on reading. “If they are as long as your own height, you have failed and the plasma will leak out and the reactor will stop. But not before incinerating everything in a forty kilometre radius, so don’t even bother trying to evacuate.”
Poindexter sagged back in the chair. He was screwed. He didn’t know what to do, the manual wasn’t helping at all, and the industrial AR goggles didn’t show him anything. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
Should he call somebody?
He picked up the phone, it was an archaic version with a thing that you held to your ear and mouth and with a spiral wire. The magnetic field, remember?
Okay, but who should he call? Did the manual say?
Oh, he noticed an emergency number written at the bottom of the phone.
“I’ll just dial that, then.”
12345.
Ring-ring. Ring-ring.
He waited.
No reply.
Crap.
He dialed again.
12345.
Ring-ring.
He squinted through the Eskimo goggles. He pushed them up on his nose a bit, adjusting the very fine slit to his eye-level.
The arcs were getting bigger!
Crappity crap-crap.
He stood up, running around like a headless chicken. What was he supposed to do? What?
WHAT?
In a fit of inspiration, or madness some might say, he grabbed his tupper with the remaining broccoli and ran up to the plasma reactor. He just threw the contents inside the plasma arcs.
There was a searing spark and a dash of black smoke.
“Huh. Just like burnt broccoli,” he said, covering his eyes from the extreme light.
The arcs became smaller, and then eventually stopped completely.
He ran back to the control panel and pressed the buttons from before, he’d learnt the troubleshooting procedure.
“Plasma levels, nominal,” he read out loud, trying to calm himself.
He breathed slowly to get his heart-rate down and sagged on the chair once more.
It was still wet.
The supervisor stormed inside.
Poindexter stood up, his heart-rate back to ‘EXTREME ANXIETY’ levels. He snapped at attention, no reason why since this wasn’t the army, but he just did.
“I forgot to tell you, everything you might need is in the manual,” the supervisor said, looking around. “Oh. You’ve found it. And started to read it already, I see. What a diligent worker, excellent,” the supervisor said and clapped Poindexter’s shoulder with pride. “Good, good.” Then he chuckled. “Heh. Everybody fools around with those.”
“T-Thank you sir,” Poindexter said, pulling the Eskimo goggles from his face.
The supervisor sniffed the air. “Is that burnt broccoli I smell?”
“Yes. My snack.” Poindexter just blurted out things at this moment, so he forced himself to shut up and not say anything about the near blackout.
“Healthy. I like it too. But it brings me gas,” the supervisor said, holding his tummy.
“I see,” Poindexter said and pressed his lips shut.
“Good lad. Carry on,” the supervisor said and left the control room.
Poindexter turned to the plasma reactor, his shoulders slumped.
This job was gonna kill him.
And this was only his first day.
Oh, he found a broccoli stalk on the floor, burnt nicely.
Poindexter threw it in his mouth, humming away.
He wanted to see how his book was going to end. He was right at the good part, after all.

The End.

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