Tales of the Admins

[arvg]

Wearing an unflattering orange jump suit, with a hasmat helmet whisping and whirring away pleasantly, Mod-Al was ready...

Gripping a loo brush, and pneumatic plunger, he was setting up to tackle the largest job on the Lost Battlestar... unclogging the flood backlog.

The problem was, that meant he was going to have to wade through foul smelling, decomposing refuse for the majority of the day, trying his best to breath through the two dangling pine air fresheners that were attached to the inside of his helmet. Beat smelling Craig Furgerson's latest steaming pile of flood dumpings.

Clanking through the lower decks he reached the doors to the flood bilge, steeling himself inwardly for what was to come... once he opened that door... the door.

He had nightmares of that door, holding back the sheer weight of festering rot, word-bile, and whinge... he winced as he reached out a heavy gloved fingers to punch in the code.

WARNING FLOOD HAS BACKLOGGED FOR TWO YEARS PROCEED Y/N?

He stared at it, feeling a flutter of intense fear snaking through him. Beyond that door lay the ghosts of Disco past, like skidmarks on the underside of the universe.

He punched in the Y button....

As the doors slid open, his eyes widened in intense shock at the blinding white light flaring from around it.

"The... horror..." he breathed, before the tentacles swept out of the light to drag the poor Mod into the flood bilge.


Somewhere high above on the bridge of the Lost Battlestar, Admins were taking bets on how long he would last.

"Tewenty Quatlooms on the Moderator," one boomed, as the main screen flicked to show the poor mod being flicked through piles of forgotten F1 messages.

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