Helping you help us to you.

Thursday, January 9, 2014

Tower F's Basement

I understand we're going to be keeping some old paper records down there, which is fine, but I just want to mention a few things.

If you hear a click and then a whirring noise, you've just stepped on a "Reaper Mine." Stay calm, don't move, and radio Disposal. I think we've gotten most of them, but be careful in the corridors!

There is no need to go into the room marked "Temporal Quarantine." Despite the sound of it, I assure you the whole spectacle is actually quite boring (unless you are entertained by scores of nude men floating in stasis with shocked looks on their faces, in which case just look, don't touch). Stay away from the dials unless you want to deal with all of them aging several hundred years instantly. I've seen it and it's gross.

If someone could see to it that the tubs of SF-119 Synthetic Genome are moved out of there, you'll stop having problems with mold on the cardboard boxes.

That is all.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

A step in the right direction, or "How I stopped worrying and learned to love the bomb we are building to kill the sun."

   Do you see this?

  Are you really, fully comprehending what I'm showing you? Are you actually legitimately digging this fucking scene? This is it. It's over now. Pack your shit and go home. The schematics are in.


It's all set now. All this time, all the hard work, this is where it pays off. We got the Satantron back up and running. The Lunar Intelligence has re-established contact, Project: Theta grew all those limbs back, and Legal says we'll beat that class action lawsuit because the label clearly stated "May contain ground up glass/parasites from beyond the inky black sea of stars". So many of us wondered if we'd ever really get that gateway between this world and the plane of ceaseless screaming nightmares that the Accounting department calls home. I am here to tell you that not only have we torn the thin membrane separating these two cursed lands, we have done so and erected a theme park on the diseased land marking this border that is both tasteful and highly erotic! We will send a thousand jet-black bats screaming into the night for all of eternity, and each one will drop a payload of funnel cake and free ride tokens until the land undulates with the squirming shape of generations of humanity buried beneath a luxurious carpet of powdered sugar and tilt-a-whirl passes! Ia, ia!

                                              Yours truly, Sen. T.V. Hornswaggle XIII, Phd, Dds, Esq, Etc.

   P.S.: There's an apparition of some sort in the executive washroom. My best guess is it just likes to watch us use the restroom, as it doesn't seem to have harmed anyone, and certainly sounds like it's masturbating. For now, just leave it be and we'll alert HR if it becomes weird in a way that is neither arousing nor profitable.

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Sticking to company policy.

You need to understand that this is a serious goddamn business. I had to let go of the Gorgon today. 12 years of service. Gone. Anybody can go, if the rules aren't followed. We make you sign those NDAs for a reason, so keep your mouths, beaks, and mandibles quiet. I read The Post. I know when someone talks. "Kills fish and game for miles around" he says to the press. "The initial tests caused subjects to erupt in a fountain of tendrils and ink" he says. You know better. I expect better. If you have compulsions against the work we're doing, go join one of Dearkham's dream studies, or join a goddamn 'Snatcher unit. Don't come to work and lie to me about how you feel when we put those worms in the coffee every damn day to monitor your thoughts, emotions and sexual urges. I know. We know. So the Gorgon is gone, and if I see him on any company property again I'm having him sued for hyperslander. We built this company from the ground up with only a gallon of wolf blood and some hastily drawn necromantic symbols over the ashes of a simple, humble little temple and grave site, deconsecrated by the blood of a thousand quaint, picturesque murderers. We worked hard to get where we are today, and when that didn't work, we bargained for unholy power and that is the vision that will see us through. We will not be cowed by this betrayal. We will not be stopped. We will inject the sun with a serum that will grant it an ominous, malicious intelligence, and we will do it together!

             -Yours truly, T.V.H. III, Esq, Ex Libris, Hail Satan.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

Human Resources Update

Greetings cretins, minions, and other such lowly subjects. Your Baron takes time to speak, you take time to listen.

I know the battle with the Mole Men wages on, and you're all very, very tired. My Ouroboros has been returned to me, and for that I am grateful. You have served me well in accomplishing this task.

Do not mistake my gratitude for complacency. The escape of the Terror Bear project has not been missed. Those responsible for the lapse in security have been dealt with in the most excruciating of manners (By which I mean, pain amplification drugs and being locked into a tiny box full of fleas until it becomes so unbearable the person forces their own mind to have an aneurysm and die.)

Trapjaw. Since you're somehow a partner, you are not subject to these penalties. But since it's become apparent that the security of the latest projects is beyond your powers, I have called for the reincarnation and reinstatement of Melvin the Wizard.

As such, new security level clearance "Melvin" has been created, with the sole badge handed to the Wizard himself. This clearance is all-access, aside from Partner suites. This includes the women's bathrooms in every complex except Kappa Complex in the Amazon (As per their contracts with us.) So ladies, I don't want to hear it. If Melvin wants to watch you pee, you damned well better smile.

That's all for now. Carry on.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Memo # 10312012

Greetings, employees, board members, associates and undersea horrors what man was never meant to see with his eyes or mind. It's that time of year again, when we come to celebrate all the shit we got away with this past year. Not just little things like Dearkham beating that murder charge because the courts decided that  no matter who's brain is in it, you can't technically "murder" an ape. No, we mean the big things, like Laughter bringing that asteroid just close enough to earth for us to lord it over the nations of the earth like angry gods, but leaving enough clearance so that construction could continue on what we're calling "The Starknife". I can't tell you what it does, but I can say this: It's big, it's hard to look at directly, and it hums constantly. When my father turned the reins of this company over to me in the violent blood ritual that saw me slain and resurrected as his new form in this world (and all others, a ceaselessly buzzing hive), the last thing he told me was "Son, the people of this company are it's lifeblood. Cherish them.". I later discovered that the lifeblood of this company was actually a glowing, pulsating blood-like substance that flowed through the veins that have grown beneath the walls of our Manhattan offices. Still, his words rang true. You are this company's most valuable resource, next to our nuclear stockpile and "Gold Island". You have accomplished so much this year, from capturing the sound barrier in a plexiglass containment unit and weaponizing it, to that thing where you you guys got the Hearst family to pay ransom for Patty another 3 times thanks to complete dismissal of the rules and regulations regarding chronocrime. Each day you lot bring me fresh new horrors. Not Trapjaw, though. All the horrors he brings me are long dead. It's been a banner year and I have all of you to thank, along with that tentacle thing that we keep seeing in the stars at night that sounds like Hank Williams. I want all of you to know that I am overjoyed to be facing another year with you, and that we have finally just given and decided to let those wild dogs have whatever building they want. Keep up the great work, and for the love of God run if you see the autoguns roaming in the hallway. They don't know about the  truce with the dogs and they are thirsty for flesh. Don't slake that thirst.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

A note about Higgins' thumbs

You all realize that they have to be Moleman thumbs, right? I have a 2 foot tall stack of assorted thumbs on my desk, which shows an inability to follow orders on far too many levels. Get it together, people. No slugs, no tokens, no co-worker thumbs or ape thumbs. 100% mole, no substitutes. It's not even that hard, I got 6 just walking from parking structure Iota to the snack machine over in the Applied Thermo-Witchcraft wing of building 1. It's that easy guys. Just a little effort is all we ask.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Employee safety notice

 For the record, Throne-level clearance or above is required if you wish to use any of the tunnels for the next few weeks. One of the Ourobouri has fallen into Mole hands and we will be mounting a full scale invasion to retrieve Higgins' beloved monstrosity before these filthy sightless can even enjoy a second of the unbelievable    freedom that only comes from the feeling of being miles beneath the surface at the helm of these magnificent Everworms. Rest assured, Higgins, the Creature will be home in time for sunday dinner, but by (a) God, we will be dragging mole corpses out of the cold, cold earth for weeks to come. If anyone is looking for a great time, we're accepting new Research Squad recruits and select Bodysnatcher units may be looking to fill open spots for what we're referring to as "Operation Shining Eagle 6", which promises to be our finest corporate-funded military excursion yet.