The Fear Factor

It wasn't bad enough that Meth wasted dozens of our stockpiled microcircuits. The Factor is helping make things exponentially worse here on a variety of levels, but her mishandling of legitimately broken microcircuits has pushed me over the edge.

Electronic technicians troubleshooting our units in the test area frequently narrow the failure down to a microcircuit in the RF chain and of course, they need good replacements to swap out the non-functioning ones. Since Meth has burned through our on hand stock of microcircuits we have barely anything remaining. There's another pile of broken microcircuits that are genuine real live junkers that we need to send back to the micro department to have repaired and retested, or replaced outright. Processing them back to the micro department for a good replacement part is the responsibility of the line Material Coordinator who now happens to be The Factor. She's useless in just about every sense of the word.

I kinda blew my stack after Potatohead refused to consider even for a moment that his dog Meth is committing crimes against us by destroying expensive items whenever it pleases him to do so. I discovered a stash of damaged microcircuits sitting on The Factor's desk doing nothing but collecting dust (some of them had been there for months already), so I hatched a simple plan. Get those microcircuits back down to the micro department and expedite those parts getting repaired and returned to our production line. No big deal there, right? As it turns out The Factor refused to do any of the paperwork necessary to get those parts on their way to recovery. She gave me no reason explaining why she wouldn't do her job. Then I really got mad. I confiscated all of the microcircuits and I processed every last one of them out of here. I know I'm doing an incompetent's job for her, and I know I'm a chump for doing it, but we need the fucking parts. What else could I do?

Another thing. We're hunted now. All of us guys that are in our early to mid 20s are being stalked by The Factor. To her, we're prey. Musclehead is taking the brunt of her unwanted sexual attention though. Sometimes it really is better to be a tall, scrawny geek instead of a musclebound meathead on the verge of obesity. Heh. Almost every afternoon she waltzes through the shop floor wearing black spandex bicycle shorts and a skin tight neon tube top like she's some hot little high school chick. Makes me want to retch every time I see that monstrosity coming toward me. To accent the juvenile outfit sometimes she wears a white accountant visor. Dumb. Guess that's the trendy thing to do if you're a fifty year old pear-shaped Weeble-Wobble of a woman with droopy tits. She will suddenly appear out of thin air and pick a hapless victim. Then she will proceed to hover over her victim as her goofy noggin jitters about atop her shoulders like a bobble head figurine in the rear window of a Cadillac jamming over speed bumps. It's positively creepy, and annoying at the same time.

Supertech nicknamed her The FEAR Factor, because of the fear that spreads through every molecule of our bodies when she makes unwanted sexual advances towards one of us. Her shoddy attempts to bag a guy here on the line are truly the stuff nightmares are made of.