TITLE: The Trouble with Jack
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com
RATING: PG for language
CATEGORY: Humor, drama
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.
SPOILERS: none
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! People like this! I feel so warm and fuzzy now!
On the same note: Dammit, why isn't it summer yet? I never thought I could possibly hate turtlenecks as much as I do right now.
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Jack smiled at the mound of overdue paperwork that completely buried his desk. Normally, the sight would have filled him with dread, as it would have done to any sane person. And he was about the sanest person he knew. This time, though, it instead inspired a feeling of immense satisfaction. Of course, being sane, Jack would have preferred by far to have not had the paperwork at all. This case, however, was without a doubt the lesser of two evils. He'd have to do the work eventually, no matter how trivial it might seem.
Jack often liked to think of himself as fighting a war against the never- ending stream of paper that drowned his desk. The war had been at a deadlock for as long as he could remember. But now, just when things had seemed to be taking a turn for the worse, he had found himself a new weapon—thanks to the generosity of Carter, Daniel, and Siler, among others.
Ah, yes, Siler. The sergeant's contribution was still in a pocket, along with Carter's; she'd found it a while ago, but failed to anticipate the efficiency with which Jack would reclaim what was now his property. (Thank goodness for that black ops training.)
Jack reached down and unfastened the three separate locks on his bottom desk drawer; he'd made sure to install them after Carter picked the old one. Gently, almost reverently, he withdrew his two newest conquests from his pants pocket and placed them tenderly inside the drawer along with over a dozen comrades.
Satisfied, Jack stroked his collection lovingly for a minute, not even looking around at the odd noises coming momentarily from the ventilator behind him.
Suddenly, he snatched one back up with a frown. It was bright red, a characteristic which made him particularly happy, but its underside had something attached to it. A small sticker, he now saw, which read, "Hi! My name is ARNOLD."
Jack wrinkled his nose in disdain. Nobody on base was named Arnold—at least nobody he knew—which meant that that had to be the stapler's name. Whose was this? Siler's? He didn't know the man all that well, but he'd never have expected him to be so frivolous. One thing was for sure, though: there was no way in hell any stapler of Jack's was going to have a name, especially not one like "Arnold." He carefully stripped the sticker off, making certain that not even a trace of glue remained.
Then he turned back to the mass of paper spilling over the sides of the desk, grimly clutching his newly acquired implement of adhesion.
In the never-ending fight against red tape, these staplers were the only allies Jack O'Neill had. He just hoped they were up to the monumental task ahead.
-----
Controlled tribble breeding was a concept Siler had invented. He was immensely proud of it.
Unfortunately for his pride, it was also one of the biggest oxymorons imaginable.
Siler knew that it should be possible, with absolutely regimented diet. He did not, however, know what that diet should be, and there was no way he could ask anyone for help on the subject. He'd been hoping to have only two or three of the creatures and let them wreak some havoc in Colonel O'Neill's office. Presumably, the officer would then have seen sense and returned Arnold to his rightful place. But there were already at least half a dozen wandering around Siler's closet now, and he suspected more might be showing up soon. They were just so damn hard to count.
This called for a new plan, something a bit more ambitious. Siler wasn't going to be able to settle just for the tribbles eating some files—an event the colonel would probably welcome in any case. No, that definitely wouldn't be enough. What Siler needed was something worse, something that would make his point absolutely clear.
Especially after what he'd seen just a couple of hours ago. Siler had been crawling back through the ventilation system to his closet, clutching his precious discovery, and had passed O'Neill's office on the way. A quick glance had confirmed his worst fears: the colonel had a desk drawer open and was in the process of placing Arnold inside. Worst of all, there had been many other staplers in there as well—probably including Doctor Jackson's, come to think of it.
It was totally beyond Siler's comprehension how anyone could be so cruel as to lock that many staplers in a dark drawer for hours on end. He could only imagine the distress Arnold must be in right now.
There was no doubt about it. Colonel O'Neill was going to pay for this, and dearly.
Of course, that depended on Siler being able to get these tribbles under control first.
AUTHOR: Cyn(di)
EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com
RATING: PG for language
CATEGORY: Humor, drama
SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.
SPOILERS: none
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yay! People like this! I feel so warm and fuzzy now!
On the same note: Dammit, why isn't it summer yet? I never thought I could possibly hate turtlenecks as much as I do right now.
--------------------------------------------------
Jack smiled at the mound of overdue paperwork that completely buried his desk. Normally, the sight would have filled him with dread, as it would have done to any sane person. And he was about the sanest person he knew. This time, though, it instead inspired a feeling of immense satisfaction. Of course, being sane, Jack would have preferred by far to have not had the paperwork at all. This case, however, was without a doubt the lesser of two evils. He'd have to do the work eventually, no matter how trivial it might seem.
Jack often liked to think of himself as fighting a war against the never- ending stream of paper that drowned his desk. The war had been at a deadlock for as long as he could remember. But now, just when things had seemed to be taking a turn for the worse, he had found himself a new weapon—thanks to the generosity of Carter, Daniel, and Siler, among others.
Ah, yes, Siler. The sergeant's contribution was still in a pocket, along with Carter's; she'd found it a while ago, but failed to anticipate the efficiency with which Jack would reclaim what was now his property. (Thank goodness for that black ops training.)
Jack reached down and unfastened the three separate locks on his bottom desk drawer; he'd made sure to install them after Carter picked the old one. Gently, almost reverently, he withdrew his two newest conquests from his pants pocket and placed them tenderly inside the drawer along with over a dozen comrades.
Satisfied, Jack stroked his collection lovingly for a minute, not even looking around at the odd noises coming momentarily from the ventilator behind him.
Suddenly, he snatched one back up with a frown. It was bright red, a characteristic which made him particularly happy, but its underside had something attached to it. A small sticker, he now saw, which read, "Hi! My name is ARNOLD."
Jack wrinkled his nose in disdain. Nobody on base was named Arnold—at least nobody he knew—which meant that that had to be the stapler's name. Whose was this? Siler's? He didn't know the man all that well, but he'd never have expected him to be so frivolous. One thing was for sure, though: there was no way in hell any stapler of Jack's was going to have a name, especially not one like "Arnold." He carefully stripped the sticker off, making certain that not even a trace of glue remained.
Then he turned back to the mass of paper spilling over the sides of the desk, grimly clutching his newly acquired implement of adhesion.
In the never-ending fight against red tape, these staplers were the only allies Jack O'Neill had. He just hoped they were up to the monumental task ahead.
-----
Controlled tribble breeding was a concept Siler had invented. He was immensely proud of it.
Unfortunately for his pride, it was also one of the biggest oxymorons imaginable.
Siler knew that it should be possible, with absolutely regimented diet. He did not, however, know what that diet should be, and there was no way he could ask anyone for help on the subject. He'd been hoping to have only two or three of the creatures and let them wreak some havoc in Colonel O'Neill's office. Presumably, the officer would then have seen sense and returned Arnold to his rightful place. But there were already at least half a dozen wandering around Siler's closet now, and he suspected more might be showing up soon. They were just so damn hard to count.
This called for a new plan, something a bit more ambitious. Siler wasn't going to be able to settle just for the tribbles eating some files—an event the colonel would probably welcome in any case. No, that definitely wouldn't be enough. What Siler needed was something worse, something that would make his point absolutely clear.
Especially after what he'd seen just a couple of hours ago. Siler had been crawling back through the ventilation system to his closet, clutching his precious discovery, and had passed O'Neill's office on the way. A quick glance had confirmed his worst fears: the colonel had a desk drawer open and was in the process of placing Arnold inside. Worst of all, there had been many other staplers in there as well—probably including Doctor Jackson's, come to think of it.
It was totally beyond Siler's comprehension how anyone could be so cruel as to lock that many staplers in a dark drawer for hours on end. He could only imagine the distress Arnold must be in right now.
There was no doubt about it. Colonel O'Neill was going to pay for this, and dearly.
Of course, that depended on Siler being able to get these tribbles under control first.
