Six o'clock. The sun isn't fully set yet, but it's turned that bright orange that signifies that the day is almost over. The camera closes up on a deck on the PCL2, a door with a room number on it. The room number is 2000.

Cue up the Mission Impossible theme, as hummed by one Jericoholic Anonymous, who is stalking down the hallways like a secret agent.

JA: Dah-nahnahnahnahnahnahnahnahnah... duh duh duh duh DUNH dunh dunh dunhdunh dunh dunh dunhdunh dunh dunh dunhdunh dunh dunh dunh dunh... didiloo... didiloo... didiloo duhduh... DAH DAH!!

JA stops short of the room and shakes his head.

JA: Well, that was ridiculous. Now, let's see what our hacker and his protege are up to now...

JA quietly steps up to the door, trying his best not to make any more noticeable noise. He steps up to the door and puts his ear right on it so as to hear what might be being said...

JA: (to himself) Crap... can't hear a thing... everything's muffled... sh**, I can't hear this... I need to do something drastic...

JA puts his hand on the knob and shakes it... nope, it's locked.

JA: Sh**.

JA rams his shoulder against the door, trying to jar it loose. Still nothing. He rams it harder, harder. Still nothing. Finally...

JA: This better work...

JA steps back, takes a running start, and...

*CRASH~!*

The door crashes down. JA composes himself and looks around at the room. It's empty. Completely empty... save for two things... a tape recorder in the corner, playing a conversation between Vincent Vega and Jules from Pulp Fiction.

JA: Sh**... sh**sh**sh**...

The Anglo Luchador looks around the room, in the closets... nothing... in the bedroom quarters... nothing. Finally, he looked in the bathroom and looked in the bathtub. It was filled with ice. JA slowly walked towards the tub, bending over to look and see what was in it. He leans over further and further and further, sticking his arm into the cold tub. He swishes his arm around, and finally grabs onto something. He pulls it out and gets a good long look at it...

Suddenly, all the excitement and emotion rushes out of JA's face. His shoulders slump. His head tilts.

JA: F*ck.

It was a red herring. Literally, a red herring... a nasty, smelly red fish, the metaphor in the flesh.

A red herring.

JA stares at the fish for a good sixty seconds before tossing it across the room in disgust. In three year-old hissy fit form thrashes out of the bathroom.

JA: GOD DAMNIT! GOD F*CKING DAMN IT ALL TO FUCKING HELL AND SH*T AND BACK AND... AWWWWW F*CK!

JA kicks the tape recorder halfway across the room before he slumps down, hyperventilating.

JA: I should have known... I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN! Dammit! No one is that sloppy... no one leaves their AIM conversations out for everyone to read unless they wanted them to read it... DAMMIT ALL TO HELL! I got played... I should have known... I should have known...

Just then, the broken door that closed about halfway after JA went in opens to reveal the CSWA's newest executive, Tom Holzerman, the new VP of Talent Relations.

TH: Is everything okay in here?

JA: Looking up sheepishly Yeah... yeah, everything's okay.

TH: You know... this isn't your room.

JA: Oh yeah... I know... I was... just meeting a friend in here for a fish dinner.

TH: Oh, so you know who Sagebrush M. Expectations is?

JA: Sagebrush... that sounds like a name you find on a spam e-mail.

TH: That's what I thought too...

JA cuts him off quickly, probably to try and diffuse anymore questions.

JA: But yeah, yeah, me and Sagebrush, we go way back, man. Way back. I'm just waiting for him... to get back.

TH: You know what... I'll just leave. No questions asked...

Holzerman turns to leave. But before he does.

TH: Oh, and by the way... next time you need to meet a friend for dinner, check under the mat for a key before you go knocking the door down.

JA: I'll try to keep that in mind.

Holzerman leaves, as JA stands solitarily, stewing and cursing under his breath.