Three Scientists Look Over Their Huge Contraption

Lab coats glimmer in hi-beam lights that illuminate the machine. It's the size of a boxcar, and much taller. Huge disks of strange alloy radiate out from mechanisms which vaguely resemble the rings of Saturn. A large clock is mounted at the base, and it ticks seconds away into history.

"Of course," The head scientist speaks, bald spot glowing like a bowling ball under the lights. "We can only use our time-extender device for evil."

"But why?" Asks his colleague, eyes totally invisible behind hornrim-glasses that reflect nothing but white. "If we used it during the weekend..."

"NO!" The head scientist cuts him off. "The people and corporations funding this project are not about to use the time extender to give workers more time off! Now, activate the machine!"

The third scientist moves over to a terminal and punches a few keys. There is a roaring, then hydraulic pistons sound. The huge disks begin to move, sparks fly from the contraption, as if nature itself desires to counteract the effects of the devilish invention! Yet, it powers on. An invisible wave projects forth.

"IT'S WORKING!" Cries the head scientist over the racket. "What's the range?!"
The scientist at the terminal looks at graphs and numbers on the screen. "Eight thousand miles and growing!"

The second scientist looks at his watch, whose second-hand moves at exactly the pace of the clock at the base of the machine. He calls out, "TIME REMAINS CONSTANT!" The huge rings of the machine sweep around like buzz-saws.

The head scientist shouts to the man at the terminal. "What is the ratio of time-delay?!" The man retorts, "In reality, every minute that passes is now equal to 5 minutes!"
"Make the ratio one minute for every hour!"

The second scientist takes his watch away from his face. "We can't in good conscience,"

The head scientist pulls a Mauser automatic from his lab coat, and shoots his colleague three times. He collapses in a pool of blood and brains, his body producing strange gurgles and farts. The man at the terminal complies. Then the door to the room explodes inwards! Friday and a crack team of commandos burst in, dressed in black, like ninjas. The head scientist opens fire, bullets make sparks off the walls and catwalk posts.

Friday and his commandos return fire, their bullets staining the white lab-coats with huge patches of red. Then at a wave, grenades fall around the machine, and explode. A huge sheared off chunk of disk carems off through a wall and into a bathroom, removing the arm of a man on the can, reading a Newsweek magazine. He screams in horror, watching the blood shoot as if from garden hose, out of his shoulder. The machine stops. The man at the terminal bleeds through his mouth over the keyboard which holds his head on the table.

Friday and his men secure the scene. The head scientist still hanging onto life, pulls himself up to rest on a good arm. "But, why? Why would you? You would have been bigger, stronger, more powerful."

Friday crouches down, "Because, only when the workday is done," He reaches out his hand, and sticks a strong index finger into the exit wound of one of the head scientist's many holes. The evil genius cries out in agony, "do people really like me."

Happy Friday