Mr. B, our boss, has a cool head on his shoulders alright, but when you spring surprises like the way Ron does, you should've nerves of steel to keep your composure intact.

He sneaked in a Jack-O-Lantern to work and it was a designer one! Yes. It had the eye sockets dug and tastefully carved out nose and mouth to make it look scary errr. . . rather funny. Anyways, our Resident Evil Ron, though technologically-challenged, did go the Einstein-way and wired the lights to the sockets, coiled a few coils, taped tight some sundry wires; plugged it in and announced "Mission Accomplished" Bush-style! Looked real neat, I should confess. Of course, we immediately cried for a "demo," but alas, none was forthcoming. Ron said it had to wait until Mr. B entered.

And so came our Boss with a grand swagger breezing past and stood in his tracks on seeing the alien pumpkin, Ron errr. . . the Lantern! Momentary silence as Boss stood, staring at the creature. With the right pause and timing Ron made his move and hit the switch. The lights came on and there was an eerie glow that engulfed the room, the colors were Wow and the scene scary. . . almost. Genius Ron, I thought! And then the inevitable happened. Sure, the lights were cool, but realistically they were hot and they heated up the vegetable, the accumulated pressure releasing as it must. The sockets turned red with electric glow and the left eye turned a missile and there was eye contact with Mr. B himself! Eye contact? Yes. Literally. The left eye hit the right eye of the Boss and all hell broke loose. Pandemonium ensued and calm was restored only when we could extinguish the fire. When the dust settled, Boss stood in the middle of the remnants of half-burnt paperwork and darkened furniture facing the shivering Ron, the ex-genius. This time Mr. B's eyes were red hot without any supportive wires or coils from Ron.

He thundered, "Ronnnnn, you better explain."

A pregnant pause. Pin drop silence. All eyes on Ron. . . .

All he did was open his mouth and the smoke came gushing, poor fellow, he has had the taste of his own fire. . . he looked a half-burnt Simpson!