It was late into the evening, maybe one or two A.M. and maybe six or
even eight of the potent pineapple-flavoured Conquistador cocktails down
when Mark Zuckerberg decided that fuck it he would try Dance Dance
Revolution. A handful of his employees had been playing for the last
three or four hours while Mark had been sitting in the booth, nodding
along to inconsequential conversations and watching the group laugh and
jump around on the colourful glowing foot sensors. So, shakily he stood
and drained the remnants of his Conquistador through the twirly straw
that barely remained in the wide-rimmed glass and approached the arcade
machine. "Who's up next?" he blurted out as the group parted to allow
his advance but no one spoke and the machine continued its pounding beat
and chimes of success and failure as Adrienne Bard from the UX team
divided her attention between keeping step with the cascading coloured
arrows and Mark standing behind her.

"Uh, you can go next man," Sam Henderman said, "if you want." Sam had a
large brown mole in the spot between his eyebrows and Mark fixed his
attention at this protruding orb as he felt his body sway like one of
those bobble-head dogs suburban soccer mothers affix to their car
dashboards.

"I will go next, Sam," Mark said, never taking his eyes off Sam's mole.