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"Bar?" says Bob when he comes in to Milliways today. "Get me my acoustic guitar and the sheet music for..." He trails off, then shrugs. "I dunno, surprise me."

The music which arrives is for a song entitled 'First of May,' by somebody named Jonathan Coulton. Bob takes the music and the guitar over to a comfy chair and is soon merrily strumming away.

Bar didn't see fit to include the lyrics to the song. Anybody have the guts to tell Bob what he's really playing?

The lyrics and an MP3 download of 'First of May' may be found here. WARNING: EXTREMELY NSFW.

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"Hi," Bob replies. Then: "You know, I don't think I ever actually got your name..."

"--Oh, yeah, I think you're right." He half-waves. "Tom."

"Bob, Guardian 452 of System Mainframe." Bob sets the guitar aside so he can lean over and extend a hand to shake. "Pleased to finally meet you properly."

"Bob. Really."

Belatedly, and distractedly, he blinks at the proffered hand and leans over to shake.

"Nice to. Um. Hi."

Bob's hand doesn't feel like zombie flesh; it doesn't really feel like flesh, period. Some patrons have likened it to living plastic.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

Tom has very little idea what zombie flesh feels like; that would require getting close enough to touch it. Which, no.

"What? No! I mean. I knew a Bob bef-- but I guess it's a pretty common name, huh."

"I guess," says Bob with a shrug. "Not as common back home as it is for Users, though."

"As Use--? Oh, hey, do you know a kid named Enzo?"

"Yeah, he's my fiancée's little brother. You know him?"

"I did a little programming for him a while ago." A slight shrug. "Or tried to help, anyway. Some virus issue?"

Bob's eyes light up. "You were one of the ones working on a cure for Daemon's infection?? You're that Tom?"

". . . I guess?"

What?

Bob beams and grabs Tom's hand again for a more vigorous handshake. "Hey, great! Thanks for your help, it's good to finally meet you..."

Tom boggles slightly, but accepts the handshake with decent grace.

"Uh, you're welcome! Holy crap, am I famous or something?"

"In Mainframe you are," says Bob sincerely. "If it weren't for you and Barbara Gordon, we'd all be deleted now."

". . . Wow. Damn."

He starts to grin. "Well, um. My pleasure. Really."

Bob finally lets go of Tom's hand. "Can I get you a drink or something? It's the least I can do..."

"Oh, no, I'm fine, thanks. Seriously, I'm just glad I helped."

Bob nods. "So am I."

A beat.

"So... uh... what do you do, other than coding?"

"Nowadays? Not much. You know, survive. I mean, not like there's a lot of call for a programmer back home."

"...there isn't?"

"Not with most of the infrastructure collapsed due to rampant zombie infestation."

.

.

.

"Oh."

Rueful: "Yeah."

Beat.

"Sorry, that's kind of a conversation-killer."

"A little," admits Bob. "Sorry, my only real experience with zombies comes from Games, and I dunno how accurate that would be."