In space, no one can hear you complain to HR. (a comedic story about working in space)

The morning shift on Orbital Hellhole-7 (official designation: New Horizons Habitat) had already begun a disaster. Bob "Three Strikes" Ramirez woke up to the sound of metal clanging and panging that was suspiciously louder than usual. "Another glorious day in the tin can," Bob muttered. Known for being the hard-ass supervisor who follows every rule and regulation to the "T" he was caught off guard seeing Karen, the paradoxically misanthropic health management supervisor and cat enthusiast wide awake and not hung over like usual. "How the hell are you up so early? Did we finally run out vodka?" Bob asked. Karen replied "Dan switched the labels with a bottle of coolant. I was half way through it when my tongue turned green and... well you can guess the rest." Dave had woken up suddenly banging his forehead into the bunk above him. The clanging and panging noise in the room was getting unbearable. Dizzy and slightly haggard, Dave asked Karen: "Have you seen my lucky socks?" They had gone missing—ejected into space during last week's "minor" airlock hiccup. "What is that noise?" Bob yelled. Karen tapped on a blinking red light. Bob "Three Strikes" Ramirez spilled his zero-g coffee onto the coffee machine shorting it out. He stomped his feet into his mag-boots and charged down the corridor as alarms not-so-gently pinged about growing hull micro-fractures. "What else could possibly go wrong?" Everything. It was 13:37 station time, the fusion reactor—nicknamed "Ol' Reliable" (by the same idiots who named the place) decided today was the final straw. A cascading coolant failure turned the core into a fireworks factory. Bulkheads buckled. Fireballs whooshed through maintenance tunnels like dragons with indigestion. Debris from exploding support modules turned the void outside into a deadly game of cosmic pinball. "EVACUATE! EVACUATE!" blared the automated voice in a cheerful tone, like it was suggesting they try the salad bar. Bob, Dave, Karen, and a half-dozen other grease monkeys in stained pressure suits sprinted down the central walkway. Behind them, the station was coming apart like a cheap IKEA bookshelf in an earthquake. Flaming shuttles pinwheeled past view ports. Tumbling end over end was a huge illuminated sign, sparks still flying from its broken mounting, landing next to Bob: ERROR DETECTED in angry red letters. "Left! No, right! My right!" Dave screamed, dodging a chunk of corridor that decided to become a missile. A vending machine for "Astronaut Ice Cream" exploded in a shower of strawberry chunks and shrapnel. Its "OUT OF ORDER" light blinking mockingly. "I hate this job! I hate this job!" Karen wheezed, somehow still carrying her pouch of cat food. Bob frantically asked "Why the hell are you carrying that?" "Because we might need it later, you animals." Karen retorted. They reached the emergency umbilical just as the artificial gravity flickered out. The group spilled into the last functional escape pod bay like clowns exiting a burning circus car. Explosions chased their heels. The station groaned like a dying beast ripping apart at the seams. "Seal it! Seal it!" Dave screamed as Bob tried pulling the hatch shut, but it wouldn't budge. Bob hurriedly stepped out of the pod finding a tangled mess of cables wrapped around the hatch. He reached for them when the pod shuddered, its thrusters firing wildly. The pod began to take off. Bob watched in horror as the pod left with out him, cables still in hand. Dave and Karen in their frantic rush to get into the pod accidentally mashed into the control panel turning on the thrusters. Bob was left behind. The pod tumbled away from the disintegrating station. They watched through the view port as New Horizons Habitat turned into the galaxy's most expensive piñata. "We made it," Dave whispered, tears floating from his eyes. "We're alive. I can't believe—" A final, massive chunk of the station broke off right above their pod. It clipped the pod's view port with a deafening CRACK, spiderwebbing the glass directly in front of Bob's face. Then something landed on the glass and the cracking stopped-Dave's lucky socks. The pod fell silent for three glorious seconds. Then Dave started laughing. First a chuckle, then full hysterical belly laughs that made his suit creak. "What the hell is funny?!" Karen roared. They were alive. Battered, broke, and probably fired. But alive. Rescue beacons pinging. The pod's systems stabilized. All was well-except for Bob "Three Strikes" Ramirez. Stranded in the debris field for a total of two weeks, subsisting off of every available flavor Astronaut ice cream (except strawberry). He was eventually picked up by a rescue ship. As Bob was taken aboard, tired, worn, stomach growling from a diet consisting of nothing but third rate, artificially flavored ice cream, he was led to a stage where a representative for the company stood and presented him with a comically over sized check for $2,000,000 as compensation for his misfortunes. Karen returned to Earth, never to step foot in space again. She started a cat breeding empire not seen before in human history. She amassed more wealth than all of the former workers of Orbital Hellhole-I mean New Horizons Habitat combined. Dave had also returned to Earth and took up recreational deep sea fishing. One day, against all extreme weather warnings he had set out alone for deep sea tuna fishing. The only thing found days later among the wreckage was a pair of socks.