"Yes, I'd like to order a two-ounce bottle of your one-hundred-percent pure 'Doe in Heat' deer urine." 

Jim watches Dwight lean back in his chair, wrapping the phone cord around his finger.

"Question. Is the urine fresh, and is it hand-bottled? Also, does it come from the bladder of a whitetail, or a mule deer?"

He gets up from his chair. The last thing he needs to hear is Dwight ordering deer urine and he doesn't want to stick around to hear about what his plans for the deer urine are.

Jim's not used to feeling self-conscious while getting up, but he has been for the past six months, making sure the back of his shirt stays tucked in and that his tie is semi-straight. He blames it on the new receptionist, although it's not really her fault. He's kind of into her.  He hasn't figured out why yet.  She's kind of quiet, but she's fun, and different.  She doesn't try, and maybe that's what does it for him.

He walks over to her desk, and she looks up from her computer monitor and smiles. "Hey, Jim," she says.

"Hey, Pam." He leans against her desk but glances towards the door over his shoulder. He knows she has a boyfriend that works in the warehouse who comes up to see her once a week, but she never seems to mind when Jim hangs out at her desk.  He figures that if she did, he'd be able to tell, but he knows that she only likes it because he keeps her entertained and distracted from answering phones and whatever else receptionists do.

"What are you up to?" he asks.

"Have you ever gone on the Expedia website, and even though you weren't really planning on going anywhere, put in your, like, ultimate dream vacation? Just to see how much it would cost?" Her eyes dance when she looks at him, and his palms sweat a little. He wipes one hand on the front of his thigh.

"I don't know anyone who's never done that, at least once," he answers, putting his chin in his hand. "So where to today?"

"Right now I'm going to Venice. I've got two round-trip tickets leaving from Newark Airport on September 7th, 2002. I'm staying in a suite at the five-star San Clemente Palace Hotel. And so far, I'm up to..." She clicks her mouse. "Seven thousand, five hundred and eighty-six dollars."

Jim nods slowly. "Guess you'd better start saving up now."

Pam laughs.

"Hey," he whispers. "Do you mind putting your vacation planning on hold for a second? I think I've got something better."

"Better than Venice?"

"Almost. See, Dwight's ordering his seasonal supply of deer urine, and I thought maybe we could have some fun with that."

"Hmm." Pam presses her lips together. "Maybe we could help him out a little. You know, so that he doesn't have to call next month, or possibly the month after that..." She trails off, but Jim gets it.

"You mean, like, call back and change his order for oh, say, a four month supply?"

She nods.  "I think it'll make hunting season a little easier for him."

They look online to find the number of the company where Dwight orders his normal supply, and Pam calls. Luckily they don't need an order number, just a last name, so she adds twenty-four bottles to Dwight's original order. She scribbles something down on a pad of paper, then hangs up the phone. She looks up at him. "It cost three hundred dollars." She winces. "Do you think that was too mean?"

Jim shakes his head. "They'll call to talk to him to confirm the order before they charge anything to his credit card."

Dwight's extension rings, half an hour later, while Jim's going over paperwork for a new client.

"Dunder-Mifflin, Dwight Schrute speaking. What? No, I didn't--yes, I'm sure.  I only ordered..."

Jim catches Pam's eye, and they both smile, unable to hold it in. Dwight seems to notice immediately, and he slams down the telephone.

"Damn it, Jim!" he yells. "Now I have to change my whole order. You know, you're so unprofessional. I should report you to HR."

"We were just trying to help out."

"Well maybe next time you and the receptionist can help yourselves out by doing actual work. I have a huge client calling me in less than an hour and you've ruined everything." He gets up and walks towards the stairwell.

Jim looks over at Pam, and she raises her eyebrows. He shrugs, but inwardly he thinks that maybe it was a bad idea to play a prank on Dwight right before a big sales call. He imagines Dwight in the stairwell, doing twice the headbanging he normally does, and the thought of that alone makes him a little bit guilty.

Still, Pam smiles at him, and it's worth it anyway. 

* * * * *

Once in the stairwell, Dwight decides that from now on he'll order his deer urine online. Buck hunting is useless without it, but come on. The shelf life of urine is not long at all before it loses its effectiveness, and what would he have done with twenty-five bottles? The problem is that ever since the new receptionist started, Jim's been paying less attention to his job and spending more and more time slacking off. Uh, how does he expect to keep up his numbers when all he does is giggle with the new girl all day long? Pathetic.

Dwight decides to try to focus less on Jim for now and work on amping himself up for his call. He listens to AC/DC (Back in Black always ensures a win for him) for a few minutes, and then goes back upstairs.

He glares over at Jim, who has his phone against his ear, doodling on his desktop calendar. It's his funeral for suddenly deciding to be incompetent, Dwight thinks, watching Jim. The downfall of Jim's existence, probably, is women. It would explain why One: he never has any, and Two: the minute one comes flitting into the office with her curly hair and pink sweaters, Jim turns into a giant mass of worthlessness. He give Jim six more weeks before he becomes completely marginalized.

It takes exactly twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds for Dwight to close his sale. He hangs up his phone and stares at Jim until, finally, Jim looks up. "What?" he asks.

"What?" Dwight mocks back. "Nice try sabotaging my sale, Jim. I'll have you know that my client signed a three-year contract."

"I wasn't trying to sabotage your sale."

"Oh, sure you weren't."

"Dwight, it's just, some people don't like hearing you order that kind of stuff over the phone."

"Uh, and I care why?"

"It's disgusting, and more than we need to know about your personal life."

Dwight backs up his chair, pretending that he's about to get up. "I'm still reporting you."

Jim types, not looking up from his monitor. "Well, I'm reporting you."

"For what?" Dwight pulls his chair back up to his desk. "You know what, this is stupid. How about you do your work, and I'll do mine, and you can be a loser all you want on your own time. Deal? Good."

Jim doesn't answer, but it's probably just as well. Dwight pulls out a piece of paper and begins to write a note to Toby.