They’re all in a meeting and it’s not going very well.

“I don’t like to micromanage you guys,” growls Xenu. “You know what you’re doing. Find something that needs doing and do it.”

Death Traps coughs delicately. “An admirable management style, sir: certainly. But where would you like the slime pits? Or the spike ceilings? What of the delicately weighted walls that smash inward at a feather’s touch, yea, as the Symplegades were wont to do?”

“What am I paying you for? I need self-starters. I’m up to my neck in bullshit. If you can’t figure these things out for yourself–” a gentle threat– “well, there are other contractors. You’re not irreplaceable.”

“Bullshit is right,” mutters Fortifications. Plumbing snickers then coughs when Xenu swings gimlet eyes on him.

“I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you,” snarls the overlord. “You know what I want. Get out there and make it happen!”

So of course they end up putting all the bathrooms behind miles of fire traps and hidden doors. Vengeance is thine, saith the Paul-god, and is pleased.