cents on the dollar

"Do you have the file?"
"Yes we have it but its a different file. Yes."
Friday is doughnuts. New ones, chocolate meat. Waiting on statuses.
The numbers are all wrong, interspliced with industry jokes and laden with malicious code.
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We have extensive paper trails but they refer to several divergent earths, multiple Limited Liability Companies formed during the company's stint on Anti-Matter Earth whose tax filings vacillate between planes. It will be a bugger to track down. Several different clients with identical names leave multiple angry voicemails from the lower states. Kentucky, Missouri, places whose existence is hinted at only by the receipt by Accounting of diffracted radio waves containing mumbled mixed messages referencing the End Times.
"I need to get this busted sign off my property!" He's calling from a bank, he says. Could be a robot, the accent sounds right, phone held up to a blinking metal box by a fake-rubber-hand-sheathed claw. "I can't give you that information!," hang up and hope he doesn't weave his arcane electron fingers through the network in retribution.