The director lived near the factory. A quiet summer night, about 2:30 p.m., breaks into the passageway, awakening the guards with cries:

Where is the fire? Why is there no security report? Why doesn’t the master pick up a cell phone? Where are the fire cars? What about mobile communication?

There was no fire, we would know.

The director ticks them a cell phone in the nose, with a fresh SMS from the master: "In the factory fire, we can't call you." The entire staff stands up, no one knows. Finally, they call the home master, he can first understand nothing, and then says:

I sent this SMS a week ago. Remember, we burned the warehouse and you were fishing?