The brain-numbing rumble of white noise rolls under the Dada chaos of Mr. Antipyrine, Fire Extinguisher (Nada) like the roar of a fierce head cold. Actors lurch around the stage, fall dead, burst into silent songs amidst a jangle of fluorescent lights, imposibly garbled phone calls, and spewed Post-its. Perhaps best subtitled The Mind King Takes a Temp Job, the play is a trip through the unrelenting psychadelic horror that is office work. A junk drawer of noise, found text, and Tristan Tzara, the show is Dada in means, but not ends: The toxicity of office culture blooms like mold in a warm refrigerator, the play providing the lower-management B-side to Peter Mattei’s Tiny Dimes. Staged with choreographic grace and a cleverness that only occasionally slips into gags, Mr. Antipyrine is enjoyably unnerving and often very funny, especially for anyone who’s served time at the frayed edges of the white-collar world. But at 45 minutes the piece is too short. Like work, it should be bathed in the phosphorescent green of the Xerox machine and drag on for hours longer than necessary.