Predator Press
[LOBO]
Why Fate wrought such war upon me over the last few years isn’t clear, but I sense She grows weary of our struggle.
Little by little, the black tide abates.
Pondering this vaguely, I punch in the supplied keycode by the glass doors of the Spanish Fly Industrial Complex. Exactly on time, I am surprised to find a clean, sparse room. Interestingly, the door I came in is the only entrance or exit.
There is no access to the rest of the building from here.
A fake entrance?
As for signs of human occupation –or even utility- there is little. No telephone. All there is is a combination VCR and television sitting on a collapsible card table. “PRESS PLAY” is printed neatly in likely the black marker on a well-aged index card, and taped by the VCR controls. Three small vials of differently colored fluids, a clear, a white, and a blue, numbered 1-3 in black marker, are standing in a wire display frame.
My name -printed in the similar blocky black Sharpie fashion- on a large new yellow envelope squarely in front of the chair. An ”old school” computer –replete with a green hued fishbowl monitor and a "c-prompt"- hums audibly, and the cursor flashes with infinite and eerie patience.
A vacuum with a hose attachment in the corner grants me a bonus observations; while most horizontal surfaces in the room have a thin layer of dust, the desk and surrounding area is meticulously clean.
Perhaps glaring in the room’s utter sparseness, a subtle camera is fixed in the upper southeast corner.
It, too, is dustless.
The manila envelope contains only a folder bearing my name.
But it’s empty.
Sitting, I reach to the “Play” button, hesitating. There is something about this moment that makes me a sense that, for better or for worse, there is no returning back from this moment. Maybe good ‘ole Fate is easing Her wrath finally.
-Or maybe She’s been playing a ‘Rope-a-Dope’ strategy on my this whole time, and this will be a nice kidney shot just to remind me She’s been thinking about me quite a bit.
The button on the hopelessly antiquated machine clunks under my finger, and the screen flickers as it whines to life. A grainy black and white SFIC company logo is accompanied by a sickening, tinny music that seems to oscillate at wrong speeds, and odd light and dark shapes dance and disappear like ghosts across the screen.
A man in a white lab coat enters the frame and bows stiffly.
“Welcome to the Spanish Fry Induslial Comprex Perspective Employee. I am Doctor Kim Yakamoto, and I will be conducting this intervliew.”
-The words ‘perspective employee’ were dubbed in by another voice. Perfect English. Corporate efficiency, or did the good Doctor Yamamoto just butcher the language too much?
”Thank you for your intelest in the Chemical Taster position. Preese enter the keycode number you were suppried with into the computer.”
I enter the six digits at the prompt. As, eh 'prompted.' The computer’s fan whirs to life, and after an exaggerated pause, a screen with my name on it.
“Preese anaryze-“ Doctor Yamamoto continues is a static addled, warbling voice,
“chemicals one, two and thlee, and enter your commentary into the computer. Leave this tape lunning, and I rill tell you when to stop. The test will automaticary save at this point. Begin.”
Vial 1 is clear.
“Vial 1 is tap water,” I enter. “De-ionized water is better for industrial use. The ph level you’re using with this filtrated city water could contaminate your results.”
Vail 2, white, on the other hand, is far less subtle.
“Vail 2 is obviously milk that expired in the middle of last month, and sour. Blech.”
Vial 3, blue, poses somewhat more of a mystery. Standing, I view it through the overhead lights. Thicker than the others, almost like watery dishwashing liquid. The visual inspection yields little else. And suddenly facing the prospect that I need to open it, I’m unsure.
What am I opening here?
“Fuck that,” I says, thinking aloud. For all I know this could be Sarin gas or something. There must be some other way to ...
My eyes fall to the vacuum cleaner.
I draw a line in the dust on top of the computer, and examine my fingertip.
-And
ever so gingerly, I return the blue vial to it’s cradle. And sitting back down, I type in simply:
"Is Vial 3 the stuff that makes your hair fall out?"
The screen goes blank.
”Time is up,” says Doctor Yamamoto.
”Once again, thank you for your interest in the Chemical Taster position. We will review your results and contact you with our decision within 24 hours.”
As a menial industrial minion of a book warehouse, I am allowed to listen to an iPod while doing my mind-numbingly dull job. And I find myself listening to highly-randomized lectures supplied by iTunesU. Recently, I rolled my eyes as Marshall Brain released one on how a toaster works.
