Wasted Life: Mutated Fish "short" fiction

This here is one of the most exemplary works of short (here the term is used loosely) fiction that MF has ever produced.... and it isn't even written by me. This, friends, is the work of Mutated Fish President Cameron, presented to me in installments over email and given to you, freshly edited and sanitized, for your enjoyment and/or insults. If you hate this with a passion, just email Cameron. He'll accept your hate mail and flames with good humor... but if you love the writing, the style, the eloquence, just give your compliments to me.

Wasted Introduction - Enter Peter Williams

"Eight twenty-eight, let's roll..." Crick. A man pushes himself up out of his chair with an oof! and shuffles over to the exit of his neat, gray felt cubicle. It was equipped with items not seen in the outside world, and most that were, but a cubicle will always be a cubicle.

Our plain thirty-something-Joe makes his way out into a narrow hallway and hangs a left almost directly into a wooden door -- which some days he would ram into. Upon entering the small, bright room, he walks over to a counter with several plastic baskets filled with manilla folders. After browsing for a few seconds, he locates his assignment, labeled "Pete Wilam - 8:30 run." Peter frowns and rolls his eyes at the horrid handwriting and places the load in a duffel cart, which he rolls away out the door.

Peter pushes his cart back out into the cubicle rooms, which are quite small compared to others in the complex. He weaves in and around countless corners to the elevator at the far end of the room, a path he memorized a long time ago. He enters the empty lift and scans the monstrously huge panel of floor keys, which he did not remember, and punches one in. The platinum doors briskly and silently seal before him and he turns to face the clear, curved back wall of the cylindrical elevator. Beyond the clear barrier (which is not made of feeble glass, mind you), is a dazzlingly vast round chasm of movement, neon lights, hab complexes, restaurants, labs, and much more, including of course, similar cubicle offices. Some would swear that the distance between one end of the great gap to the other was so huge, that clouds would form between. It was rather mist really. Besides, the top of the artificial chasm was sealed off. Peter pressed his forehead against the wall and peered down, when the lift began to descend, which slightly startled him. Below were a ludicrous number of floors, and a nearly uncountable number of feet. Through the nearly opaque layers of mist was where the ground level lied. The cylindrical building enclosed a remarkably pristine patch of land, that was of course, huge also. It was a kind of enhanced ecosystem, which meant the animals inside were exotic and immune to extinction, unless the whole building collapsed onto it, which was impossible.

This elevator wasn't like the ones found outside -- it was magnetic, which meant it could travel much faster, but it was still bound to its vertical tracks. Peter glanced casually into the great space between the walls at what "normal" people would not glance casually at; a brief holographic advertisement. As with most other things in the building, it was very large, in that it could fill a football field. He'd seen this one before: where a hapless couple cannot conceive a child, so they turn to the Mutated Fish Corporation (there are many other titles) to clone one for them. For the conclusion, the Mutated Fish mascot -- some sort of salmon with feathered wings -- appeared and winked at no one in particular, but it seemed to be Peter. He'd gotten used to that bizarre mascot, because he had to. He worked at the Mutated Fish Headquarters, after all.

Peter's gaze wandered over to the floor gauge, which was dropping by a floor every quarter of a second. At such speeds, the floors are moving by so quickly, that it's almost hypnotizing. Such things astounded him when he first came after college, but it probably amazed every newcomer. MF was a company which was obviously far ahead of it's time (which is now 2010). Most people believe it's their unorthodox outlook on life: that people these days have too many rights, and that a communist government would work, if not for the corrupt dictators that run them. In essence, MF was like a human beehive, or more crudely put, communist. But wouldn't the government disapprove of their regime? Yes, they do, but MF is more powerful than the government. Actually, they have more influence: MF makes 95% of everything. Yes, you heard it -- EVERYTHING, literally. Mutated Fish also has 5 trillion dollars in it's budget, which is almost twice as much as the country of Japan. It specializes in all fields imaginable, literally. Please allow a moment to let it all soak in...

MF has done everything from reviving Neanderthals to communicating with trout to bestowing sentience to a few select pastries. There are also the little things, like locating 89% of all misplaced socks. How does a company go about becoming so powerful? Think outside the box and cheat. Just cheat your way through life and eventually those cheated will be in no place to argue back at you. It makes sense, right? It's true that there are other companies who despise MF and there are people who spread false propaganda, but are they in any position to fight back? Actually, MF is a true political player, and it has it's own seat in the UN. They (MF) have even repealed several UN charters. For example, nuclear testing is now allowed in designated subterranean areas and in outer space -- all thanks to Mutated Fish. When referring to statistics of the United States (such as economy), some people consider MF a separate country, which makes sense; when the two are lumped together, their sheer power is almost staggering. This superpower will forever be known as either the worst or best thing to ever happen to the world, with the exception of peanut butter, which is just genius.

The magnetic lift is now easing to a stop somewhere near the Southeast ground level. Peter sighs, grabs onto his cart, and waits for the shiny doors to whisk open. Silently (which seemed to be the trend these days) the doors did open but handfuls of clamoring people began to pour into the already claustrophobic elevator. Peter and his loyal cart eventually wrestled their way out, probably KO-ing several people at the same time. With a few silent apologies, he carts his load into one of the neat marble lobbies and takes a right into a spacious hall which would remind most people of some airport (which MF had one of its own somewhere here). There are several doors lining the left hand wall and Peter stops into the first one. As he and his cart enter, a little bell chimes to alert the occupant of his visitor -- whose face is buried in his hands, having a half-bald scalp facing Peter.

A muffled voice: "Peter, is that you?"

"Ah, yes, Mr. Holdt. Ah... Er, here's some more, uh, mail...sir."

This apparently got some reaction out of the husky Mr. Holdt, but it seemed to be a depressing one.

"Jus' put it in the 'IN' basket."

Peter did this and at the same time noticed the stack in the incoming basket towered high over the outgoing one. Peter left without a word, thinking better of it, and gently shut the door, which read "Mr. Dom Holdt -- Chief Complaint Officer."

As he strolled away to his next stop, he absently noticed that a good 75% of his mail went to Mr. H...

Chapter One: To Jimbo Publications

"Twelve eighteen... Let's roll."

Peter sighed and heaved himself out of a booth at McDonald's. It was at noon that he was designated lunchtime, and had twenty minutes to finish his meal.

It was things like familiar restaurants and fast-food places that made Peter long to see the outside world. Sure, Mutated Fish HQ provided anything one could need -- it was really like a small town, in fact. It had a police force, which for the most part was automated. Also, the HQ had it's own supermarkets, banks, pharmacies, and medical units.

Ironic, Peter mused, that Mutated Fish owns it's own line of restaurants on the outside...

Peter lugged his nearly empty duffel cart out (in?) to the central ring of the HQ, where he was near ground level. He glanced up towards the top of the structure, which kind of made him dizzy and swagger, to see the clear blue sky. He then walked to and peered over the edge of the railing to the round natural environment -- just a handful of floors below him. I could jump of the rail and land safely in a tree...

Peter shook off any strange musings and made his way over to a gold plated elevator. He pressed 'Up' and the doors slid open in about a minute. A few normal looking MF employees strolled out, and even another mail carrier, but no one he knew. Peter started his way into the lift when he apparently bumped into someone below his line of sight.

"Ugh sorry, man. I wasn't looking..."

Peter almost gasped when he looked down to confront the individual, who turned out to be a scowling orangutan.

Peter resumed, "...wasn't looking where I was going."

The primate sneered, "Damn right, buddy."

Peter was taken aback, and even more so when the ape's mutterings traveled back to him. He verbalized a shrug and carefully walked into the lift, avoiding any other disgruntled primates.

As the elevator began to rise, he figured those crackpot bio-engineers

gen-enged (short for 'genetically engineer') orangutans to have sentient thought. Stranger things have definitely happened...

The elevator eased to a stop at Peter's last stop of the day: the infamous Jimbo Publications, which makes just about every book these days. Obviously, if it's Mutated Fish, nothing is ordinary. What would be just a normal publishing company on the outside world must be wildly exaggerated in the MF HQ.

Peter casually strolled into what "normal" people would consider wild, and then think the best of and run away. Immediately upon entering the Jimbo Pub. lobby (loosely defined), one would notice the staggeringly chaotic racket. It was the sound of a thousand and eight typewriters being operated at the same time. One thousand-eight typewriters resemble the background roar of a bonfire, but interrupted by the common line change and chimp whine. Yes, you read that. Do I need to repeat that myself? ...the occasional chimpanzee whine. The next thing one would notice is that each one is being operated by a chimpanzee. The final thing one may notice is that there is an absence of a certain expected primate odor. The MF workers hold hygiene in high regard, after all. (Now that is one thing you do not want to see -- the ape bathhouses.)

Peter nodded to a secretary and made a leisurely pace through the center of the marble and granite lobby, made to resemble the Roman colloseum, only with chimps. He made extra special care not to knock over any of the standing ads or podiums; podiums which supported busts and sculptures of Jimbo Pub.'s president, Mr. Robert Hanshaw. He knew Robert, as he was his next and final daily assignment. Mr. Hanshaw was a tall, well-read, and mannerly guy, until you got into his personal life. He was also the right-hand man to the Man. That Man would be The President of Mutated Fish, unofficially rendering him President of the World. The Prez's actual name would be Cameron Nicholas, but as he puts it, "Just call me Cam."

Prez Cam's origens are pretty obscure, but they (the public) believe he hails from the Southeast deserts of Arizona, where he also met most of his high colleagues, like Robert. It is from there that MF is supposed to originate. Others claim that MF started as a seafood hotdog stand on Venice Beach, Los Angeles. After all, the pollution was bound to create a myriad of mutated fish. Not anymore, though, as MF has pledged to clean up the coasts of America...

Personally, Peter thought "Cameron" was an evil name. It had a villian's ring. "Nicholas" was pretty sinister, too...

By now, Peter was knocking on the large platinum double-doors of Mr. Hanshaw's office. After an uneasy amount of seconds, it was apparent no one was there. How could anyone leave those chimps unattended?

Peter's thoughts of monkey riots were interrupted when a few male voices were heard down a some hallway, all of which appeared the same -- exactly like dentist complexes. Phones were constantly ringing from several offices, which made it harder to determine the source of the voices. After more uneasy seconds the speakers loomed into view around a corner of the right hallway, one of which was Mr. Hanshaw. He was accomponied by two other people; a black haired one about the same size as Peter and some blonde guy as tall as Robert himself. Scandinavian...? Peter guessed from his hair and blue eyes. Robert gave several approving nods and the two other guys broke off down towards the lobby.

Peter wasn't even noticed by Mr. Hanshaw until he nearly trampled him, as he seemd to be in deep thought.

"Hey! Mr. Hanshaw! Eh heh, you almost plowed through me there."

Robert snapped his head up and said, "Oh hey, if it isn't Pete. Sorry -- you know you can call me Bob, I prefer that you know. "

"Uh, right, Bob. Well, here's the mail." Peter presented the last item in his plastic bin, which was some box.

"Thank you, Pete. Now..." But was cut off by Peter...

"Say, who were those guys you were talking to? Never seen 'em before."

Bob rolled some words around in his mouth and finally said, "Er, just some other MF officials. Just giving me tips on how to control the chimps and all. How can we produce Shakespearian work with bananas and feces being thrown around all the time, eh!?"

Peter nodded, only half satiated, and was dismissed by a wave of Robert's hand - so he started towards the lobby.

There was a saying that if you had an infinite number of monkeys with typewriters, they would eventually produce the works of Shakespeare. He knew Jimbo Publications was undertaking this task, only with gen-enged chimps to make it more realistic. Mathematicians also figured that one thousand-eight chimps would be sufficient enough to complete the task within a plausible time. So it was...

Back in the lobby, it seemed the primates were in an uproar, tossing anything they could their hands on, including reems of paper and bananas, but surprisingly, no feces. Of course, this all took Peter by surprise, as things like these only happened occassionally.

He tightened his grip on his cart and sprinted towards the elevator, doing his best to dodge the chimp crossfire. It was very hellish but Peter did make it alive, if covered by many banana chunks, but alive nonetheless. Just before he dove into the elevator, some chimp hurled a rotting brown banana peel at Peter, which hit home. Only after the lift doors sealed and drowned out the racket did he heave an exasperated sigh. Things like these only happened every year or so...

Meanwhile, the MF police force has arrived, and many batons are swung at the apes. Throughout the chaos, some hapless janitors tried their best to clean up the horrid mess, nonplussed by the cries of chimps and men (and a few robots) alike.

Gone unnoticed by everyone (because it blended in with the dark floor), the little brown rotting peel lay untouched, by the elevator, surveying the mayhem...

Chapter II - Return to Jimbo Pub.

Michael Harding yanked open his door which was always stuck and stalked angrily outside -- to the inside cylinder of MF HQ. Michael was especially angry because he had been beckoned to Jimbo Publicati0ns for some obscure editor meeting during the supposedly private evening hours.

He pushed his thick glasses back up to the bridge of his nose with one hand, while holding his Smart-case to his side. Smart-case was essentially a briefcase which held a pre-sentient algorithm; it could tell you if you were forgetting something, if the contents were damaged, the status of your towel (which all persons must carry when outside for some reason), and could bark back at you if you insulted it.

Michael slid his ID into the door, which locked it, and resumed to stalk angrily towards Jimbo Pub. His patience was tested once more just outside his hab community when one of his acquantences quipped,

"Heeey! Mr. Harding! Love your music. See ya' around!"

Michael held back an outburst, but was still seething on the outside. Not many things got him more angry than when people made fun of his name. He continued his warpath to this ambiguous meeting of his, occassionally bumping into people. His anger temporarily ebbed when he noticed that one of the people he ran into was missing a shoe. Michael snickered to himself while the face-less and shoe-less person got absorbed back into the general crowd.

He eventually got into an elevator on its way to Jimbo Pub. Michael looked up through the plasteel sealing the top of MF HQ out into the starry sky. He cursed about missing the Wednesday comedy lineup on TV and heaved a sigh in unison with his Smart-case.

Peter slid his ID into the door slot and effortlessly eased his door open. He made sure to keep it well oiled, unlike most other MF workers. He sighed and tossed his Smart-case onto the couch, which uttered a digital oof!. Peter surveyed his hab complex, which was comparable to apartments on the outside. It was orderly, for the most part, except for the dining table which was littered with junk food.

He undid his tie and sauntered over to the kitchen. After surveying and scrutinizing it for a few seconds, he went to and open his metallic freezer. Cool mist flooded out to reveal the frozen goods behind them, of which very few were left.

"Oh... time to go to the store."

But his stomach grumbled a protest to eat now. Peter randomly picked out a TV dinner. Lasagna, mmm...

He tossed into the microwave and entered in a minute. He rubbed his mildly flabby belly and flopped down on the couch next to his Smart-case. Peter absently kicked off his right shoe and then tried his left, which stayed put. He tried again and attempted to pry it off with his other foot. He kicked again and his sock went flying into the TV screen. It was then that it occurred to him that he wasn't wearing his left shoe when he entered his hab. A second later, he realized that must be why several people shot him strange looks and snickers on the way home.

Peter scrambled up and put on another pair of shoes and socks, which just seemed to be laying around, grabbed his ID's and stormed out the door. Once outside, he locked it and started to backtrack his journey home.

Several seconds later, just out of earshot, the microwave chimed to indicate a well done dinner.

Chapter 3: Mr. Hanshaw's Office

Among the many unusual happenings at the Mutated Fish Headquarters, people walking backwards was commonplace.

Peter peered over his shoulder and continued his backward march. He was retracing his steps to Jimbo Publications -- in reverse. He figured that if he did everything backwards, all the events beforehand would come back naturally, like a rewound videotape. Even though he tried in earnest not to collide with the casual observer, he couldn't avoid all of them.

So far, the only thing this tactic produced was a couple of bruises.

Peter's train of thought was derailed by a greeting. He was slightly amused, but not surprised to see it come from a backward jogger. They waved at each other and the man jogged almost naturally away. Peter shrugged and continued his shoe-hunt.

Michael Harding burst through the lobby doors of Jimbo Pub. and made a beeline to the lobby elevators. His shoes made shrill squeaking sounds as they streaked across the marble floor, which made many people and apes alike quite cranky.

Michael entered the first elevator that opened and pressed the conference hall button. The elevator lurched once and began its rapid ascent towards the destination. Michael's Smartcase digitally chimed, "Sir, you are already over ten minutes late to this meeting..."

"Don't you think I know that, already!?"

This time, his 'case knew batter than to snap back. As if heading its warning, though, Michael began to impatiently jab at the destination button with the primal belief it would make the elevator go faster.

Quite contrarily, it came to a startling halt. Also startling was the fact that the lift was speaking to Michael.

"Hey, mister, don't test my patience! I give like hundreds of people rides every day. You are in no position to tell me what to do!"

Flabbergasted, Michael straightened up and said the only thing he could, "Sorry."

Meanwhile, Peter was in a lift all his own, including about four other people. He tried to look his best even when he entered and exited in reverse. Everyone in the elevator exchanged worried glances. They were sure this proved the end of the world was near.

As he was retracing closer to Jimbo Pub., Peter was slowly overcome by the realization that finding a missing shoe at this point would be next to impossible. Surely, some kleptomaniac would've scooped it off the ground or something. Or perhaps one of the many hobos wandering around would've gotten it.

Now, you may wonder what hobos may be doing inside MF HQ. As mentioned before, MF HQ has just about everything characteristic of a small town, including its unique transients. President Cam mail ordered several shipments of heartland US hobos as part of his HQ naturalization project. It is also worth noting that these homeless individuals are on MF's payroll, yet are forbidden permanent shelter. "Just to make our employees feel as if they're at home," Prez Cam once mentioned. "...as if they live anywhere else!"

Peter heaved a sighed when he beheld the great arches of the Jimbo Pub.'s entrance -- somehow through his back.

"If not now, then never," he muttered, and shuffled backwards inside.

The elevator doors whisked open and Michael briskly strode out into a very long and brightly lit hallway. This was the hall leading to the conference chamber. As he hurried away, Michael could hear the elevator mumbling insults under its digital breath.

He glanced at his watch and produced an unsound expletive under his analog breath. After that, he broke out in an all-out sprint towards those double doors oh-so far way.

As he ran along, Michael noted the several automated sentry guns lining the ceiling and the robotic law enforcement guards along the wall. This is after all where the second in command of Mutated Fish is residing, he thought to conserve his breath. He also hoped they wouldn't be suspicious of the crazed running man, or he'd be much, much later for the meeting to say the least.

A buff human guard stood next to the chamber door with his arms crossed. Michael hardly stopped long enough to flash the guy his ID, but it was long enough for him to scan it. Before the guard nodded him off, he was already past the doors.

The first thing one might notice about the conference room was how it was made primarily of dark marble, with lighter stone and gold to compliment it. On either side of the mostly rectangular chamber were several water fountains with tropical potted plants to compliment those. Beyond the chairman's seat was a great window with a staggering view of the outside world. It was seductively lit inside which gave Michael the notion Mr. Hanshaw did more than just consult with employees. The dark lighting also provided a good atmosphere for serious discussions, though. It would have been altogether relaxing, if it weren't for all the old uptights present.

Robert Hanshaw sat in the chairman's seat at the end of the mammoth meeting table entertaining the other attendants of the meeting with some life stories.

"...so that's how I find out his head is made of jerky! Ho ho ho ho!"

The other attendees nervously laugh along with Robert's insane story but stop immediately when their eyes wander over to Michael Harding. Upon seeing him, Robert drops his merry laughter and coughs for attention.

"Ah, I see you finally made it to this meeting of ours. I'm glad you made it before we're all old and frail!" Everyone laughs except an old, wrinkly man. He bares a gummy, toothless smile.

"If you will take a seat, that'd be great, Mr. Harding."

Michael takes the nearest seat. He begins to rub his clammy hands under the table so no one would detect how nervous he was. He was sure Mr. Hanshaw's pleasant smile kept some inner malice toward him veiled. He had to come up with an excuse for being so late...

"I'm really so sorry, Mr. Hanshaw..."

"...Bob, but I had a little argument with the elevator, you see."

Several people exchanged glances, but Bob replied, "Oh, I didn't think programming the elevators with a 'tude would be very wise, anyway. That's all right, though, because that isn't what's bothering me. Unfortunately, this is."

Bob reached under the table and produced a stack of papers stapled together at the corner. He snaps his wrist and sends the papers flying at Michael at dangerous speeds. His hands shot out from under the table and barely caught the projectile. Bob pressed a button blended in with the table and a hologram of an "Applaud" sign appeared in the middle of the table. All the attendees reluctantly clap.

"Uh, what's this?" asked Michael as he turned it around in his hands.

"Just read the title, Mr. Harding."

It read Tales of the Goldfish.

"Oh, this is the book we've been working on for some time."

Bob nodded and shot back, "...and it's utter shit." His pleasant smile transformed into a discontent frown. Everyone at the table gasped, mostly because Mr. Hanshaw hardly ever lost his smile.

"B... but I'm the head editor, and..."

"...and it's your responsibility to filter out the crap. My point is, your little book is filled with a lot of shit."

Michael was at a loss of words.

"Before this, I couldn't believe paper could be so thoroughly covered with crap -- and now you've just done it with text..."

"Okay! Enough!" Michael exploded. "I realize the pursuit of aquarium culture is a dead end."

Bob nodded to himself. "All right, then. I suppose I got the point across. What you must also realize is that Jimbo Publications produces hit sellers every single time. We expect each new title to compete with the last one -- give it a run for its money. I've convened all the head editors of Jimbo Pub. to revise this piece of crap," at which point saliva flew from his mouth and everyone flinched, "into a piece of Shakespeare. It shall still smell of feces, but have the appearance of ... of... a Plug-In air freshener. It's the appearance that counts, not the underlying meaning!"

A timid editor raised his hand, "I don't know what a Plug-In looks like, sir."

Bob bashed both hands into the table and exclaimed, "Damnit, man! Can't you see? Are you blind, my good sir!?" He raised an angry hand and pointed toward an electrical socket on the wall, with a little white box clinging to it.

"There, my friend, you shall find your answers."

"Ah, thank you sir."

Bob scanned over the room like some magnificent king to his court. The king said, "I shall accept no such crap from my followers. Get to work."

Bob turned on his heels and stalked angrily off through a back door, leaving all the editors staring at Michael Harding.

Peter Williams was mildly surprised to see something quite different about the Jimbo Pub. lobby: the typing chimps were kept in line by heavily armored Neanderthals with whips. Through the roar of typing, he could occasionally make out the snapping of a whip and a proceeding chimp whine.

He shrugged, as there was nothing else to do, and scanned the room for any sign of his missing shoe. No trace. He spotted a signal woman occupying the help desk and wondered if she could help. In the process of walking toward her, he narrowly missed stepping on the single rotting banana peel flung from earlier that day.

"Excuse, me, ma'am. I'm afraid I was here earlier today and I believe this is where I lost a shoe... Could you know where I can find it?"

The lady took her time responding to Peter's query -- she was too busy doodling.

"You could check in the lost and found of this floor, sir. Mr. Hanshaw is also in charge of misplaced items in this sector. Go ahead and check at his office." She continued doodling.

Peter nodded and made his way toward Robert's office.

"Come to think of it, I've never been in there..." he reflected.

The office doors finally came into view around the last winding corridor. Come to think of it again, are those doors a different color than earlier today? Indeed, they were: they were now hot pink. He heard that Bob was fairly eccentric and unpredictable, but not to this extent. As Peter slowly walked up to the doors, he noticed the paint was still wet.

He glanced left and right and knocked on the door. Not surprisingly, moist paint rubbed off on his knuckle. He tried futily to wipe it off on his shirt, but instead, it just got spread even more. Stumped, Peter figured he'd do something about it later.

Peter rapped again on the door, only this time on Robert's name plate. No answer. Compulsively, he jiggled the handle, and to his surprise is was unlocked. Peter cocked his head to one side, fidgeted for a while, and weighed his options: If he just turned on his heel and walked off, he would have lost an expensive pair of shoes without a fight -- but if he entered, would Robert actually know of his break-in?

"Aw, hell, Bob's an understanding guy," while unbeknownst to him, Bob was busy high-kicking an errant Coffee-mate. Peter heaved a silent sigh, crossed himself, and put is weight on the name plate. The door creaked open relatively quietly for its ominous size. Half expecting something else, Peter was slightly taken aback by the utter ... darkness -- it was pitch-black in there! What was really confusing was why no light from the naggingly bright hallway seemed to filter into the room. After a few seconds of attempting to adjust to the darkness, he found that it wasn't going to get any better.

Afraid of being caught by a passerby, he took several reluctant steps into the office and eased the door closed. Instant silence. Instant darkness. Instant fear. The primordial fear of darkness gripped Peter and scared the bejeezus out of him. Unable to help it, his left hand raced up to where a light switch was supposed to be so he could make the blanketing darkness disappear. Very unfortunately, the supposed switch was not there. Peter's bejeezus was effectively scared back into him. Traumatized, he let out a feeble yelp and almost had a heart attack and aneurysm when the lights seemed to respond to his utterance. Peter doubled back into the door, unaware of the layer paint plastered to his backside. After regaining his composure and reassuring his traumatized bejeezus, he tried again to adjust to the light. As soon as he did, he saw the main reason it had remained so dark: most of the entire office was made of very dark marble. Anything else was pretty dark already. The entire room was accented by a dim undecernable light source; no bulbs or light sources of any noticeable type.

A great wooden desk sat placidly in the middle of the room like some brutish sentry. It was utterly covered in articles of paper and occasional pamphlets. All of it left little space for the already compact PC with a Softscreen monitor, a clever little invention which Mutated Fish pirated from an unreputable little company in the UK. The desk was topped off with a quaint little lamp, which seemed unnecessary with the ambient light. Peter swiveled his head from side to side to take in the rest of the room: great bookcases which reached the 10-foot ceilings lined the walls. There was the occasional portrait residing on the walls of the pentagonal room; portraits of uptight-looking business men, vaguely familiar business entrepreneurs, and even those of the two people he saw walking alongside of Bob earlier that day. Most unusual were the portraits of a solemn yet grungy janitor wielding a chrome mop, and a meek old geezer of a lady -- she looked like something out of another era. A relative?

Altogether, it gave an underlying impression of uppermost academia and class. The room was organized and symmetrical. It also had a door in the farthest most vertex of the pentagon. His interest quite piqued, Peter shuffled over towards the door, but not before knocking some document off of Robert's desk. He gingerly picked it up, but his expression changed to bewilderment as he read the title: "Briefing of Project Cuban Llama." Peter shook his head in a vain attempt to make the words rearrange themselves and simply tossed the document back onto the desk to make the thoughts exit his head.

He made his way to the door and carefully examined the surface; there seemed to be a ridiculously small latch, the likes of which you would find somewhere on an airplane lavatory. Again weighing his options, he promised himself that he would get right out as soon as his missing shoe was recovered.

Peter read the little sign above the latch, which read "Vacant," and turned it ninety degrees to the right. Surely enough, the door swung on its hinge accompanied by the typical lavatory clicks and squeaks. Peter almost had to duck to avoid hitting his head against the low doorframe. Half expecting to encounter another impenetrable sheath of darkness, he was relieved when he was greeted by a copious amount of light. Our intrepid protagonist's relief was turned into utter shock by what he saw beyond the light, though...