Two men were working hard down in the bowels of the machine. Sweat coursed down their brows as they toiled in the hot and humid conditions.
‘Dave’ says the name tag on the younger man’s overalls.
However, the name of the man inside the overalls is John. No one knows what happened to Dave. The management just found his work clothes in a dirty pile near the snack machine one wet Thursday morning.
The official story is that Dave was promoted upstairs but several of the workers claim to have heard his ghostly wails during the night shift.
One man claims to have witnessed the naked form of Dave, covered in grease and wearing a hollowed out pumpkin as a helmet, running around the lower levels, screaming that the world is not what it seems.
Whatever happened to Dave is not relevant to this story, except that when John started his job, he was given Dave’s old work clothes.
The management didn’t want to waste money on new boots and overalls when Dave’s cast offs were still in such good condition.
John didn’t mind.
He had found a humbug in one pocket and a biro in the other. It was a Bic. A red one. It still had ink in it.
The biro, not the humbug. That would be weird. And not very tasty at all.
John considered himself lucky. The only other thing he had found in someone else’s pockets was a wallet full of cash which led directly to a jail sentence. It wasn’t a pocket he had permission to explore.
Having just been released on parole, John needed a job desperately. Any job. So he didn’t flinch when the management handed him Dave’s stinky old work socks.
It was well known that gaining employment here was only through the ‘dead man’s boots’ method.
A vacancy only ever materialised when a current employee either left, or more likely given the working conditions, died.
John happily filled Dave’s boots. Quite literally in this case. He filled his regulation y-fronts and sweaty string vest too.
Working beside the tall and gangly John, is a short, stocky man who is wheezing and occasionally belching the gas from a Chicken Madras he had eaten the previous evening.
The name tag on this man’s overalls reads: ‘Frank’.
The man inside the overalls is also called Frank.
There is similar story to Frank’s overalls as the one involving John’s but it is far less sinister.
Frank was lucky enough to fill the boots of another man named Frank, so it all worked out quite well.
The previous Frank won the lottery and left the job with a smile on his face.
He did punch the floor manager in the eye and give the foreman a massive wedgie before he left. That might go some way to explaining the smile on Previous Frank’s face as he waltzed out of the door for the very last time. It was probably mostly due to the money though. Mostly.
Frank has been working in the bowels of the machine for forty odd years. Forty years of hard graft and no recognition. Frank’s not a bitter man though. He is happy with his lot.
Frank has a singular mind which makes him perfect for the monotonous, repetitive work that happens here.
Frank’s mind is basically empty. He has the ability to set his brain on stand by and it just hums.
No thoughts pass through his grey matter. No hopes, no dreams, no ambitions and no curiosity about the world he lives in. Just humming. Like a fridge.
Frank was given the task of teaching John the trade when John first started work.
John quite likes Frank. Frank doesn’t say much and when he does it is straight to the point. John likes that about him.
John doesn’t really like the constant smell of curry that follows Frank around like a shadow, but when you have shared a jail cell with a white supremacist with a penchant for midnight buggery, spending your work day with someone who whiffs a bit like a vindaloo is a step up.
Unlike Frank, John’s mind is constantly racing. He is a young man with dreams and aspirations.
The work is monotonous and tedious and John’s mind has plenty of time to cogitate on the mysteries of life like; where do we come from? Where do we all go?
What is the point of it all?
What the hell was that man doing this morning, running around naked with what looked like a turnip on his head?
“What the fuck are we doing here Frank?” said John.
“Huh?” muttered Frank, picking fluff from his good ear.
“What are we doing?”
“Working.”
“Funny.” John scowled, “But what’s it all about Frank?”
“It’s about doing your job John, which I notice is something you are not currently doing.”
“This job sucks balls Frank. A big bag of them. It’s never ending!”
“But it’s what we get paid for John.”
“But what’s the point of it Frank? The stuff comes down the line from upstairs and we shepherd it out of the back doors where God only knows what happens to it. And it just keeps coming.”
“We work for the machine John. We have to keep the machine going. This is an essential part of the machine and this stuff needs to keep moving.”
“But they treat us like slaves. It’s dark and hot and sweaty in here. I hate it.”
“It’s just the way it is John. Just pray you can win the lottery like Previous Frank.”
“It’s driving me mad Frank. I just don’t get it.”
“You don’t have to get it. You just have to do your job.”
“But it never ends! We never get a break from it.”
“Ah, come on John, there’s lots of time when nothing new is coming down the line.”
“Yeah. But then there’s all the stuff we sent out the back that got rejected and sent back. Look! Some just got sent back right there! Every time there’s a break we have to work on the backlog of returned stuff to try and clear the holding pen. By the time we have done all that, new stuff is coming down the line again. It’s soul destroying.”
“I know. But it’s our job, so we just have to keep going.”
“I just want a break! Just ten minutes for a rest. That’s all I’m asking. It’s not that much to ask is it Frank?”
“It’ll never happen. We have to shift the backlog when there is a break in new stuff coming down the line. You know this.”
“And it stinks in here! What is that horrible smell?”
“It’s the stuff on the line John. Just think yourself lucky that it’s wrapped in the protective bubble when it comes through here. When it goes out the back, the bubble comes off! Trust me, that’s when it stinks!”
“You’ve been out there then? Out the back?”
“No. But Previous Frank said Previous Dave once went out there. He said it drove Previous Dave mad.”
“Well fuck all this. I am gonna get a break. I’m gonna stick all the backlog on the line right now, then the next time the new stuff stops for a while, we can catch a breather.”
“John! No! You can’t do that!”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t. The machine will malfunction.”
“Bollocks to that. It’s just bullshit the management tell us to keep us from thinking! It’ll all fit on the line and it’ll all fit out the back door at once right?”
“I suppose so. But…”
“No buts. I’m doing it!”
John started to transfer the backlog to the line.
Frank watched him for a while, then shrugged and started to help. Frank liked the idea of a break for a few minutes and John was right. They could get all the new stuff AND the backlog on the line at one time.
If Frank was being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he always wanted to know what would happen if the backlog was just cleared out alongside the new product.
So the two men loaded all the backlog on to the line and watched it slowly trundle out of the back doors.
The line was empty. No more new product came and there was no backlog left. It was a small chunk of peace and both men sat down, lit cigarettes and enjoyed it.
Outside the machine, Mr Arthur Pound stood with a strange look on his face.
Arthur had been attending a posh party all evening in honour of his son, who had discovered a new method of renewable energy. He was out of his depth socially, surrounded by the rich and the successful.
He had been desperately trying to hold his farts in all night.
Now he felt an uncomfortable sensation in his lower intestine.
It was a mystery to Arthur.
When you hold a fart in, where does it go?
Now he realised with horror that the farts he had held in all evening were all coming back at once.
“FFFFFUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP-PLAPPPA-PLAPPPA-PLAPPPA-FFFFUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPP-SSSSSSSSS………..PEET.” said Arthur’s arse.
The assembled gentry turned, all at once, to stare at him in disgust.
Then Arthur shat himself.
