JANK

THE BOILER ROOM

ROOM A: Sad Boy's Interview.

He scratches his head as he has a dander through the door. Dark shoes squeak against the polished floor. When he exhales, he can see the condensation appear in the air.

Looking around him, he notices that the table seems further back than it should be...

... Maybe it's one of those things where they observe body language too.

He takes his place on the chair in the middle of the room. Tapping his feet against the surface of the polished wooden floor, he slips one of the earphones from his ears and turns the music down.

Tucking the iPod under his shirt, he stares into space, ignoring the writing on the wall. Literally.

ATTENTION: Interview in Progress.

Bollocks ta tat.

He slaps himself on the face, hoping that his skin stops tingling and that he comes back to reality in time for the first question.

A well-dressed elderly man with a grey beard and slicked back hair, garnished in expensive clothes and a hi-tech watch looks down at a slumping Sad Boy. Pushing his spectacles against the bridge of his nose, he shakes his head.

"No MP3 players allowed." He reaffirms in a posh tone, pointing to the wall and sounding like he comes from the 'cultured area' of Belfast.

Sad Boy looks him in the eyes. "I need ta listen ta music ta help me focus. I have tinnitus. Ye can even check t' application form."

The man looks through the document, reading between the lines, checking for any signs of tampering. He nods to himself. "Very well."

He passes the form to the dashingly dressed lady in the middle. She looks to be in her mid-thirties; she has long, dark, flowing curls, is wearing a lipstick in a shade deeper than vermillion and and has pastiche for sixties style. Peering through her shades, she reads the first question: "What are your future inspirations?"

Sad Boy's nodding his head to the beat, unaware of the question, singing "... I wanna be trash."

Perfectly timed chaos.

Looking up and catching the bitter look etched across her face, he turns the music down. "Sorry... can ye repeat t' question?"

"What are your future aspirations?"

Sad Boy sits up, straightening his tie as he ponders at the question for a moment...

"... Future? ... Aspirations?"

He imagines himself on stage, performing as the lead singer for a band called Tainted Cheddar. The crowd are calling his name, cheering for his music and buying merchandise in droves. He has a chuckle to himself. "Honestly? I wanna... be a musician..."

"Okay... Mr. Mason... next question." The third and final interviewer's English accent added. He's a middle-aged man with black, thick rimmed glasses and a bald head. He looks like someone from the Specsavers adverts mixed with a darker Gregg Wallace. "What can you offer the company that no-one else can?" He lets out a yawn. "And don't say a good time."

Sad Boy shrugs, thinking to himself:

Man, these questions are boring. I just wanna puff on a feg. I'm gaspin' fer one.

"I guess... I'm unique. I can... offer a new perspective on things." He started tapping his feet again. "And... uh... I'm also an accomplished musician... and have an IT BTEC qualification as well... so aye. I'm good wi' computers and stuff..."

Oh wow, a fully formed answer...

Focusing on the faces in front of him, he hears the paper rustle once again.

T' Old Man's back at it again...

... They're passin' t' page 'round like a blunt on a Saturday night here...

"Do you have any previous experience?"

"Inside... or outside t' bedroom?"

Old Man looks at him like he has ten heads. "Excuse me Mr. Mason?"

Sad Boy shrugs again. "What? T' question's very vague."

Almost Gregg glares and points toward the door. Sad Boy's confused. "... I'm just voicing my opinion?"

"You have ten seconds to vacate the premise. Or else I'm calling security." This guy really puts the cock in Cockney. "Nine... eight.... seven... six..."

Ye can count too? Well done... Ye can add that ta yer list of accomplishments...

He lets out a yawn and swings his legs down by his side. Grabbing the packet of cigarettes, he pulls out one and begins to light it. A pair of muscular arms wrap around his and tear him from the chair.

The packet falls to the floor. Looking back, Sad Boy lets out a sigh as he's escorted from the building with the last cigarette dangling from his mouth. The remaining candidates stare at the slamming door and gossip amongst themselves.

Thankfully t' lighter's still tucked in that pocket...

He sits down on the wall outside the building, lights the cigarette, inhales and thanks the Heavens that his ordeal's over...

... and wonders if Donny's doing any better in inside.

A/N: What do you think of Sad Boy's interview?

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