The shadow struggled with its human parcel as it lumbered through the remote corridors of Sector C to a laboratory secretly masquerading as a broom closet. After punching in the door code, 2017 (the year of the Glorious Janitors’ Revolt), the stooping figure stepped inside the doorway into decontamination. The mirrored walls of the chamber reflected a burdened haggard man in a janitor’s uniform. The pressurized jets of disinfectant urged him expediently onward into the main laboratory.
Fluorescent light dominated the sterile environment containing stainless-steel cabinets, surfaces and a two-way mirror that allowed anonymity for those on the other side. A skeleton nursing staff bustled about, tidying up.
“Ah, Lawrence!” A jolly voice, tinged with a slight German accent, beckoned over the PA. “So glad you could make it. Please, place our distinguished Mister Noone on the examination table. We shall be with you shortly.”
Obsequiously, the janitor obeyed, laying the burly guard on the cold metallic surface with a grunt. Stepping back, he examined his evening’s catch before the door from the observation room opened with a sterile creak. Two men in lab coats emerged, circling the table like mismatched vultures. The shorter of the two, a distinguished-looking rotund gentleman with a snow-white beard was the first to speak.
“So,” he remarked with the same warm tone Lawrence heard but a moment ago, “you got him.”
“Actually, he was dead drunk, sir.” Lawrence replied, not looking directly at the doctor. It was considered rude in corporate culture to make eye contact with a superior these days. The last employee Lawrence knew of to violate this code of conduct found himself in the precarious position of becoming an executive’s unwilling new golf partner. Lawrence wasn’t going to go out like that.
“Excellent, excellent. So no damage has come to our dear Mister Noone?”
“Well, he bonked his head on the floor where he hit, but other than that he seems to be OK. Still breathing.”
The taller doctor, neatly shaved and looking particularly angular today, regarded Lawrence’s comment with disdain.
“Bonked?” he inquired sarcastically. “I have not heard of this term. Have you, Doctor Klaus? This is the technical term you have for ‘concussed’, Lawrence?” The tall doctor wagged a scarred finger at him disdainfully. “It is no wonder you clean floors instead of create the future.”
“Forgive Doctor Klingel, Lawrence my boy. He has just come from checking his lottery numbers. He won but, alas, forgot to play last night.”
Lawrence nodded respectfully, chin now resting on his chest as he admired the sheen of the floor in more detail, muttering to himself how it could use a good coating of Doctor Klingel’s blood. Bringing his anger under control, he looked up to watch the two doctors busily stripping their subject.
“Nurse! A syringe if you please!” Out of nowhere, a nurse appeared and gave him the needle. “Danke, Fraulein. This should keep him under while we work.” Efficiently, the rotund Klaus injected Joe with the needle. Lawrence gently cleared his throat.
“Oh, Lawrence. I forgot you were still here. You may go.”
“I don’t wish to bother you, sir, but what about our agreement?”
Klaus muttered caustically in a mix of German and English under his breath. “You’re a persistent blue-collar, aren’t you, my dear boy?” Then added, “Yes, yes, you will find the credits already deposited into your account. Kindly accept our thanks for your services.”
Adequately comforted, Lawrence nodded back into his chest. “Thank you, sir. It has been a pleasant deviation from cleaning the toilets.”
“Well, run along now. It’s high time you get back to it.”
