34092-054

When 34092-054 clasped those meaty hands in front of us, most of us were still thinking about those free sloppy joes we had been given in the canteen a couple hours prior.

“You don’t understand, I’ll do anything-”

Those grainy granules of lord-knows-what smothered in thick, bloody gravy. They didn’t taste that awful (although the buns limply surrendered under the teeth in an unpleasant way), but that wasn’t our main qualm about it.

“Please, my wife-”

It was the principle.

“She’ll have nobody-”

I mean, with what all we do around here? Nobody else would want to do it, and everybody - from the ones up top with their badges, down to the janitors mopping the floor - knows that.

“And our kids - we have kids-”

So it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone that when we discovered the complimentary lunch was just a few

“Please god-”

measly,

“You motherfuckers!”

expiring,

“You’ll all fucking regret this!”

sloppy joes,

“AAAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

we were gravely disappointed.

Toby flipped the switch this time, and as the buzzing, like an army of wasps, filled the once silent room, I looked at 34092-054’s hot, flushed fingertips. It reflected the image of my own a few hours ago: the smokey, red sauce dripping down my palm. It stains everything. A complete nuisance.