Quality Control

The hollow voice of The-Happy-Corp-Really-Ok-Big-Box-Supersmart-Supermart spoke thus: “Help on aisle 291, help on aisle 291, Thank you.”

In aisle 291 a small man stood over a barrel. He looked even smaller among the overburdened and groaning floor to ceiling shelves stocked with an abundance of useless things. He wore scuffed black boots and a heavily patched vertically striped coveralls. Two bright yellow patches stood out among the various patchworks. The front patch read Screw-tapper 20-1-16. The back patch read The Happy Corp Nihil Factory. He scooped handfuls of screws from the barrel and lined them up in rows on the floor. His eyes shone brightly through his coke bottle glasses. After he lined up several hundred screws, he began the tedious work of examining the screw heads for the telltale marks: two raised dots above the screw groove that formed a discontent little face. All his tools left this distinguishing mark. Every day, before and after work he searched. Will today be the day little ones? he thought. He heard something coming.

The driver side wheel of the Scooty-Mc-Zoomy-Go-Go Go-Cart beat a steady rhythm into the wheelhouse as it struggled under the weight of the driver. The driver was a roly-poly man with rosy cheeks who wore an undersized pea-green vest. One of his eyes was permanently bloodshot after a workplace re-education session. It also left him with a permanent speech impediment. His name tag read Box-Folder 14-9-3-5.

“Nnn-hey, Tap,” said 14-9-3-5 waving his sausage fingers.

20-1-16 noticed his friend in better spirits and said, “Hey, Scooter.”

14-9-3-5 struggled from the cart and examined the screws. He didn’t have to help. 20-

1-16 had just wanted his company, some noise to fill the quiet air of lonely work.

Scooter was his closest friend and only friend.

“How’s your nephew?” said 20-1-16.

“Nnn-good, nnn-he just got accepted to Walmart University for the Really Rather Smart.”

“Wow, great school. What’s he studying?”

“Nnn-Screw-driving.”

“I wanted to be a screw-driver, but my grades were never good enough.”

“Nnn-where’d you go to school?”

“K-Mart State College For the None too Bright. What about you?”

“Nnn-Hallmark Academy of Fine and Retail Arts. Nnnn-I majored in box folding and minored in gift wrap.”

“That was back before Happy Corp. It wasn’t good but it was better than this, am I right?”

“Nnn-I don’t think about it.”

“Oh come on Scooter, you use to say stuff like that all the time.”

“Nnn-I don’t think about it anymore.”

20-1-16 took a break from examining screws to look over at his friend. 14-9-3-5 was holding up each screw to his good eye, obviously struggling.

“How’s your eye doing?”

“Nnn-fine. Nnn-I don’t think about it.”

“They won’t fix it?”

“Nnn-I don’t think about it.”

“I wish I could stop thinking about those things. It’s all wrong to me—My floor supervisor was reassigned last week. And she...”

“Nnnn Nnn Nnn-stop. Nnn-you need to be careful Tap.” 14-9-3-5 stared directly into 20-1-16’s eyes. A tear leaked from his blood-red eye.

20-1-16 looked away and said, “I’m sorry. I just want to fix it.”

“Nnn-I know.”

20-1-16 felt he’d created a gulf between himself and his only friend. He knew better than to ask, but he did it anyway. 14-9-3-5 wouldn’t say anything about his reeducation a few weeks ago. They continued to examine the screws again, now working in silence. The dull green glow of overhead lights flickered when 20-1-16 saw it. Hey little one, he marveled. The little discontent face of the screw head stared up at him. His luck was changing. With ginger hands and the delicacy one finds in new mothers, he picked up the little face off the ground.

“Nnn-did you found one!” said 14-9-3-5 “Nnn-wow! Nnn-I guess you won’t want this.”

20-1-16 looked up from his screw to see that 14-9-3-5 had pulled out a 10 penny nail. He showed it to 20-1-16. On the head of the nail was a crudely drawn smiley face.

“Nnn-I thought it might serve as a place holder ’til you found yours.”

20-1-16 took it out of his hands and examined it. A bright smile showed across both their faces. The warmth that had previously cooled returned between them. And they were happy for a time.

“Thank you.”

“Nnn-guess you’re going to nnn-have to find something else to do now.”

“What?” said 20-1-16 too engrossed in 14-9-3-5’s gift.

“Nnn-you’re welcome. Nnn-hop in I’ll give you a ride to the front.”

14-9-3-5 made his way to the Scooty-Mc-Zoomy-Go-Go Go-Cart. The springs straining under his weight. 20-1-16 scooped up the rest of the screws and threw them into the barrel. He ran over to the driver and tightened the bolt that held the wheel in place, the last part of the morning ritual. Broken things were replaced. They would just give him a new cart if this cart failed to do the job, but everyday 20-1-16 tightened the bolt of the driver side wheel. The somewhat muted beat of the wheel scraping filled their ears as they made their way to the front of the store. 20-1-16 said goodbye to his friend, paid for his things, and headed to work.

The windowless factory stretched for miles. Six great smokestacks billowed out the constant smell of farts. Two gigantic flags flapped in the polluted air. The country’s and company’s bright yellow smiley face flags shone bright amidst the fog of pollution. Bold black letters encircled the faces of each flag that read: “Work Makes You Free.” Entering the building one was bombarded with the sting of green-tinged fluorescent lights. The floors and ceilings were plastered with workplace slogans like: “Don’t be a clown keep your eyes down” or “Company time is the company's dime, report time thieves” and simply, “Work!” All posters were watermarked with the stamp of The Fun Reeducation and Never Wrong Human Resource Center. Usually, the sights and smells of the Nihil Factory filled 20-1-16 with dread. But today he couldn’t stop smiling. He had found it. His body moved with the multitude of other workers just starting their shift. He made his way to his locker and grabbed his earplugs for the factory floor.

The floor was a hive of activity as hundreds of dissatisfied faces stared down at their work on the large conveyor belt. They tapped grooves for screws no one would use. The dull ache of the purposelessness of their labor shown on their faces. 20-1-16 didn’t see any of these things. Like everyone, he kept his eyes down and got to work.

Eight hours in and four broken swanky-swinging-hammers later and it was time for lunch. His lunch break was the last on the floor. All lunch breaks were limited to 10 minutes and all floor staff took their breaks separately. After all, how much time did one need to down their Wakey-Wakey-Eggs-And-Bakey-Pills? As his day grew closer to an end, he felt something amiss. He set down his Swanky-Swinging-Hammer and Tip-Top-Tapper. With his hands free it was the first chance to run his fingers along the day’s prize. He made his way to The-Definitely-Fun-Employee-Lounge. A dumpy little room with uncomfortable chairs and harsh lighting. His floor supervisor sat in the corner, but 20-1-16 took no notice as his eyes never left the floor. That familiar cold feeling seemed to fill his chest. He took the screw in his palm as the Handy-Dandy-Pill-Popper dispensed his daily ration of pills. He clutched the screw like an idol, but it gave him no comfort. I can’t go back, he thought. With his prize in hand, he had no reason to return to The-Happy-Corp-Really-Ok-Big-Box-Super-Smart-Supermarket. What should I do? I looked for years. I found it, now what? What if I never see Scooter again? His breathing was heavy as the Wakey-Wakey-Eggs-And-Bakey-Pills diffused in his system. His lunch break was almost over. He examined the screw again taking one last look. He put his earplugs in and threw away the screws. He didn’t notice when it missed the trash can and landed on the floor.

The new floor supervisor 20-15-15-12 grabbed 20-1-16’s wrist, hard. He knelt and picked up the screw from the floor. 20-15-15-12 wrenched down even harder. He began to smile. 20-15-15-12 dragged 20-1-16 farther into the The-Definitely-Fun-Employee-Lounge. The Supervisor ripped out 20-1-16’s earplugs. The sudden change in pressure sent a sharp ringing through his ears. 20-15-15-12 yelled to hear himself as his earplugs were still in. It was about halfway through the diatribe that the ringing subsided enough so that 20-1-16 could understand.

“Stealing company property is strictly prohibited! The company pays what the government deems a living wage. Is it not enough for you people?!” A few moments of silence went by 20-1-16 still shocked at what was happening. “Explain yourself, Screw-tapper?!”

“Umm... I bought that this morning…”

“What?!” 20-15-15-12’s earplugs were still in.

“I, I, I bought that this morning!”

“Lying and raising your voice to a supervisor?!”

“No! I…”

“Re-education! Some must learn harder than others!” 20-15-15-12 said as he reached out and grabbed 20-1-16’s wrist.

But 20-1-16 pulled away and said, “Please, I need to get back to work. My break is over.” All 20-1-16 could picture was 14-9-3-5’s blood-red eye.

“Insubordination now is it!” 20-15-15-12’s face grew red.

20-1-16 ran through the door of the employee lounge and ran down the steps to the factory floor. But 20-15-15-12 gave no chase. He walked slowly through the door giving 20-1-16 plenty of time to return. It didn’t matter who was punished as long as someone was punished. He walked over to the emergency shutoff button on the wall. He pressed it. The conveyor belt ceased and 20-1-16’s stomach sunk almost sending his lunch on the conveyor belt.

All the workers began to look around when 20-15-15-12 said, “Eye’s down you clowns.”

In unison, they all snapped their heads down at the now still conveyor belt. 20-15-15-12 trounced down the steps to the factory floor and said, “you,” and grabbed the first person he saw: a sallow-faced woman with a single gray streak in her hair. She was anywhere between the ages of 25 and 50. She didn’t fight. She simply did as she was told and walked behind 20-15-15-12. 20-1-16 was drenched in sweat afraid to move.

He heard them going up the steps. He shut his eyes and waited for it to be over. But when he did he saw 14-9-3-5’s face and the single uncontrollable tear rolling down his cheek.

“Stop!” The workers around 20-1-16 jumped in fright.

20-15-15-12 looked back and smiled. He whispered something into the woman’s ear and she went back and took her space on the conveyor belt. The supervisor gestured for 20-1-16 to approach. As he walked over a few workers caught a glance at the man with the patch-worked uniform. He stood out among the many new or holey uniforms on the factory floor. They climbed the stairs together, that big smile never leaving 20-15-15-12’s face. The supervisor pressed the button to start the conveyor belt. 20-1-16 choked back pre-vomit spit in his mouth as they headed into the hall towards The Fun Reeducation, Reassignment, and Never Wrong Human Resource Center.

20-15-15-12 walked with an impressive speed whipping around corners his eyes only looking up from the floor to see that 20-1-16 was following. Meanwhile, 20-1-16 tripped several times running blindly around corners, his eyes never leaving the floor not wanting to make things worse. The supervisor stopped suddenly and 20-1-16 bumped into him almost knocking him to the floor.

“Watch it!”

At that moment he felt the nail in his front pocket. Without the supervisor seeing, he slid the nail into his boot. Afterward, he nearly slammed into the supervisor again as they stood outside the large cherry wood doors marked The-Fun-Reeducation-and-Never-Wrong-Human-Resource-Center, “We solve the human problem.” Inside a man with a bright smile sat at his desk. His pristine white shirt glowed against the black marble lining the floors and walls of the small office. Everything on his desk was spotless and precisely placed. His desk plaque read: Mr. Richter, Evaluation. Behind him were two doors one depicting a man pushing a boulder uphill and the other depicting him being crushed by it.

“Well hi there, and what seems to be the problemo today?”

“This Screw-tapper stole and defaced company property, raised his voice to a superior, lied, and disobeyed a direct order.”

“Well alrighty, let’s just...”

20-1-16 interrupted, “I didn’t steal it I…”

Mr. Richter held up two fingers to silence 20-1-16 “Screw-tapper, lying will get you nowhere. Now I suggest you start to tell the truth before your pants catch on fire.” He let out a little snort and reached for a piece of paper to write down his joke. “Thank you, supervisor, you may go.”

“What!” the supervisor shouted, still having his earplugs in.

Mr. Richter began making shooing motions with his hand. The supervisor slapped the screw on the table and left. Mr. Richter picked up the screws from the table and placed them in the top desk drawer. He then wiped the table where the floor supervisor had touched it.

“These are serious offenses and require immediate action.”

“But I bought those. I am not lying.” His voice was thick with suppressed tears.

“Any receipt? Proof?”

“No, I didn’t think I needed one, talk to my friend 14-9-3-5, at the Supermart. He’ll tell you. Please don’t take me to reeducation.”

“Your what? Nevermind, we’ll look into it. In the meantime, you seem to suffer from excess spirit. Don’t worry we’ll fix you up in no time flat, ok. It may require a few sessions a day, but you’ll soon be right as rain.” The smile never left his face as he pushed a button on his desk. Behind the door of the man pushing the boulder uphill, two large men stepped out. Their name tags said simply, Counselors.

“Search him.”

Without another word, the two large men threw 20-1-16 against the wall. They ran their hands up and down his body.

“Take off your boots.” 20-1-16 shook his head no. The larger of the two slammed his face into the marble wall.

“Hey, don’t leave any stains,” said Mr. Richter.

They ripped off his boots and the nail dropped to the floor. The large men each looked

at the nail and then to 20-1-16. They both let go of 20-1-16 and knelt down to pick up the screw.

“Put your shoes on,” said the bigger counselor. 20-1-16 crawled across the floor feeling like a scared child and slipped on his boots.

“Here we found this,” said the smaller of the two men.

“Drop it in here with the other. Thieves need to learn, don’t you think?” said Mr. Richter as he opened the drawer. The two men acknowledged the command and took 20-1-16 under each arm picking him off the floor.

“Wait, wait, please wait, I have to go to the bathroom. Please, I can’t hold it any longer. I’m going to go all over the floor,” said 20-1-16

Mr. Richter upon hearing this winced and said, “Take him to the bathroom quickly.”

20-1-16 was now crossing his legs as the two men dragged him to the bathroom out of the office and down the hall. They threw 20-1-16 into the bathroom. A large poster hung on the wall opposite the stalls and urinals. A large man with two thumbs up stared into the stalls his gaze seemingly inescapable. The slogan underneath him read “I save a nickel. The boss saves a dime that’s why I don’t poop on company time.” 20-1-16 ran into the farthest stall from the door. When he sat down on the toilet a robotic voice said, “You have 120 seconds remaining.”

“90 seconds remaining.”

What am I going to do? he thought. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He had lost. He wiped his face. His coveralls were wet with tears and sweat.

“60 seconds. Are you having trouble pooping? Try evacu-bowel the number 1 ranked corporate laxative. Evacu-bowel, for when you gotta go right now.” 20-1-16 stood up and three squares of toilet paper dispensed from the wall beside him. He sat down again.

“120 seconds remaining”

He stood up.

“Excellent Job” three squares of toilet paper dispensed from the wall. He began to do squats on the toilet seat. Up and down he went receiving encouragement along the way.

“Wow! Fantastic! Wonderful! Great Job! Done already? You might want to check again!”

Soon a pile of toilet paper formed beside the toilet. He gathered it into his arms and shoved it into the toilet and flushed. But, it was so thin it was all sucked down the drain. He needed something thicker. He stripped off his coveralls and boots, leaving him in nothing but tidy whities. With the coveralls in the toilet, he flushed, again and again, filling the bowl. Soon, he didn’t need to hold down the handle and water poured forth. He slid under the stall doors sloshing through the toilet water to the first stall with just enough time to hide his legs. One of the large men came through the door.

“Hey let’s go. Oh what the fuck is this,” said the larger man as water splashed onto his pant leg. “Hey, get in here.”

“What? Oh,” said the other man. They both stomped over to the last stall seeing the boots peeking from under the stall where the water was gushing forth. 20-1-16 moved out the door and down the hall. The halls were filled with people, but all their eyes looked down. All were bent over, while he stood tall. He was invisible. He ran down the hallway to Human Resources. Bursting through the door, Mr. Richter was startled and reached for the button on his desk. But before he could 20-1-16 bounded over the desk and began touching everything.

“What are you doing?”

20-1-16 held up two fingers to silence Mr. Richter and said, “Quiet.” His coke bottle glasses magnified his already bulging and irritated eyes. He reached into the top drawer but the screws and nail were gone. “Where are they?!” Mr. Richter pointed to the trash bin on the other side of his desk taken aback by the force of the command. Wrapped in tissue on top of the trash were the screw and nail.

“You just threw them away!” He grabbed them from the trash and held them close to his chest before placing them in his underwear. 20-1-16 grabbed Mr. Richter and threw him to the ground. With the look of utter disgust, Mr. Richter reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of metal. With the flick of his wrist the-formal-reprimand-workplace-extendo-baton appeared in his hand. Mr. Richter began to swing violently at 20-1-16. Defending himself, 20-1-16 grabbed the name plaque off the desk and began to swing back. In the familiar hammering motion, he brought the name plaque down on Mr. Richer’s head breaking it in half. Made in the Nihil factory was stamped into the bottom of the name plaque. Mr. Richter clutched his head as his knees buckled and he was sent to the floor. 20-1-16 threw away the name plaque like it and every other piece of trash that came out of the Nihil Factory. 20-1-16 ran towards the door. As he approached, the door flung open. The two counselors stood in his way.

“Get him!” said Mr. Richter.

The two men picked him up and slammed him to the ground. 20-1-16 tried to wriggle free, but their grip was too strong.

“This little doggy needs to be put down,” said Mr. Richter, now standing over him. It was then Mr. Richter kicked 20-1-16 in the ribs. He did it again and again. 20-1-16’s breath was shallow and fast, escaping faster than he could fill his lungs. It only stopped when he vomited on the floor. The two white wakey-wakey-eggs and bakey pills standing out in stark relief against the green vomit.

“Take this filth down to Reassignment! Re-a-sign-ment, you got that?” The large men nodded. “I’m gonna make a little call over to the Supermart. Hurry up and get back in here and clean this up. It stinks in here.” He said holding his nose staring at the vomit.

The two men dragged his body across the room. They kicked open the door with the man being crushed by the boulder. A little set of stairs lead down toward a narrow hallway. At the end of the long narrow hallway was a door with a little porthole window. With each step, shock-waves of pain surged through 20-1-16’s body. The letters on the door spelled out Reassignment. Beside the door was a huge poster for the Happy-Corp-Employee-Management-Industrial-Compactor with detailed instructions on what to do.

Step One: Open the door.

Step Two: Throw the waste inside the compactor.

Step Three: Close the door.

“Auto-locks will engage and you will be unable to open it until the machine process is entirely finished. It’s just that easy. Open, Throw, Close and the problem is gone.”

In small letters beneath the instructions read: “Made in the Nihil Factory.” They tossed 20-1-16 inside the compactor and shut the door. Auto-locks clicked shut sealing the compactor door. The room was dark except for the single light shining through the porthole window on the door. 20-1-16 got to the door just in time to see the men walk up the stairs and out the door.

The floor was perforated with holes, sending shots of a dull iron smell into the air. The dark compactor was lined with metal panels. He felt his way around the compactor. He felt deep scratches carved by fingernails into the wall. He was about to pull back when his fingers settled on something familiar, a screw with two little marks above the groove. Here they were holding it together, their tiny faces. He ran his fingers up and down finding more. He began to laugh but stopped as it was too painful. The quiet room began to fill with sound, the whirring of gears. He tried the door pushing and pulling with all his strength. It didn’t move. He began punching the wall out of frustration. That’s it, he thought. It was then he noticed the slight give in the wall. The walls were soft, at least behind the metal panels.

He reached in his underpants and pulled out the nail. Using the edge of the nailhead he began unscrewing the wall panels. The ceiling lurched. Working more desperately, he loosened one then another and another. He worked his hands in between the metal panel and the foam insulation lining the wall of the compactor. He ripped and clawed at the foam. The ceiling descended inch by inch. He took the nail and began using it as a pick to tear out the foam. A sizeable pile now lay on the floor. Overhead an unscrewed screw tore off and flung itself into 20-1-16’s shoulder. The opening in the panel was just wide enough now to squeeze through. Screws flayed his flesh as blood offered the lubricant to squeeze through the tiny opening. The ceiling was upon him. The space he carved wasn’t big enough. The ceiling began to press him into the insulation crushing his chest. The screws he loosened broke and ricocheted around the room. The walls were pressing tighter and tighter. He was being flattened. He couldn’t breathe. The mere echo of grinding gears grew louder until it was all that was. The world was sound. The dull sound of metal against metal devouring everything in its wake like the gnashing of teeth. He passed out.

When he awoke he was still trapped in the wall. He pushed open the panel tumbling to the floor of the compactor. He tried the compactor door and it was open. He made it through. He was alive. The factory was silent. The halls were empty. He had beaten them. Now he would take it further. He needed to tell everyone that they could be beaten. But where to start? He settled on the Supermart. Scooter could help, he thought. He made his way down the halls toward Richter’s office. It was empty. A new plaque sat on his desk. He searched through the drawers and sure enough in the bottom right drawer were several changes of clothes including shoes. He donned a pristine white shirt and black pants. The shoes were loose but would suffice. He could get new ones at the store. Everything would be new there. Besides his bruised face he was the picture of management and had no problem getting out of the factory. He just maintained a stern and determined gait.

His body ached all over. It was midday when he arrived at the The-Happy-Corp-Really-Ok-Big-Box-Supersmart-Supermart. He was eager to get to work. The revolution was beginning and it was starting with him. Everyone would see him soon. He passed by a help wanted sign. If it was help they needed then help was what he would provide.

“Wait til Scooter gets a load of me,” he said aloud making his way to aisle 291. A fitting place for the new beginning.

“Help to aisle 291, Help to aisle 291, Thank you.”

20-1-16 waited until he heard the hum of the electric motor echoing from the Scooty-Mc-Zoomy-Go-Go Go-Cart. But something was missing. The steady drumming of the overburdened wheel. 20-1-16 stood up. Behind the wheel was a thin man with a crooked nose. His name tag said Box-Folder 6-1-11-5.

“Hi, sir. Are you ok?”

Sir, he thought and realized he had been mistaken for upper management. He then noticed blood seeping through his shirt.

“I’m fine. Where’s 14-9-3-5?”

“He was reassigned sir, somewhere nice I think.”

The air was gone from his lungs as 20-1-16 shook with rage. How could I have been so stupid? Of course, they would come here they mean to stop me before I have begun. But I can fix this.

“Ugh, I’m sorry sir anything else I can help you with sir?”

“Take me to the hammers. Now!” he said jumping into the passenger seat.

The box folder complied and drove to the next aisle over. 20-1-16 grabbed a hammer.

“Take me to where they make the announcements.”

The go-cart hummed along at a mediocre speed making its way slowly down the endless aisles “Go faster!” The Box-folder put the pedal to the floor. The box-folder stopped at register one. 20-1-16 stepped out of the go-cart hammer in hand. A crowd of forty to fifty people were gathered at the various registers buying this and that and other assortments of useless things.

Next to register one sat an enclosed booth. A red-haired woman sat slumped in front of the cordless-fun-times-max-volume-karaoke-grocery-microphone. 20-1-16 knocked on the door to the booth.

“Hello sir, may I help you?” said the hollow voice. Her name tag read 4-18-9-13 Announcer.

“Give me the microphone.”

She complied assuming from his arrogant tone and manner of dress that he was some type of management. She flicked on the microphone.

“Ahem, attention shoppers,” the sound of his voice echoing through the store was foreign and unfamiliar, but he kept speaking. “Please direct your attention to register one.” 20-1-16 hopped on top of the empty conveyor belt. “My name is Tap. I used to be 20-1-16, Screw-tapper at the Nihil Factory. Today they tried to kill me and failed. I was lucky. My friend was not. His name was Scooter. He used to be: 14-9-3-5 Box-Folder.”

The crowd of people began to pay more attention to the little man on register one. “Happy Corp killed him. We killed him. I killed him.” The store was quiet now except for the shuffling of managers working to correct this outburst. The crowd moved closer. “We mindlessly and fearfully live in their world. Consuming shit. Making shit. Generations of shit piled on top of shit piled on top of shit! It’s time to stop. It’s time to recognize your strength. It’s time to stand tall. This world is broken and we must fix it.” The crowd was all around him now. He held up the hammer above his head.

“Help me fix this broken world!” As he said this, he looked over the crowd. Their discontent little faces stared up at him. I have found you little ones. You were here all along. The crowd was still at first. But then a roll of toilet paper sailed through the air. 20-1-16 ducked out of the way. It was soon after that all manner of things were being heaved at 20-1-16. The crowd began to shout and spit at him. They spoke in a tone of unintelligible rage as they sent more and more things aimed at his head. He held up the mic and hammer to block the onslaught, but it wasn’t enough. A ninety-four pack of toothbrushes connected with his temple sending him to the floor. Once there, the crowd didn’t cease. They threw ever heavier objects at his body. People began to run to the aisles carrying heavier and heavier objects. The mad man had come down from the mountain and the people would hear no more. A Blendy-Blend-Margarita-Time-Blend-O-Max-Blender delivered the killing blow. Tap was dead, his body crushed under a mountain of shit.

The woman from the booth grabbed a new microphone from the drawer in the booth.

The hollow voice spoke thus “Clean up on register 1, Clean up on register 1, Thank you.”