Mystic Elevator
The spirit of adventure -or- One reclusive mother fucker
A man who does not trust his gut is no man at all. And YOU are a MAN! Despite the evident cowardice of not going to work based on a feeling, you still qualify as a man. Anatomicaly, anyway. It's better to be safe than sorry, or something like that. Besides, you have some sick time saved that you can use.
You reach for the phone and call off using your sick voice. It's a voice you've been practicing for more than ten years and you've got it pretty much down. You basically just speak a little quiet and breath heavy. Works damn near any time. If they question you, you just start talking about diarreah. The more disgusting you get the faster they hang up. You didn't have to talk poop to get out of work this time.
You sit at home and try to have a normal enough day playing video games, reading, and watching TV; but your mind keeps straying back to that weird feeling in your gut. You find yourself checking the news more and more frequently, but nothing happens. Perhaps you are being foolish?
Minutes turn to hours and morning turns to afternoon. At 5:00 you check the local news and see a report about the building you work in. They describe some sort of murder and an anchor woman is there live interviewing the chief of police. She asks him "what happened?" and he answers her vaguely, alluding to fatalaties. When asked how many were dead the chief said "We don't know yet."
Damn. How many people had to die for him to give that vague a response? What the hell happened?
As the field reporter signs off someone comes running at her from the entrance to the building. He runs at her inhumanly fast and shoves her out of the way coming instead for the camera man. You hear some scuffling and hear a muffled cry of terror from the camera man and an ear-splitting shreak from the reporter right into the microphone. The camera shakes violently and crashes to the ground, cries of terror all around. The camera hits the ground and the screen flashes static before going black.
The screen flashes back to the desk anchors who are slack jawed. The guy behind the desk say's "Dear God" but otherwise there is complete silence.
The woman composes herself and the camera goes to her and in a frail but professional tone she takes you to a commercial break. But there aren't any commercials for more than a minute.
You turn the television off and try to call your office but there is no answer. You call people you work with but find the same thing with everyone you dial, no answer.
Maybe you should drive out there and check on things? Or maybe not. Shit, that's why you called off in the first place isn't it? To avoid some sort of catastrophe at work?
A man who does not trust his gut is no man at all. And YOU are a MAN! Despite the evident cowardice of not going to work based on a feeling, you still qualify as a man. Anatomicaly, anyway. It's better to be safe than sorry, or something like that. Besides, you have some sick time saved that you can use.
You reach for the phone and call off using your sick voice. It's a voice you've been practicing for more than ten years and you've got it pretty much down. You basically just speak a little quiet and breath heavy. Works damn near any time. If they question you, you just start talking about diarreah. The more disgusting you get the faster they hang up. You didn't have to talk poop to get out of work this time.
You sit at home and try to have a normal enough day playing video games, reading, and watching TV; but your mind keeps straying back to that weird feeling in your gut. You find yourself checking the news more and more frequently, but nothing happens. Perhaps you are being foolish?
Minutes turn to hours and morning turns to afternoon. At 5:00 you check the local news and see a report about the building you work in. They describe some sort of murder and an anchor woman is there live interviewing the chief of police. She asks him "what happened?" and he answers her vaguely, alluding to fatalaties. When asked how many were dead the chief said "We don't know yet."
Damn. How many people had to die for him to give that vague a response? What the hell happened?
As the field reporter signs off someone comes running at her from the entrance to the building. He runs at her inhumanly fast and shoves her out of the way coming instead for the camera man. You hear some scuffling and hear a muffled cry of terror from the camera man and an ear-splitting shreak from the reporter right into the microphone. The camera shakes violently and crashes to the ground, cries of terror all around. The camera hits the ground and the screen flashes static before going black.
The screen flashes back to the desk anchors who are slack jawed. The guy behind the desk say's "Dear God" but otherwise there is complete silence.
The woman composes herself and the camera goes to her and in a frail but professional tone she takes you to a commercial break. But there aren't any commercials for more than a minute.
You turn the television off and try to call your office but there is no answer. You call people you work with but find the same thing with everyone you dial, no answer.
Maybe you should drive out there and check on things? Or maybe not. Shit, that's why you called off in the first place isn't it? To avoid some sort of catastrophe at work?