If you go down Quaker Road on Fridays, past power lines swaying over fried grass, you’ll reach the Pain Municipal Sewage Treatment Plant. The gatekeeper, his name is George. He plays drums and, if you make an offhand reference to marshmallow peeps while you’re being denied entry, he’ll inevitably open the gate no matter what.
Ostensibly, to let you turn around, or something.
Keep looking straight ahead. Yellow tinted sunglasses on. Take the fifth left into these parking lot rows, past septic tanks like Saudi oil terminals, bioactivity thriving at first opportunity to reintroduce tuberculosis into mainstream culture. Life finds a way. Incredible, isn’t? Keep driving.
All the industrial blocks eventually bleed into office parks. Dilapidated concrete dripped with horrorshow rebar stains, but still less of the Auschwitz industrial-fairgrounds influence. See those buildings over there? That’s where AIDS was invented. Started in Biolab Y Wing 2 as a coffee maker joke. Someone had written “nigger” on Mr. Coffee in one of those wedged carpenter’s Sharpies. Perhaps ultimately the problem was the Sharpie’s nature itself, which (freshly removed from a storeroom box) featured a perfectly straight nib which conformed to the glossy white contoured plastic surface of Mr. Coffee in a most intrinsically upsetting and grotesquely repulsive morpheme cartouche. The message conveyed not the typically-hyperbolic Sewage Treatment employee culture rowdiness, but represented an actualized linguistic-underworld threat towards the local black daycare advocacy groups. Things spiraled from there, clockwise in the northern hemisphere.
As you can probably imagine, it was really good coffee.
Here, stop here. Building 4A. We used to shoot up on the roof here, until Charlie fell off and into a dumpster full of rolling chairs, and then they had to wheel him out on a gurney. Now we shoot up in the bathrooms, but the one down at Hazmat South, so we can keep the chemical showers running to simulate heavenly diluvian waterfalls. The cleaning lady, she uses some kinda lemon shit.
Ok, here’s our guy. He doesn’t have a name. We call him Eight, or The Prisoner. I’m not sure he even works here, but he’s here every day now, and he has a badge. It looks real. Like, really real.
Hand him the bag. No, I won’t tell you what’s in it.
You need a microscope and a spectrometer for that.