Interview

The sunlight burning through the shiny office windows made him wince. The whole room encased in glass, cooking him in his wool suit. He’d worn the suit to each interview because it was the only suit he seemed to own. He thought he had others but guessed he outgrew them. It was also difficult to remember how many interviews he’d been on recently, a mélange of torture that ended with many nos. He couldn’t even recall the name of this current company, only that other men and women sat beside him in a line, each wincing at the bright sun, no one smart enough to bring sunglasses indoors.

A briefcase leaned against his leg. He wondered what he had put inside, recalling a busy morning of downing a hot coffee that seared his tongue, and hopefully, including a resumé. On his feet, he wore penny loafers, an odd choice, since it made him present as conservative, even though he would never describe himself that way. A hint of sock peeked from where his pants cuffed, hot pink, the color of Pepto Bismol. His stomach churned, and he could use something to settle his queasiness.

He glanced at the sharp windows to check his hair, making sure it stayed in place. Tight curls, kept short, eyes that appeared scooped out from a lack of sleep, a mouth that showed not a smile nor a frown. Good looking, if one looked at him long enough, but he doubted most did. He was a passing ghost, rattling chains to be noticed, but still, he had not been hired, and he assumed his bank account was running low.

The men and women to his left and right all appeared inconsequential, as if their lifeblood had been sucked dry. The woman next to him was so pale she was almost see-through, purpling veins scattered across her body like lashings. She inhaled a deep breath but nothing came out, her lips trembling in despair. He assumed this interview was at the end of a long string of disappointments. One eye clocked him, blinked twice as if understanding their shared plight. Then a speaker overhead called a name and she rose, high heels clomping toward the exit door, until she was gone.

Since he had a moment to spare before he’d be called, he decided to locate an identifying marker that could clue him in on the company’s name. But since the room was all windows, it didn’t appear there was any. And the sun was too bright to see anything outside, as if the world beyond this office was too far away to locate. In his quest, he locked eyes with the man to his right. The man coughed a death rattle into his fist and then wiped his lips, tracing a fine line of spittle across his cheek. He was about to ask this man for some information, but thought twice. The man raised his bushy eyebrows, anticipating a conversation. Maybe he also wondered which company they were interviewing for, and if they could get to the bottom of this together? He didn’t know what made him sadder, if he were the only clueless one, or if everyone was incompetent.

He turned his thoughts to what he’d do when the interview was over. But this made him feel as if his soul had been carved out, since he wasn’t sure where he lived or who would be waiting for him when he returned home. A feeling of being shot ached in his guts, and he held onto his side, as if pressure might lighten the burden. He shook his head back and forth. The stress of these interviews must have really gotten to him, forcing his brain to momentarily forget everything he knew and held sacred. There were too many people and not enough jobs to fill these slots, and another stab of fear wormed its way inside as he wondered if he’d been living on the streets, evidenced as to why he only owned one suit. Had all this time without a job forced him into a life of squalor? He took a whiff of his armpit, but couldn’t smell anything. At least there wasn’t stink lines rising from his body. He just had to focus … focus …

“Cal Appleton,” the overhead speaker hissed, like it was disgusted with the name. He glimpsed to his left and right, but no one responded. “Cal Appleton,” the speaker said again, vibrating as it spat out the next contender.

“That must be me,” he said, rising on shaky legs. The men and the women in the room glared at his ascension, eager to be called next. “I’m Cal.”

As he said his name, he rotated it around his tongue, and it felt right, like he’d been uttering it his entire life. He took a step forward, raising his hand to block out the never-ending sun, his palm warm as it made contact. He picked up his briefcase and headed to the door, hearing muttering under the breaths of the men of women, who clearly weren’t rooting for his success.

Encased in glass at the end of the room, the door pulsed. He gripped the knob that was hot to the touch from the sun. But he managed to turn it and swung open the door, peering into an endless blackness that existed on the other side.

He stepped into the dark.

The new room lit up like a lantern upon entering, his eyes growing accustomed to the long hallway before this reprieve. Across from the entrance was a metal desk with a computer and various papers neatly stacked. A woman wearing an aqua blouse sat behind it in a swivel chair. She had blonde hair in the outdated style of a 1930’s starlet with a demi-wave. She blinked her unnatural green eyes, the color of an amphibian, and smiled lipstick red. Like a magnet, he was drawn to the seat across from her, sitting down and placing the briefcase on his lap. The room was plain white, no pictures hung. She tapped a red fingernail against the metal desk and his eyes circled back.

“I am Miss Flowers,” she said, her voice betraying her appearance. He expected it to be higher, friendlier, not to sound as if she’d been gargling glass.

“Cal Appleton,” he said, surprised at the sound of his own voice, which also had a gargled glass quality to it. Must be something in the air, he thought. The air in the room, which upon taking a deep breath was more oppressive than in the previous one. For this room had no windows and no access to the outside, or the sun. In this room, no one would hear him scream.

He held out his hand to shake and hers was smooth with a palm like frost. He shuddered at the touch. She recoiled her hand and shifted toward the computer, typing away.

“Impressive resumé,” she said, with a wink.

He didn’t know if she was being facetious, but was glad she had a copy, and he wouldn’t have to hunt for one in his briefcase. He coughed into his fist. “Thank you.”

One amphibian eye leered from the computer. “You are just what we require.”

He hoped she’d mention the company, but alas.

She continued typing. “Yes, I notice you have experience that would be very fitting. You have accomplished a lot.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Splendid. And I assume from this experience you can handle a gun?”

She swiveled over to a drawer and removed a Beretta 92 semi-automatic pistol. The frosty sensation from when he held her hand now crept down his back. He picked up the gun that formed into his hand. This was far from the first time he held one, that was certain. He assumed the job must be in some type of security.

“Looks quite nice on you,” she said, with another wink. “I’m giving you an address.” She picked up a pen and scribbled onto a Post-it. In a loopy handwriting, he saw she had written down a bank.

“You will rob this bank,” she said.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Come again?”

Her smile remained the same, nary a movement. “You will go up to the teller on the second to the right of the entrance. You will stick this gun in their face. You will tell them to place the money in a bag, or you will shoot off that face. Understand?”

His hand shook, nearly dropping the gun. “You want me to …?”

“It’s all an act you see. The teller is aware of your arrival. In fact, the whole bank will be made up of players, acting out a scene. The bullets in the gun are made of rubber. Overhead cameras will be monitoring. We want to see how you will behave in a high-pressure situation. Just like the cameras are observing you now.”

She tilted her head up to a camera that watched with its obsessive eye, its whir like fingernails scraping across his brain.

“You have a bead of sweat dangling at your left temple,” she said.

With the hand not holding the gun, he wiped it away.

“We were observing you in the waiting room, too.”

She picked up a rectangular device on the table that showed a monitor of the waiting room and the other applicants, nervously twisting in their seats.

“Not everyone is called,” she said, with a sad shake of her head. “So, consider yourself lucky. To not be called is to remain in purgatory … of the jobless.” She tipped back her head and gave a bark of a laugh, then reached into a drawer again and pulled out an ear bud.

“This is to remain in contact with us,” she said, handing it over. He placed it in his ear as it buzzed.

He swallowed, his saliva, like sand, stuck against his throat. “Why exactly was I considered for this position?”

“Let’s see how you pass this test first before we get into that.” She leaned over and stuck the Post-it on his chest. “You have the address and the gun, Mr. Appleton. Your future awaits.”

Commercial Savings & Loan was a tiny bank on the corner of a busy street. People swept by on the sidewalk with force, each of them appearing as if they had somewhere they had to be. One lady in a heavy coat knocked into him as she trundled past, yelling back to watch where he was going. The other passerby glared in disgrace, deciding he was nothing more than shit on their shoes. He gripped the gun in his pocket and made his way into the bank.

Opening the door, a security guard sat to his left, gnawing at a donut. Christmas music played from speakers in a never-ending loop. A few people milled about, playing their part. A lady cashing a check. A bank manager talking to another employee. A young guy with a small dog. He clocked the second teller on the right, a woman with big hair smacking her gum. He took a deep breath and stomped over.

“Can I help you?” she smacked, until she caught wind of the gun pointed at her nose.

“Put the money in the bag, or I’ll shoot your face off,” he said, repeating what Miss Flowers told him to say.

The teller nibbled on her lip, her face twitching in fear. A very good actress, he decided. Then she let out a scream so loud, his hand went up to cover his ears.

“Stop screaming,” he said, as he pointed the gun at her again. But she wouldn’t relent, the sound as loud as if she was giving birth. “Don’t force me to …”

An alarm ripped through the bank, roiling his guts. Overhead lights flashed red. The little dog started yapping, went for his ankles. He kicked the dog away. The young man scooped up the dog, cowering in the corner. The manager shook like he was seizing. The lady cashing the check wailed to the ceiling.

“Come on, come on,” he said, shaking the bag at the teller. “Put the money in it.”

The teller slinked back, pushing some buttons as a drawer opened. She began to peel off bills.

“Faster,” he said, his ears piercing from the alarm. How fast did to take for the cops to arrive? “Did you trip that alarm?”

She slowly shook her head.

His right ear buzzed, Miss Flowers’ guttural voice coming through.

“Behind you,” she said.

“What?”

“Who tripped the alarm, behind you.”

He spun around to the security guard holding up his own tiny pistol. Likely the first time this guard had ever been put in a tense situation. The man’s knees quaked.

“Sir, I’m gonna ask you to drop the gun,” the guard said, with a Southern accent.

“Shoot him,” Miss Flowers hissed.

“I can’t …”

“Rubber bullets,” she sang.

Out of one eye, he saw the teller had almost finished loading up the bag. He had come so far in this simulation; he didn’t want to back down now. So he fired the gun, capping the guard in the chest. The guard spun back, blood gushing from the wound. He wondered if it was ketchup. The guy wheezed on the floor leaking tears.

“Give me the bag,” Cal said, snapping at the teller. He reached through and swiped the money as she scowled. He contemplated shooting her for that, but he backed up aiming the gun at the entire bank until he was out of the doors.

He ran down a street as sirens wailed a few blocks away. Picking up his pace and charging all the way back to Miss Flowers, who greeted him with a “well done” as he entered, while she filed her long red nails. He closed the door behind him, breathing heavy, and fell into the chair across from her. She seemed more preoccupied with her nails. Since it was all a ruse, he told himself to calm down, that no one was actually shot.

“Hand over the bag,” she said. He did as he was told. She put down the nail filer to sift through the bag, taking out the money and fanning herself with it.

“How did that feel?” she asked, in mid-fan.

Exhilarating was the first word that came to mind. She repeated the word as if she could read his mind.

“Yes,” he said.

The corner of her mouth crept upwards into a smile. “I thought so.”

“The guard …?” he asked, needing the reassurance. “It looked like real blood.”

“Looked like being the key word. He’s having a salami sandwich at the diner across the street right now. Extra pickles. Do you still have the gun?”

He pulled it out from the inside of his suit pocket, still warm. “Yes.”

“Then it’s time for round two.”

She picked up a rectangular device that showed a woman with long black hair on the monitor. The woman was sitting on a sofa in what appeared to be her living room, replete with a fireplace, a mantle with framed photographs, and a TV with a bunny ear antenna.

“Who is that?”

Miss Flowers’ smile regulated back to a firm line. “Someone we need executed.”

Across his skin, ants crawled, sinking their tiny teeth into flesh.

“In a simulation?”

She didn’t answer that. “This woman, let’s call her X is a blight. X is devious, slithery like a snake, dangerous like a disease. She will infect.”

He tried to witness this description in the woman on the monitor. She had a non-descript face, forgettable after a second of looking away, her long hair the only real distinction.

“What did she do?”

Miss Flowers slammed down the device. “You need to go to X’s house and put the second bullet in her brain.”

He could hear the whirring of the cameras overhead. He didn’t want to show any hesitation, desperate to be rewarded.

Miss Flowers took out another Post-it and wrote down an address. She stuck it to his chest like she had before. The die cast.

“Keep in touch through your ear when it is done.”

“I …” he began, not knowing how else to respond.

Miss Flowers raised her voice. “Keep in touch through your ear when it is done!”

She swiveled around in her seat as a sign that she was done, returning to her computer and typing up a storm.

He crept out of the door, returning to the endless dark hallway before he plunged back outside, no chance of stopping this insanity.

The address on the Post-it took Cal to a cabin in the woods. Puffs of smoke spewing from the chimney meant someone was home. It was a rather sad dwelling, worn from years of weather damage, the surrounding woods encircling it in its arms. With the gun near his hand, he crept up to the door. As if anticipating his arrival, the door swung open a crack, enough for him to fit inside. The home smelled of the fire cooking and dust. The windows needing to be scraped clean, letting in a skewed light. On a withered couch sat X, her long black hair spooling down her cheeks all the way down to her lap. A blurry face turned toward him as the door slammed shut, causing him to tense.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, disappointed. Her voice also like she gargled glass. He tried to make out her features better but was at a loss.

“You know me?” he asked, one hand tucked in his pocket near the gun.

Her thin shoulders shrugged. “I don’t even know myself anymore.”

Although he couldn’t see it, he could tell she was crying.

“I can relate,” he said, wanting to comfort.

She threw up her hands and rose. “Can I get you water or something? I might have bourbon if I searched hard enough.”

He wasn’t thirsty. In fact, he hadn’t had a sip of anything since arriving at the waiting room.

“Make yourself at home,” she huffed. “You know where everything is.”

“Do I?”

He could feel her glare, even though he couldn’t see its intensity.

She walked over to a chest in front of the couch. Caressed it like a lover. Clenched her fists in pain.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said.

“Get what over with?”

“The inevitability of our paths.”

She must be on something, he surmised. A slur to her tone, words crawling through molasses.

“You were sent,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Yes.”

“So, do what you must.”

She tapped her temple, telling him where to land the bullet. He felt an immense love and protection for her, like they’d been entwined for some time, and this would be their final separation.

“It’s not real.”

“Everything that happens is real, in a sense.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“I know it is.”

She opened the trunk, the top facing out so he couldn’t tell what was inside.

“Do you want to see?”

He blinked, stepping closer to the trunk. A dark foreboding nipping at his toes. Whatever existed inside was not something to bring joy, only despair, rotten despair.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” she said. “But you already knew that. And you don’t care.”

Finally, he was close enough that he could peer over. Inside the trunk, a small child lay curled in a fetal position, covered with a baby’s blanket. At first, he thought the child was sleeping, but the child didn’t move, its face with a purpling sheen like pizza left out in the sun. He doubled back, nearly tripping over himself, holding in a flood of puke that longed to issue forth.

“Who is that?” he said, his voice shaking.

She clasped her hands together in prayer. “Please, please, it was an accident, a horrible accident.”

He wanted out of that house, away from the smoky smell as if everything inside was being cooked.

“Please,” she yelled, clinging onto him now, grabbing at his suit. “It was dark … And I stumbled … She was so tiny … I thought a raccoon … A beast … Not my …”

X began hyperventilating, heaving so hard he thought she’d cough up an organ.

“She is the beast,” Miss Flowers whispered in his ear. “Do it. You must.”

He gripped the gun in his suit pocket.

“Don’t listen to them!” X screamed, shaking his collar. Then she beat his chest with her fists. “You don’t have to do what they say.”

“I’ve been out of work for so long. I passed the first part of the interview. This is the second test.”

X hissed, “You will fail in the end.”

A spider danced down his spine. He broke away from her, reeling back, the cabin hazy and going in and out of focus. Like a wraith, X got on her knees and crawled his way.

“You are no better than me,” she said. “Do not ever pretend you are.”

His eye caught the chest, a peek of the child’s pale foot hanging out. “I haven’t killed.”

Her laughter cruel and fired like bullets. “If you tell yourself that …”

He whipped the gun out of the pocket, unable to hear her poison anymore. Now her laughter simmered to a sharp chuckle.

“I have nothing to live for,” she said. “I’m already dead.”

“These aren’t real bullets,” he said, even though he no longer believed it.

“If you tell yourself that …”

“Don’t listen to her,” Miss Flowers warned. “She is insidious, a parasite that will worm its way in.”

He grabbed X by the arm, and they entered into a deadly dance. She was so light, she barely existed in his arms. He ran the gun up her skin to her temple. She hushed, exhaled a breath laced with fear and scorn.

“You used to love me,” she whispered, a dark secret. “We had a love that made others jealous. Consumed with one another. You wanted to eat me up whole.”

“When was this?” he asked, nervous that Miss Flowers wouldn’t like any more questions.

“Just do it,” she said, her words biting now. “Pull the trigger. End my pain. I’ve been an ouroboros for too long, nibbling at my own tail.”

“When did I know you?” he asked, angrier, shaking her withered body.

In the midst of her blurry face, a smile was all he could see. “If you can’t remember, then you are not worthy of being told.”

She whipped her black hair back, revealing a pulsing temple. “Right there. You know how I like it.”

“Now,” Miss Flowers chirped. “Before she squirms away.”

He shut his eyes, his finger hovering over the trigger, until he squeezed. The sound like a truck backfiring, X’s face exploding on impact, painting him with her blood. He tasted it coppery on his tongue, its dripping metal. Her body slid out of his arms, a broken doll on the ground. He went over to the trunk and closed the cover, refusing to take one last look at the child. With blood masking his eyes, he made his way out of the cabin into the cold air that hit with a slap, his trigger finger still twitching.

“Mmmmm,” Miss Flowers purred like a cat. “Come back to me.”

When he returned, he had to pass through the waiting room covered in X’s blood. He couldn’t recall anyone else entering in this way when he was one of the waiting. No one seemed too shocked by his appearance, shades of jealousy flickered in their eyes. He was further along in the interview than any of them, and he was determined to get the job before they even had the chance.

Through the dark hallway leading to Miss Flowers, flickers of what just occurred passed through his brain. Even though he couldn’t see X’s face due to the blurriness, he was certain he knew her, or at least, had known her at some point in his life. Was she a lover, a wife? Or merely someone who he crossed paths with, along with her dead child. He tried to locate if he had any feelings from shooting her, but if he did once love her, he didn’t anymore. Maybe he was numb—from the bank robbery, from the horror in the cabin in the woods. Anyone would have a hard time acclimating after a tense situation like that.

Miss Flowers was all cartoonish smiles when he entered, clearly pleased from the result. She finished typing and greeted him with a blown kiss. He mocked catching “the kiss” in the air and the two of them laughed like old friends with a secret joke shared.

“Sit down,” she said, her voice less glassy than before. Did this mean he was making headway with the interview?

“I don’t want to get blood on the chair,” he said.

She shook her head. “Oh, it’s not blood. Wipes right off.”

She mimed wiping the air in a wax on, wax off formation, and continued her cartoon smile.

He stared at his twiddling thumbs. “What happened in that cabin …”

She cocked her head to the side. “Yes?”

“The child,” he said, his voice getting quiet. He wasn’t sure about how much more he should say.

“Yes, a travesty. A simulated travesty.”

“What is the simulation trying to accomplish?”

When he looked up, she lost the smile. She licked her teeth, revealing two fangs larger than the average person’s incisors. It was time for him to know, or at least, get further insight about the nature of this interview.

“Do you not remember?”

His body grew cold, then hot. “Remember what?”

She took out a nail file and began sharpening her red fingernails. “The bank robbery, the cabin … These were all real events.”

He felt a stab at his side like he’d been shot. “That I participated in?”

“Cal,” she said, thrusting down the nail file. “I think you know what I’m saying.”

“Yes, I do,” he replied, because he didn’t want her to think he wasn’t cut out for the position. “But you said earlier you’d go into further detail about why I’m—”

“Here for the interview,” she said, interrupting. “I told you. You fit what we’re looking for. A mold.”

“I’m a mold?”

“A magnificent mold,” she said, and he had to smile at that. She scribbled down another address on a Post-it, ripped it off, and stuck it to his chest. “This is the final part. If you pass this, let’s just say, you’re in.”

“In?”

She licked her teeth again, her tongue slippery as it flicked around.

“Trust me, you want to be in. In is better than out. Out is …” She whistled and mimed the downing of an airplane. “Not good at all.”

“What happens if I’m out?”

She held up her hand, making him shut up, but then acquiesced. “It’s a form of blacklisting. Once you’re out, you can’t ever get in again. Purgatory … of the jobless, like I mentioned before.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Oh yes, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” She threw up her hands. “But very few get in, it’s an exclusive and elusive list.”

He made a fist. “I’m getting this job.” And then, as if he realized he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t be sorry. We appreciate that tenacity, Mr. Appleton.” She batted her eyes. “In fact, we encourage it. Now, take care of what you need to do.”

He glanced at the Post-it with an address for a Motel 6.

He was in the bathroom of a Motel 6, peering out of the back window at the parking lot. He held open the window with one hand, while clutching the gun in the other. Any instance of movement outside caused him to flinch. The bathroom had seen better days, the smell of mold and grime overwhelming. The toilet ran, and the sink dripped, adding a rushing chorus to the scene. A blip of a siren pierced his heart. Then came a flood of police cars, zooming into the parking lot. They shouted his name. Onlookers blinked at the motel room, keeping a safe distance.

“Come out with your hands up,” ordered the lead officer, a red-headed man shaped like a massive tree. They must be after him because of the bank robbery and what occurred in the cabin. He left the bathroom, rushing over to the front window and peeking through the shades. They had surrounded him.

“Mr. Appleton,” the officer shouted through a bull horn. “If you don’t come out, we’re coming in.”

A line of officers all with semi-automatics waited at the door. The gun he had wouldn’t stand a chance.

“You are under arrest, Mr. Appleton, for the robbery of Commercial Savings & Loan and the murder of—”

He dashed back into the bathroom, having a better shot at squeezing out of the window and taking off in the woods behind the motel. Not much of a shot, but out of any other options. Taking a deep breath, he hoisted himself through the window, falling out on the pavement and doing an awkward roll as he fired a shot and clipped one of the officers. The guy cried out in anguish, and he saw blood leaking from the officer’s leg. They started firing, bullets whizzing by his nose.

“Fuck you, motherfuckers,” he yelled, as if that made any difference. He was shooting wildly as he ran for the thicket of a trees. For a second, it seemed like he would make it, but then a bullet clipped him in his stomach, blood leaking from his left side at an alarming rate. He went down hard, his face smashed against the pavement. He held onto his guts that threatened to dissociate from his body.

“Close your eyes,” he heard Miss Flowers whisper.

“Miss Flowers?” he said, as tears fell. “What’s happening?”

“Close your eyes, you beautiful soul. You wretched beast. I am here for you. I will get you through this. Close your eyes and think of the room. The room where we met. Where you interviewed. Think of it and you will transcend there. You will be in my arms, like a babe being born. I will let you suck at my teat. I will give you milk. I will restore you.”

“Have I passed?” he asked, so weak, a puddle.

“Yes, my child. You have passed. Now close your eyes to descend.”

His eyelids fluttered before clamping shut. The darkness revealed itself to be the hallway between the waiting area and Miss Flowers’ office, and then he was there, a babe in her arms just like she said, sucking from her breast, the milk tasting of blood, coppery and wrong, but he continued to suck, until he was all filled up.

He sucked every last drop from Miss Flowers’ until her breast resembled a deflated ball. He felt full in a way he never had before. Like life had been without meaning and now it all made sense. She caressed his cheeks and sang a siren’s song, her voice causing him to travel down a road. It was nighttime, no lights along this path, except for his eyes that lit with a beam. The road twisted and turned, and his legs cramped, as her song reached the crescendo. Just when it seemed his legs would engulf in flames, she appeared at the end of the road. With a twirl, she shed her skin, pooling around her pretty feet. Instead of guts and organs, a green scaly skin remained. She ripped off her mask and left it discarded in the dirt, arms spreading like archangel wings. She nestled him in her birth, like she had before, her face spherical and see through like the night, except for absorbing green eyes with flames for pupils. She opened her mouth revealing rows of never-ending teeth in the shape of pitchforks and began to feast. She gnawed off skin, his eyes, chewed on his ears, crunched down on the cartilage of his nose, licked her long nails clean, as his blood splattered across the night.

When he was digested, a fetus in her womb, he lay in her amniotic fluid and she told him his story. Cal Appleton, applicant number one billion, eight hundred thousand, sixty-two. Killed a guard in a bank robbery gone awry, his wife as well, after she murdered his child while on drugs, and another officer during a shoot-out at a motel. Before then, his actions through life wouldn’t have allowed him to descend. But afterwards, he sparked the interest of her boss, who she spoke of in a tone of reverence and fear. Would he be able to do what he did again, or had it been a fluke? And yet, still he slaughtered, all for greed, for a job. He had never truly worked before. Made his money through robbery and selling drugs, what got his wife addicted, but still not enough for Miss Flowers’ boss to care.

Only the extraordinarily special were given the chance to interview. Most do not pass. They break down while reliving their past traumas, but he came out of it thrilled. A true find. He would do well here. He asked where they were, but he already knew, and so she did not need to say it out loud.

“I was you,” she murmured. “And look at me now, what I’m capable of doing since I joined. You can bring souls in, too, to our paradise.”

The interior of her body started rumbling as acid collected around him, searing his flesh. He screamed but he no longer had a mouth, so his cries would never be heard. He swam through a tunnel until he was voided into a bowl of fire, her amphibian form rising before blowing one last kiss before cackling off into the night as a storm raged. She hopped across lightning bolts, vanishing into the swell.

The lid closed, now it was dark.

Even though he burned in agony and would for endless time, he’d arrived home, and for this he cried blazing tears.

He’d been hired.