Thoughts on an experiment

In short, I was wondering if I should do a stream of consciousness experiment. For those who don't know, that's basically when you write down whatever comes to mind as fast as possible in a constant burst of energy.

I might do that, and it might get weird, so...see you soon?

Code Adam

The intercom buzzing interrupted his retail trance: "Code Adam."

Adam groaned. A Code Adam meant that one, his coworkers would be making fun of his name all day and, two, that someone had lost their brat in the store.

Again.

They were up to fifteen that week.

He dutifully put down the box of toys that people had been too lazy to put back and walked around, looking for any little kids that were either alone or pissing their pants. He hoped it wasn't the second one (for the fifth fucking time).

What kind of parents was it this time?

Adam took a peek up at the counter. Yep, overweight soccer mom with a fake Gucci ensemble, massive manicured nails and a voice like a belt sander to the ears. His favorite. Probably let her precious little Jeffrey or Tarquin or whatever name she thought sounded edgy or unique play while she yacked on her phone.

He cupped his ear, hoping to catch those magic words. "-I can't believe you didn't watch him better!"

Aha! There it was. Adam rolled his eyes outwardly but sort of snickered on the inside. These retail-hating assholes always blamed them, the retail monkeys, for not taking care of their precious little monsters.

"He's such a good boy!"

Or, his favorite, "Don't tell me how to parent my child!"

Then parent them, he always thought while he nodded and groveled for his pitiful job.

They all searched while attempting to keep up with shoppers who didn't give two fucks about anything else but getting checked out to shut their bleating spawn up. When told no one could leave the store for a bit, there was more than a few threats to call: the manager, corporate, the police, lawyers, whatever.

By the time he had circled around, Adam noticed the police actually were there.

His heart sank a little. That was the fifteenth kid that they hadn't been able to track down. Now he almost felt a little bad for the clawed soccer mom -- her tears seemed hysterical and genuine.

Adam sighed and went back to work. He was sure he'd get the gossip later, but noted the details: young toddler, blonde hair, green eyes and wearing a blue jumper with some obscure cartoon character on the front.

Fifteen kids in one damned week. How effective could the code be if it seemed to fail every damned time?

He tried to think and couple his love of crime shows: had there been any suspicious repeat customers in? Anyone that looked shady? Customers all sort of looked the same to him, except for the four hundred pound woman that had smuggled dolls in her cleavage; no one even attempted to stop her.

No one came to mind.

His trudge to the stock room felt heavier than normal. All that was left was those stupid, massive dolls that had grown in popularity. Adam heaved the box onto the trolley and rolled it out, attempting to avoid squishing any little monsters.

These things were so creepy. They never looked the same, either. First there was a bunch of blank-eyed little girls with their lips flapping around. Supposedly, they talked, but he avoided pressing the button like the plague.

Three girls in cute little outfits, some oddly ghetto looking dolls and a few little boy dolls. Adam had no idea why -- he couldn't imagine a fan of dolls wanting a dead-eyed looking ginger kid, a wide-eyed boy with some epic dreadlocks or some blonde kid that looked like he'd peed his overalls.

Oh well. Corporate knows best.

The Revolving Door

Kelly looked through at the hotel. The historic Patrick Henry, home to a million and one ghosts, as she was told.

The lump in her throat thickened. She rifled around in her messy purse and sucked down two more cough drops.

It wasn't the ghost stories she minded.

Somewhere in there was her boss.

When Kelly had started her job as a software engineer ten years ago, Mr. DeVille had seemed nice; sickeningly so. After a decade with him, Kelly had decided he was the closest thing to the anti-christ.

She'd been tempted to call up the crazies bashing the President as the almighty Damian and tell them to cast holy water on her pudgy little frog of a boss.

How many anxiety attacks was she up to now? Six hundred and twenty-four, Kelly sighed. The last one had been so bad that she'd honestly been amazed she still had a job. They'd been at another hotel, this one in Phoenix. Mr. DeVille had pulled her aside while she set up her aging laptop for a presentation and blasted her with phlegm as he screamed. Screamed for an entire hour before the group showed up to listen to her present their messy, overpriced pile of shit accounting software.

Halfway through, and she thought she was fine. Then she got a glimpse of him staring her down and burst into tears.

What was it about the software industry that made people act like machines?

The business group had stared blankly at her and shuffled out at Mr. DeVille's urging. He had insisted that she was suffering from the "lady issues" that come after a pregnancy. Never mind that she'd lost her third child. Never mind that her husband had walked out on her his hands thrown in the air at her "neurosis".

Women problems. Sure.

Kelly looked out on the road where it seemed like a perpetual game of Frogger for anyone who dared used the crosswalk. Everyone in a hurry, no time for humanity.

No time for her to eat some cancer sticks. She had to go and give her soul to the DeVille (she almost cracked a smile at the coincidental hilarity. Almost).

Maybe she would get lucky. Maybe some ghost would swallow him whole or trap him in a bedroom, like in The Shining. The thought of a rotting old lady coming after his sallow turkey neck did make her smile.

Oh well. Emotions off. Face blank.

Kelly turned and headed through the revolving door.

Her mind went blank with her face, and she found herself pushing a few times in a complete circle. Maybe if her inner child hadn't died a long time ago, it would have been fun. Now, it just felt hollow. With a sigh, she turned to her stop.

But, instead, she stopped dead in her tracks. The glass had to be playing tricks on her eyesight. Fuck, she did really need glasses -- the doctor hadn't just been trying to line his pockets.

The guests, the staff, every single one of them looked as though their face had melted. Their ribs had opened like butterfly wings escaping a cocoon and their hearts dragged behind them on the floor.

Kelly tried to make a sound, but it only came out a whimper, like when she tried to sleep but saw only the spittle flying out of her bosses face. The door was no longer turning.

The things inside had begun to look up at her. Some of their eyes had rolled down their cheeks. She gaped at them, they gaped back, as though a woman frozen in the revolving door was the weirdest thing about.

Then, she saw Mr. DeVille. Oh God, did she ever see him. 

He practically poured out of the reserved conference room like a gelatinous slug. Kelly was sure he was yelling, but all that came out was the sound of someone drowning beneath a bubbling ooze. His grotesque form slithered her way, waving the tiny limbs she supposed were arms.

When he got close enough, she saw his mouth open and screamed.

It was a gaping maw, not unlike a lamprey. Two pincers on either side of his mouth wildly jerked towards it, as though directing her on where she should jump. He only stopped his beeline for the door when a bag boy got in his path.

The bag boy was sallow, more of a skeletal corpse than a melted mutant. He looked up blankly as Mr. DeVille crammed him in his enormous mouth and swallowed him whole, screaming the entire time. His face was still visible against the translucent gut; he looked unaffected.

"Kelly," he garbled at her. "You fucking idiot, get your ass in here, now!" 

She looked at him and pressed back against the door. It wouldn't move.

She could see the veins in his face as he pressed it to the glass, trying to prod his comical appendage of an arm through to grab her.

Every rant, every curse, every scream he uttered spewed a sickening black ooze over the glass.

Oh, god, it was melting through! 

The dead face of the bag boy stared out at her and Kelly swore that he was mouthing, "Go."

With a wild shriek, she rammed into the door with all of her might. The revolving door spun her around several times until she practically collapsed outside. She glanced back for a brief moment, only in time to see Mr. DeVille flailing his arm around wildly and screaming loudly enough to shake the glass.

Kelly felt the world lift from her shoulders. She lit a cigarette, flipped him off, and hailed a taxi. The historic Patrick Henry could have him. The business group that would have to watch his mealymouthed presentation and how he didn't know how to work a basic projection screen on their own.

It didn't matter to her. She saw some of the horrors inside nod at her, some even smiling a bit.

For the first time in a decade, she smiled back.

The taxi driver was the most handsome slob she'd ever met.