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City Laborer

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I can't say I liked my job, really. "City laborer" is basically a cheap-ass title for "poor indentured asshole with no options and no future."

S'what you get for dropping out of high school.

I made a serious mistake a few weeks ago. I pissed off my boss, royally. See, he had told us something when drunk, something no one was supposed to know. Specially his wife, ya know?

Well, see, I might've snitched to his old lady because he was a total prick. I never figured the old wench would remember me from a Christmas party and drop my name during the divorce proceedings.

So I got a new work assignment down in the tunnels. It's the place we poor pricks call "The Deep" 'cause it was connected to the old nuke research facility under New York. You kiddies never heard of those? Well, city workers know shit most people have never heard of.

I was supposed to go down there and repair an electrical substation or some shit. Well, I got my tools, went to the manhole closest to The Deep entrance, and climbed into the shit-scented glory of my job.

The tunnels were nasty, man. Not many people went down here, see. I didn't even know there was a substation down there until I got handed the map of the area.

Got to the The Deep entrance, a big old military door that I had to slide some key card for to enter. I knew my boss was pissed right then. I was worried, I'll admit, but I ain't real smart.

So I went in the door, and got a bit more worried when the door shut behind me. But I figured, old military facility and stuff, whatever.

Well, I walked down the hall and everything, followed the map, passed some old rooms and stuff, flashlight playing over walls and doors. I passed another bulkhead.

That was when I realized my mistake, man. The bulkhead was part of a door, a huge door that closed behind me with startling finality.

The lights came on.

Then the men spoke to me:

"Welcome to The Deep Research Facility. Your name is Eddie Francis, correct?"

"I uh, my name is uh ... My name?"

"Disregard previous question. Jumpsuit labeled, ID confirmed."

They gassed me, those bastards gassed me, and all I could fucking think of was how Goddamned much I hated those fucking jumpsuits.

I don't remember a ton, man. I remember how much it hurt, man.

Then they put me in here with you, man! With you, of all people, and we're okay, aren't we buddy?

I mean, I gots me some new marks but those men, they ain't so bad. They say if I do good they'll send me somewhere special. It's a new job, and this time I won't piss my boss off.


Patient #211 took rather well to the modified mutagen that Mister Bush provided us during his presidency. Although the Koreans seemed to be a bit off on stability, we are getting closer.

Patient #211 confirms that lower intelligence people take the treatment better, but we still have work to do.

Patient expresses gratitude for letting him "room with Uncle Benny," though he is in his observation cell alone. It seems that despite avoiding the serious psychosis, patient #211 still suffers some mental disorders, specifically schizophrenia, with extreme complex hallucinations.

Patient is slotted to be euthanized tomorrow. City works will be compensated handsomely for the semi-successful subject.

As an aside sir, thank fucking God that New York is so full of stupid people; we have a beautifully ample test pool.


Written by: Alicon !!dTBWidjrteQ

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