MAIN » ARTICLESThe Iain Rawson Experience, part 3
Dr Rog’s diaries: Day 4151 (Week 593), 6.42am.
I woke up, the garbage can that had become my dormitory was cold and metallic, but it was the first sleep that I had had in days. I climbed out from the mess of soiled undergarments, and Chinese takeaway foils, and took a look around my mangy apartment for the white-ish lab coat, which I had been given 5 years before. I found the jacket and before leaving the skip (which I refer to hence with as my apartment) I plucked the cardboard identity tag from the breast pocket. The tag was one of twelve, which Jameson had made in blind stupidity whilst browsing his April issue of ‘art attack’. I hopped from the skip, and jogged across the car park to the entrance chamber of the institute.
As I entered through reception, I pondered as to why there was a reception desk, when no receptionist had ever been employed. Also, it was peculiar how whenever I entered the lab, there was always a steaming mug of coffee and a warm bagel sitting on the side.
I swiped my ID Tag through the makeshift optical reader, which just happened to be the old broken microwave, and then entered the main lab block. In the background I heard a voice, my voice, in the background, a scream and then silence. A shrill mobile phone ring tone cut through the air, and out from underneath a pile of ‘dummies guide to cloning’ books, rolled Randy’s mobile.
Shock ensues, as the screams continue.
The ringing continued until I picked up the battered phone, and spoke into the mouthpiece…
“A hoi-hoi” I said.
Breathing, tapping in the background, and then silence.
Then, the ringing continues once again, the surprise almost causes me to throw the phone from my palm. I answer quickly this time, and Dave replies (in a high pitched squeal).
“Roggery, I’ve found something special, come to corridor F4G”
I threw the phone back at the pile of books, and took the scenic root to the delivery speed-lift. The elevator took 30 minutes to descend down the 12 floors. Whilst I have been told that it’s quicker to take the stairs – I have never had the energy, and it always seemed nice to treat the lift to my company.
I walked along the corridor, and in the background – the tapping once again. Every few minutes a scream, and some blasphemy.
Then, I turned the final corner to see both Randy and Dr Hendrix naked - with their hands reaching inside a vending machine attempting to steal the glorious tobacco products. Dave caught me in his eye and pulled out from the machine, blood emanating from his slightly swollen right arm.
“All right Rog” he called, “I’ve found this wicked fly cigarette machine, it looks like it’s been here a while – and there are loads of dents in it – like someone’s tried to rape it before. Come give us a hand getting some stuff outta it.”
He let out a stifled squeal, and then silence. Hendrix wasn’t dead, for he had known that this was going to happen. After all - the entire sequence of events up to this point are a repeated schedule that re-occurs every Monday. Everyone does it for poor Randy’s sanity – you see he has a repetitive memory disorder. Ever since the death of grounds man Kent in the big escape, he has been reliving the same week over and over again. It’s quite tragic really. We all play along because he is important to us, just his sanity is on the verge of becoming questionable, and without this – I fear he may fall off the edge.
Written by Rawson
I woke up, the garbage can that had become my dormitory was cold and metallic, but it was the first sleep that I had had in days. I climbed out from the mess of soiled undergarments, and Chinese takeaway foils, and took a look around my mangy apartment for the white-ish lab coat, which I had been given 5 years before. I found the jacket and before leaving the skip (which I refer to hence with as my apartment) I plucked the cardboard identity tag from the breast pocket. The tag was one of twelve, which Jameson had made in blind stupidity whilst browsing his April issue of ‘art attack’. I hopped from the skip, and jogged across the car park to the entrance chamber of the institute.
As I entered through reception, I pondered as to why there was a reception desk, when no receptionist had ever been employed. Also, it was peculiar how whenever I entered the lab, there was always a steaming mug of coffee and a warm bagel sitting on the side.
I swiped my ID Tag through the makeshift optical reader, which just happened to be the old broken microwave, and then entered the main lab block. In the background I heard a voice, my voice, in the background, a scream and then silence. A shrill mobile phone ring tone cut through the air, and out from underneath a pile of ‘dummies guide to cloning’ books, rolled Randy’s mobile.
Shock ensues, as the screams continue.
The ringing continued until I picked up the battered phone, and spoke into the mouthpiece…
“A hoi-hoi” I said.
Breathing, tapping in the background, and then silence.
Then, the ringing continues once again, the surprise almost causes me to throw the phone from my palm. I answer quickly this time, and Dave replies (in a high pitched squeal).
“Roggery, I’ve found something special, come to corridor F4G”
I threw the phone back at the pile of books, and took the scenic root to the delivery speed-lift. The elevator took 30 minutes to descend down the 12 floors. Whilst I have been told that it’s quicker to take the stairs – I have never had the energy, and it always seemed nice to treat the lift to my company.
I walked along the corridor, and in the background – the tapping once again. Every few minutes a scream, and some blasphemy.
Then, I turned the final corner to see both Randy and Dr Hendrix naked - with their hands reaching inside a vending machine attempting to steal the glorious tobacco products. Dave caught me in his eye and pulled out from the machine, blood emanating from his slightly swollen right arm.
“All right Rog” he called, “I’ve found this wicked fly cigarette machine, it looks like it’s been here a while – and there are loads of dents in it – like someone’s tried to rape it before. Come give us a hand getting some stuff outta it.”
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I walked over, grabbing a small bent piece of metal that looked perfect for the job. I was struck by an immense feeling of deja vu. It was almost like some other scientist who had the same idea had designed the tool for the sole purpose of stealing cigarettes. I proceeded to strike the brown beast, with blows from many an angle, but nothing. I got randy to lean the machine forward – despite the ‘avoid tipping’ warning label, so that we would be able to shake something out. Suddenly a single packet rolled out from the bottom of the machine, and randy let go to catch it. As machine fell, it wasn’t hard to imagine the pain that poor Hendrix felt as he was crushed under its mass. |
Written by Rawson