Ready4Freddy(Fazland)

You are Mike Schmidt. And you've reached a rather low point in your life.

 

You drift out into a state of semi-unconciousness that could only be described as blissfully dull, the unbearably pleasant glimmer of the sun puncturing through the gaps left ajar in the blinds of your bedroom window. Your eyelids quiver open independently of oneanother, pupils shrinking as the wash of muddy colours settles in your blurred vision.

 

You were on the floor. Typical.

 

You fumble around on a bed of half-empty beer bottles blanketing the mouldy motel-quality carpeting, steadying yourself against your actual bed - almost planting your face into the repulsive duvets - and rising up to your feet with all the grace and finesse of a car crash victim. Even the bots were more stable than this.

 

Thank fuck they're gone; it's the small silver lining of the cloud that had smothered every aspect of your life.

 

What day was it even? Friday? Saturday? You think it's Saturday. But at this rate, every day is like Saturday for you - lying about nursing flat beer, watching incomprehensible Mexican soap operas on cable to dull your brain long enough to block out the reality you were in.

 

You can still remember the day Freddy Fazbear's was finally shut down for good. For all the grief and dismay that placed had caused you and many alike, the final nail in the coffin was an incredibly trivial incident of a contamination hazard that had been left unchecked in the kitchen. (Details were sketchy, but you always like to think that all those times the chicken was making a rucus finally bit it in the ass.)

 

It was a harrowing final night, granted; the animatronics were throwing everything they got in their last desperate attempt to nab you, dead or alive. Even Freddy had dropped all pretense of being the crafty sod you had known him for, electing to just bang and flail against your door nonstop all through the night until morning came and his day routine kicked in.

 

You made sure to give flip him the bird as he stared you down with that dopey, kid friendly grin of his on the way out.

You never knew eyes as dead as his could have shown so much hatred.

 

But now here you are, two years later. Your life had been a blur since then. One thing lead to another, a messy divorce causing a domino effect of losing your house, losing your new job and even being turned away by your own family.

 

Here you were, marinating in your own filth in a filthy, cramped apartment. The background noise of your irresponsible neighbours had become part of the ambience, the everpresent smell of something rotting under the floorboards as reminder that your landlord did shit to take care of the place. You had been jumping from job to job for the past couple of months, never being able to hold one down long enough to earn the pay needed to get yourself together.

 

You shamble listlessly into the humid living room - already starting to sweat under the accumulating heat that had been gathering since the AC unit broke down - making a beeline for the front door as you gawk at the nest of letters that had been slipped under your door. Too many. It must be afternoon. A quick glance at your clock confirmed this: 3:29 PM.

 

You made a quick sift through your mail. Bills. Bills. A questionnaire on the quality of the local bus company. (Average all around, really.) A flyer promoting a tacky-self defense course (MAN UP WITH THE MEGATON METHOD!!!!) Religious pamphlets. (Have you let yourself into the heart of another? There is still time!) Yadda yadda yadda.

 

Then you saw the words 'MIKE SCHMIDT'.

 

It was written in unbearably fancy cursive. The kind you were forced through as a kid and immeadiatly forgot about the moment you left school. A small brown stain had dried near the upper right corner - wait, it wasn't a stain. It was a logo, with something black inbetween two circles attached to a larger one. It was hard to tell.

 

You opened the letter.

 

No.

It fucking couldn't be.

 

It was the most fanciest, most kindly letter you had recieved in years, and yet its contents shocked you to the very core.

You refused to read the text just yet, glancing over the graphics that had been printed into paper - the familiar brown bear, oversized chicken and purple bunny flanking him on both sides. The robot pirate fox sneaking around in the background with an expression you swear meant "You poor fuck."

 

" DEAR _MICHAEL SCHMIDT_

WE FORMALLY INVITE YOU TO JOIN OUR CREW IN TIME FOR THE GRAND OPENING OF FREDDY FAZWORLD©

 

YOUR EXPERIENCE WITH FAZBEAR ENTERTAINMENT© AND FAZBEAR ENTERTAINMENT© SUBSIDIARIES IN THE PAST SHOULD ALLOW YOU TO BE MORE COMFORTABLE UNDER OUR EMPLOYMENT WITHIN THE PARK

 

AN OPEN NIGHT FOR ALL FUTURE EMPLOYEES WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR VISITATION ON JUNE 13th, 16th and 21st FROM 2:30PM-12AM. YOU WILL BE BRIEFED ON YOUR DUTIES AS A STAFF MEMBER OF FREDDY FAZWORLD© AND ALL DETAILS (I.E PAYMENT, DUTIES) WILL BE COVERED. FREE COFFEE AND BISCUITS WILL BE AVAILABLE

 

WE HOPE TO HEAR FROM YOU VERY SOON !!!!

-FAZBEAR ENTERTAINMENT©"

 

What you could now recognize as their logo was emblazoned at the very bottom of the letter.

 

You were at a loss for words.

 

You're too tired for this shit right now. Without a second thought, you plod over to your couch with an agonizing weakness in your legs, crashing onto the sofa and falling to sleep in an instant.

 

You'll deal with this later. You swear.