Janitor (1-shot)

This job fucking sucks.

Washing out all the robots is awful.  It’s like Mr. Afton designed these things to be as obtuse as possible. They’re hard to crack open, and it’s even harder to get into the inside. It’s like eating crab or lobster, except at least  you could brute force those things. Teeth, fingers, forks; whatever gets the shell open. Here, you have a handbook and a scooper that is god knows how many rooms away, in a room where they use it for god knows that. And when you get the shell off, imagine if you have another, softer shell on the inside that you have to get through too. You can’t get into the meat either, you’d get fired if you broke past the softshell.

Willy’s weird about that. I haven’t heard about anybody specifically who opened everything

Oh, about the handbook- we either memorize all the panels and buttons, or we stick to the book. I spent ten minutes a couple weeks ago  trying to figure out where Bonnie’s power button was, since I left mine at home. I was called in to prep her and Freddy for their Showbiz party later in the week.  You’d think it’s someplace on the tie, or the chest. No, it’s inside the handpuppet, right behind the eye socket on the inside of the face. It’s insane.

By the time I had finished up work on the two of them, Foxy had gone into another of his early morning “freak outs”, where he runs back and forth in the hall, screaming bloody murder. It’s sickening. I could hear his footsteps and his squawking for at least two hours before he went back to his stage to recharge for the evening.  After waiting it out I was able to go home, but it’s just too much, man.

Too much. That’s this job in a nutshell.  Last night was the final straw. I was supposed to prepare Circus Bobby for scooping. No questions asked, as usual. And as usual, I did the routine work. Wipe them down with cleaner fluid and a rag. Start pushing buttons. It wasn’t too bad since he was on a hook this time, couldn’t get off of it if he wanted to. I hit the tassel on Bobby’s party hat, then the button at the tip of his red nose. The upper half of his face and his chest peeled open, the tuxedo dangling over his ribcage. Then things got weird.

He talked. The guy before me was supposed to have shut him down before I went into work. He said “Can I go home, mister?”. It wasn’t Bobby’s normal voice. It was lighter, like a kid’s or something. I don’t know  Then the thing lifted up one of his arms, and tried to touch me.

“Who are you?” he asked. I kept backing away, and he started shuffling. Waking up, I guess. I saw a button on my right, and slammed it to get the conveyer belt moving. His legs were warming up now, and his shuffling got more spastic.

“I don’t want to be here. I wanna go home,” he says. “I wanna go home,” he keeps going on. I kicked him with my foot, and that seemed to quiet him. He was still thrashing when he was lifted out of my sight and towards the scooping room, but it was more subdued. Less violent.

I’m turning in my letter tomorrow. I think I’ll ask for the cash basket.