The Lost Key (Fiction)

5am, them pair walked over 15000 steps today, their heels burning like mushrooms dropped in acid. It was the last walkabout, but the most gruesome; because night shifts aren’t easy anyway, but walking another 2000 steps, really dropped their jaws into exhaustion. Shane carried the bucket of symbolic plastic chains – these chains were approved by the company health and safety manager, who was undereducated, and over valued – but still wore the crown of authority on anything safety related. Only God knows why,  because the negative mantra, fighting “Fire with Fire,” didn’t apply to him – it actually was reality, put into practice, with bucket’s of diesel.

Mick was carrying the red metal lunchbox, containing the tags and locks needed, to get the job done. Typically he slung the key, back in the box after snapping a superficial red lock onto a piece of equipment. But for some reason – today – he did not. Both Shane and Mick walked to the last lockout on the list: the checklist print off serves as the bible of where the locks should be, and the random numbering system matches the tags; alot of administration, for a low yield safety harvest.

They sauntered towards the last place of their round – an electrical breaker room – named an “E House,” these rooms are normally unoccupied – and the cleanest place in the dusty environment – due to the top notch filtration fans. Shane tried to open the door, which has a key code on the handle; his dexterity much like a sloth, he failed to punch the right number. Mick behind him – looking – didn’t say anything, but nudged him over and entered the right code, the first time. The door beeped and Mick swung the door open, they both walked in, turned to the right and stopped all movement – like upright paraplegics – their innocent eyes, befell to a gruesome scene.

The safety manager standing in his full birthday suit; it was the first time Shane had laid his eyes on a tiny “Chode” and could not believe the sight: 5ft nothing, and 3ft wide, his naked body reminded Shane of the last bowl of jelly he ate, at his mother’s Sunday dinner. Mick dropped the lockbox in bemusement and wondered what the fuck was sticking out of his hairy arse. He had nipple chains attached to a earthing switch, and was holding a piece of scaffolding tube; in order to make a conductive loop; this hook up of metal chains and the open cabinet electrical door, only led Mick to think of one thing; utter madness and an attempt to stimulate his tiny sexual organs; maybe to enlarge the meat and veg; with voltage. Whatever the case, what was up his arse, was soon becoming apparent. A Gaelic football boot, with metal studs, was 6/8ths up his rectum, the laces dangling out, this was the reminisce of his last encounter as a “referee”, with another pissed of human player on the pitch; who laid in the boot – that player felt the wrath of his tiny sociopathic behaviour.

Mick – in utter confusion – stuck the keys to the lock into his pocket, and Shane let out a yelp of shock. Both of them turned and sprinted out of the room, went straight up to the locker room, changed clothes and went home, numb in the face. This was an ” out of norm scenario”. And not one they would want to remember; or write in their personal journals. What they seen had caused utter chaos in their frontal lobes, and still trying to recover. To this day, not putting a key in a box, is a bigger deal, than the desires of a possessed midget, “safety manager.”

Published by MJDWRITES

Thinker, fantasiser, reader, writer.

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