Stan quietly turned in his gear and clocked out as the first rays of dawn filtered through the dusty windows of the security office. The screen door slammed abruptly as he left with the same squeaky harshness he'd grown accustomed too over his short tenure, triggering a soul sourced sigh of relief. The brick two-story structure with mesh covered windows where Stan patrolled served as a storage facility for unused bodily fluids like blood and sperm on the second level, with a small "quality control" lab on the first floor. Folks he never met arrived dutifully at the same hour in their Lincolns and BMW's, and departed long before Stan returned in the middle of the night. Located in an abandoned and mostly forgotten part of town, it was close to the one room apartment where Stan spent his free time, away from the stress and pressure of modern city life β just the way he liked it.
Not so long ago, Stan had been a rising star in a large manufacturing firm with a mortgage, wife, and second hand car, and filled with dreams and energy. But downsizing quickly dispatched his assets, and while his pregnant wife ran home to momma, Stan set out alone. Weeks of rejection eventually sapped his hopes, and found him slowly climbing the stairs to his second floor flat where beer, bologna, and bread awaited his palate and darkened windows and an overstuffed mattress promised rest to his aching torso. He snapped on the TV and adjusted the ruptured clothes hanger antenna until the snow disappeared and the news droned its boring sensationalism in black and gray. Sleep rapidly overwhelmed him as the city just beyond his neighborhood burst into renewed life.
Night fell too quickly, as it usually does, and all too soon Stan was shaving his stubble to the tune of a whistling teakettle. It was Saturday night, and after his shift was complete, he would have 48-hours to watch football, and spend some time at Rileys, his favorite pub located just across the street. Rileys was seldom empty when it was open, catering to the locals and vagrants with feigned interest, cool brews, and a closely monitored flat screen. Every night after midnight, Mr. Riley would throw a porn disc in the DVD to a packed house that would openly comment on the action or the lack therein. A sharp watch was maintained for local law enforcement that seldom came, and when they did, normally actively joined in on the commentaries while downing canned sodas.
All was going well on watch for Stan until about three in the morning when a subtle noise could be heard in one of the nitrogen storage rooms unlike those he was accustomed too. After fumbling with several different keys, he was able to make his way into the darkened room and flick on the light switch. Beneath the austere flicker of fluorescent bulbs he spied a huddled figure in the back corner with several small milky colored vials scattered haphazardly leading to an open storage door. Stan hurriedly pulled his sheathed tazer and raced towards the trembling figure.