IntricacyMan and the spooky jazz lounge!
And now, yet more provocative adventures of IntricacyMan!
IntricacyMan found himself in the center dark room that smelled circular. The lights flickered on, revealing pods surrounding them.
“Who are you?” said IntricacyMan, sound muffled by the banana he was eating.
“He doesn’t know who we are, Clarence,” snidely said someone.
“How particularly rude of us,” said another.
“WE are the Custodians—”
“So I can throw this banana peel on the floor, right?” said IntricacyMan.
“—”
The Custodians frantically whispered.
“Custodians, not Janitor,” irritatedly said someone.
“I also have some trash that I need to pick up.” IntricacyMan threw his banana peel into one of the dark corners of the room and made a beeline for the nearest comfy sofa.
“That’s our comfy sofa,” urgently whispered one of the voices.
“What trash is he talking about? He doesn’t even live here,” said another.
A silence.
“Look, we are the Custodians of The Margaret Thatcher Evil.” The booming voice from before now seemed tired and older than before.
“I’m going on a two-week vacation after this,” it muttered.
“Not very good custodians. There’s banana peel over there and a soda can here. Someone could step on it,” said IntricacyMan.
Another silence.
“What soda can?”
IntricacyMan threw a soda can after the banana peel.
“WHERE ARE YOU GETTING THESE THINGS?”
IntricacyMan shrugged, threw a gum wrapper on the floor, and left out the back door.
Another silence.
“Did you forget to lock the back door, Clarence?”
“I—I might have.”