Paul is working late poised as he often is, atop a grimy foot stool when disaster strikes. 'Will the trials of an Ivy League janitor never end,' he muses as his hand swiped through cobwebs in search of floor soap. Then with the snap of a single failed screw the shelf he was searching shuddered and the cleaner he was looking for along with a number of other jugs come crashing down. Their fetid chemical contents douse poor Paul who barely had time to shield his eyes. Wiping the dribbling concoction from his forehead he curses and reaches down for the one he was after. When he does so he notices the age of some of the jugs which had spilled on him. On some the labels were nearly unreadable with mold. God only knows how long they had sat up there stewing. Bothered by a sudden tingling sensation over his wet skin, the janitor considered if he should open up the shower rooms and try to clean up.
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