The Great 9 to 5 Escape.

1



'Who are these poor chaps, Verne?'

'Oh, another bunch of unlucky sods rounded up after their office went down over lunch.'

Verne and Dave watched with resigned sadness as the twenty odd 'fallen heroes' were led at brief-case point to a group of rundown desks in the darkest corner of the toughest office in the building.

'I don't know, Verne. That lunch has accounted for over half of us in this place.'

Dave shook his head slowly as the deflated newcomers were ordered behind their decrepit desks which promised a future strewn with nothing but misery.

'It feels all the more hopeless now after the bloody 'Goons' closed down 'Scott and Nathan' last week', said Dave, bile burning an acidic path into his throat at the memory of the horrific moment one of their precious escape tunnels was discovered and five of their number were thrown into the cooler for six months. The consensus in the office was that they wouldn't make it out - alive, anyway.

'Too right, Dave,' nodded Verne, his attention momentarily heightened at the sight of commotion in the corner as one of the 'newbies' made a break for the door. A nearby suited goon swung his brief-case in a sweeping arc, releasing it with frightening speed and accuracy, hitting the escapee on the base of the skull. The poor bloke went down hard and heavy, the other newbies cowered in the corner, retreating deeper into the gloom as the Goons raised their brief-cases to show they meant business.

'Poor bugger', exclaimed Verne. 'It'll be a month in the cooler for him with only the headache from hell to keep him company.'



The Goons left the brief-case bombarded soul where he had fallen. The Goon in charge, who wore a deep blue, tight pin-stripe suit that was two sizes too small for him, spoke to no-one in particular. His voice was slightly high as if enraged.

'Ven he avakes, take him down to the cooler. For now, leave him vhere he is as a varning to the rest of them.'

Dave nudged Verne.

'You'd think the idiot would've sorted that ridiculous lisp out by now, wouldn't you?'

'You vud, Verne, you vud', mocked Dave.

'Never mind Dave, old chum. The lads are busy finishing up on 'Kyle' as we speak'

'How long do you reckon?'

'Maybe two more days. Maurice 'the-mole' McCormack says he can almost smell the leather seats.'

'Good grief, Verne, that is close. It had better not all go wrong. I'm getting as 'door happy' as that poor bugger on the floor.'

'Quiet!' shouted their section supervisor. 'Zher will be silence in zhe office.'

He also had an unfortunate speech impediment.



2



Dave entered the photo-copy room and immediately did a double take.

‘Bloody hell’, he whispered hoarsely, closing the door quickly behind him.

‘Keep it tidy, for God’s sake. Do you want us to be incarcerated in this hell hole for all eternity?’

The copy room was as it should be apart from twists and tears of carpet tile, fluff, wire and earth radiating in an exploding circle from under the photo-copier by the window. Several staff who had been assigned specifically to the tunnel known as ‘Kyle’ were stood around the room involved in copy work for the office and covert operations for the escape committee. They had all froze as Dave spoke.

‘Come on’, he urged. ‘Get back to work and get this mess cleared up. How bloody obvious is it with all this crap coming from under there?’ He pointed to the detritus emanating from under the copier. Everyone came back to life and busied themselves, moving the copier to one side and sweeping the rubbish back into the hole that was the entrance to their promise of a brighter future.

‘Bleeding hell!’ A voice echoed up from the hole and a few seconds later Eric ‘the digger’ Davies emerged. ‘You’re supposed to bag the crap and throw it under the floor, not pile it on top of my ‘ed.’ And with a disgruntled scowl the burly Welshman disappeared back into the hole. The copier was placed back over the hole and as the rest of the mess was being bagged up, the door to the room swung wide open.

Panic seared a mask of horror across Dave’s blood drained face as his supervisor stood in the doorway, fists planted firmly onto his hips and the most evil of sneering grins spreading wide across his weasel like face.

Once more the room became still – the only movement and sound coming from the photo-copier as it churned out paper work.

Dave felt the heat of panic rise through his body, an icy chill across his face and the horrendous realisation that his bowels muscles were losing all strength. The stench of death invaded his nostrils and as his supervisor looked to the floor, seeing the mess; as Dave saw the final hope of escape slipping away forever before his eyes; as a deep Welsh voice started singing ‘My, my ,my, Delilah’ from the bowels of the earth, sealing beyond any doubt Dave’s life-long fate was to die in this hell on earth, he sped past the grinning Goon in the doorway, raced through the office, almost reached the door to freedom when a barrage of brief-cases hammered with seemingly relentless succession into his body.

As Dave lay on the floor, battered, bruised and broken, his last thought as he slipped from this life forever was that at least now he was finally free.

                   



3



Vernon sat at his desk staring unseeingly at the computer screen. Rage burned fiercely behind his hot red eyes. The murdering goons had taken out his best mate. He wasn’t going to let that go. He had reached the end, just like Dave. He hadn’t realised how easy and indeed, how unafraid he was now that he actually felt the dreaded ‘door happy’ sensation. He would take as many of those murdering swine with him as he could.

In his periphery vision he saw an approaching shadow. It stopped right by his shoulder. It was his supervisor; the one that had been responsible for Dave’s flight of madness.

He spoke in that high pitched whine that was peculiar to and obviously a job requirement of these idiots.

‘Wernon. I do not see you Vorking. Explain to me why you are sat in my time doing nothing.’’

‘Why’, said Vernon, still staring watery eyed at the computer, ‘do you say Wernon when you people are such bloody experts at saying the letter ‘V’? I mean, you just said ‘Vorking’ for God’s sake! What the hell is the matter with you?’

‘Have you lost leave of your senses? How dare you speak to me in this vay!’

‘Oh sod off you vanker.’