All Stories, General Fiction, Humour

Our Smiley Face of Darkness by Irene Allison

typewriter

Walking Boss Cooper wanted to show me a cask of Amontillado she had stored deep in the bowels of Our Smiley Face of Darkness. An elevator located in the recently abandoned Human Resources Department is the only conveyance that sinks to the bowels, and it is said that every chamber “Down There” is a “two go in, one comes out” sort of place.

“Swell,” I said. “How ‘bout we do that at three? I’ve got nothing going then,” I added upon consulting a jumbo pad of sticky-notes in which I had spent two hours sketching likenesses of Fred Flintstone in slightly altered poses. The object there, if I ever get back to it, is a flipbook that shows Fred making an obscene gesture. I call it Yabba Dabba Screw You.

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