Posted in Writings

The Warehouse – Convenient Incidents (2/84)

Fricker Drive
Unacknowledged and Ignored

The Warehouse

“Good morrow, mother!” Owen shouts as he tromps loudly down the rickety stairs into his living room, getting his spine nice and compressed so he can complain about his back pain when he gets home later. “I need to go to work now, have you packed my lunch yet?”

No answer; she must have left for her day job already. Owen forgives his mother for her solecism and walks over to the kitchen to find that nobody has packed his lunch for him this morning – he considers this to be wholly, gravely, and grossly unacceptable. Today, Owen will perform a hunger strike and tell his mother all about how starved and emaciated he feels when he gets home from his difficult manual labor warehouse job so she’s forced to endure another sleepless night spent worrying about the number one man in her life. That will set things right, yes, indubitably so. He slams the front door of his parents’ house, not giving the wooden slab a chance to hit him on the hairless ass on the way out like his father so jovially, so juvenilely jests when Owen goes off on one of his rants about how living in this dreadful house where everything is provided for him free of charge makes him feel trapped like a rat in a cage, hops into his car, and drives angrily down Fricker Drive.

The roadways are clear, saving Owen from being held up by the abysmal daily doings of the bumbling townsfolk. He pulls into his spot in the parking lot of the warehouse, the same spot he parks in every day, and kills the engine. Nobody else is here yet, as per usual. Owen is the first one to work every single day; he knows the sooner he gets there the sooner it will be over, especially when he gets there before his shift starts and extra especially when he gets there before the plant is even open. It’s actually a function of quantum mechanics, a hidden quirk embedded into the Universe which Owen single-handedly discovered himself. You see, when Owen works, his brain goes into overdrive mode and time speeds up around him – the more he loses himself in his daily duties, the less aware he is of his performing said duties, and therefore, time flows faster. You can check The Genius’s Handbook Volume 28 if you don’t believe me, it’s filled from cover to cardboard cover with Owen’s assertions on the subject.

By the time his manager shows up, it’s twenty minutes before opening and Owen’s already raked all the dead leaves which blew into the loading dock overnight. At the present moment, Owen is cleaning the windows of the office half of the building with the cleaner and paper towels he keeps in his car at all times.

Owen’s already exhausted boss puts him at ease and unlocks the warehouse door, allowing Owen to finally start working. The other employees start showing up about ten minutes before their shifts start like the unprofessional slobs they allow themselves to be. Owen doesn’t grant them so much as a moment of eye contact.

The first half of the day is spent humping barrels off of pallets and slinging chemicals like a drug dealer: one kilo after another. One time a few weeks back, a co-worker of Owen’s named Smitty P (who’s been working in the warehouse since before Owen was born) made the mistake of openly referring to kilos as keys as a joke – Owen proceeded to chew Smitty P out for six uninterrupted minutes. They sell fragrance products here, this firm is not a drug-smuggling business. Clearly the man has no respect for his job, nor for the company which provides him with it. In the words of Owen Johnson, “Why do you even bother working here?”

After reattaching his gnawed-off ear, Smitty P asked himself the very same thing.

The lunch hour comes. After waiting for everyone else to take their breaks before he takes his, Owen sits alone in the break room, the hum of the minifridge providing a perfect soundtrack for his hunger strike: monotonous and droning. Owen hates to take lunch breaks, he’d rather work straight through the day like a real man instead of taking a break in the middle of the action, a break which only serves to interrupt his flow, but the assistant manager won’t allow it. The assistant manager thinks he has actual pull here in Owen’s domain, and he relishes in giving Owen a hard time about everything he can, especially when Owen tries to tell him about the extraterrestrials. Humanity is not the lone higher species living on this planet, it never has been and it never will be, but nobody wants to listen when Owen brings it up. Nobody wants to believe the moon was pulled here from a different star system, nobody wants to hear the truth of the manipulated evolution of mankind, nobody wants to accept that Owen is so much smarter and superior to everyone else because he is the living incarnation of an actual extraterrestrial sent here to judge the human world, but that’s fine. Let them be ignorant, let them clamp their eyes shut to the brilliant light that is the truth. When Owen’s wretched, disgusting human form finally passes away and his pristine true form wakes on a spaceship and the other extraterrestrials – the only ones who could ever hope to understand Owen – ask him if Earth is worth saving, Owen shall tell them it is not. And the Earth shall be destroyed. And all shall finally be set right.

Owen’s lunchless lunch break comes to an end. He storms out of the break room, steam fuming out of his ears. ‘Let them mock me, let them ignore me. They shall all pay for it one day.’

None of Owen’s co-workers try to make conversation with him for the rest of the day, which is actually what he prefers, thank you very much. How is he supposed to consciously speed up the flow of time with all the idiots distracting him?! He’s not, that’s how, and they should break off their conversations when he walks past them. He’s very proud that his mere presence dissuades their lollygagging, that his aura stifles airflow like insulation shoved in a heating vent. They’re all just immature children anyway, and so they should act like it. Yes, very good. They’ll all be sorry, so very sorry one day. Every last one of them.


Hello Commons, this has been the second subchapter of the first story from Convenient Incidents, an anthology of fifteen interconnected short stories which revolve around a man by the name of Hilter Odolf Williamson.

Convenient Incidents is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Convenient Incidents is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Convenient Incidents and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Author:

I'm that guy who makes fiction books so he doesn't go insane.

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