Annnnnnnnnnd... we're back!
Chapter Six: Bolognese (1985)
It was a busy day at Freddy Fazbear's.
Crowds of children and their increasingly-weary parents spilled into the restaurant at noon and the numbers barely dwindled all the way through Milford's shift. This meant that he was working at overcapacity, running about as though he were wearing bars of soap strapped to his shoes.
At around 3pm, Bonnie broke down.
The animatronics faltering was no rare occurrence, but to have a full breakdown in the midst of a customer rush veered on disaster. Luckily, there was always a spare endoskeleton on hand, meaning it was simply a matter of swapping costumes.
Not that this was an easy or gratifying task, of course. The rabbit's purple stuffing seemed to permanently stink of grease and rot, even if there were no visible signs of decay.
On top of all this, Foxy's jaw broke again. This was a less visible malfunction, but still required patching between sets of the Fazbear band (or indeed, patrolling through the restaurant).
Milford couldn't help but find Foxy's broken jaw rather disconcerting. There was something very garish and nightmarish about the grinding gears and twisted metal frame. Not for the first time, Milford pictured losing a limb to the jagged teeth, practically visualising his hand inside the fox's mouth, spewing blood as it was broken apart.
In spite of this, Milford enjoyed working on Foxy more than any of the other animatronics. Certainly more than Chica - a wide-eyed, freakish caricature of the animal it supposedly represented.
Unfortunately, working in the back room meant that Milford crossed paths more than usual with Ramses, the head of janitorial.
There was no way of sugarcoating it. Ramses Potter was a borderline sociopath.
From the moment he had walked through Freddy's doors for his first shift, Milford had hated Ramses. Everyone working in the restaurant did. There were plenty of justifiable reasons for this.
His venomous arrogance, often embodied by his trademark shit-eating smirk.
His terrible and often hugely-offensive humour, often involving terrorising children with discarded animatronic parts.
And of course, that one time he had urinated into his janitorial water and then mopped the restaurant with his own piss.
It was an absolute disgrace that he had not been fired.
However, there was also a justifiable reason for this. His father was the CPO of Fazbear Entertainment. This made him the boss of everyone in the Pizzeria, and unfortunately for all, he loved his son and was blind to his infamy.
Today, Ramses was unusually quiet when Milford entered, carrying Foxy's head in his hands. Immediately, the oddness of this fact put Milford on edge, and he watched the janitor closely as he crossed the room.
"Milf," Ramses cawed, not even turning to look.
"Hey," Milford replied. "What are you doing?"
Ramses was tinkering with the lockers in the corner of the room. With his back to Milford, he looked inconspicuous enough, and any unknowing passerby would have simply assumed he was interacting with his locker.
But Milford knew better. He started to approach the lockers, trying to look over Ramses' shoulder.
That was when he heard the squeaks.
He saw them just a few seconds later. Three shaggy, coal-black rats, shining with grime as though they were fresh from a sewer pipe. Looking from the open locker in front of Ramses to the squeaking vermin in his hands, it wasn't hard to put two and two together.
"What the hell are you doing?" Milford growled.
"It's called 'having a laugh at another's expense'," Ramses chortled. "And it's very fun."
Milford grabbed the janitor by the shoulder so sharply that for a second, he came close to dropping his wriggling bundle.
"Well, fun's over," he said. "Take these things outside and get out of here."
A wildness rose to the surface of Ramses eyes. "Or what, milf? You'll get me fired?"
Milford smiled through gritted teeth as he resisted the temptation to pummel the boy in front of him. "If you're lucky. I was just going to take you out back and sit on your head."
Ramses stared daggers through Milford's skull before spitting hard into his face and shaking off his grip. "You don't scare me."
Milford stood deadly-still as the fresh saliva trickled down his nose. Slowly, his fists started to curl by his sides until finger met palm and his nails dug lightly into his skin. He could imagine the fist ramming forwards, breaking the bridge of Ramsay's nose and spraying his blood. He saw it so vividly in his mind that for a few moments he wondered if it had actually happened.
But then, James threw open the door, and the moment passed.
"Barnes, I-" The manager of Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria stopped in his tracks, his tongue twisting like a piece of pasta as he saw the rats in Ramses' arms.
Was this it? Was the world's worst employee about to get the firing he deserved?
But then, the moment passed, and what Milford had presumed for great discomfort morphed into a forced smile on James' face.
"Ramses, please..." he said. "Take those back outside."
Ramses beamed like an angelic little schoolboy. "Of course, boss."
As he passed Milford he made an effort to slam into his shoulder, but knowing Ramses so unfortunately-well, Milford stepped back long in advance, rendering the gesture meaningless.
James' gaze followed the janitor until he had disappeared through the side door, before pivoting back to Milford.
"Barnes, the next show is in twenty minutes and people have complained about Chica's joints squeaking. Get on it."
And with that, he left, leaving Milford standing around aimlessly trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.
As the rest of the day creaked past, the weather took a turn for the better, with the sun peeking out from under its blanket of clouds.
Milford met with Joe for their lunch break in the nearby park. Previously, the short-staffing of the restaurant meant that no employee could stray too far from it at any point during the day, but thanks to the interventions of newly-rebranded Fazbear Entertainment, finding labour was no longer a difficult task.
Despite the smile on his face that indicated otherwise, Milford could sense that not all was well with his buddy.
"What's up?" Joe greeted, as Milford sat next to him on the bench.
"I could ask you the same question," Milford replied. "What's wrong, pal?"
Joe broke eye contact with Milford, his gaze dropping to the interesting scenery of the pavement below.
"It's my ex... She's trying to get custody of Jonathan..."
Milford felt as though his gut had been jabbed with a finger. "Oh, dude... I'm sorry..."
"S'ok," Joe said, smiling again. "She has a 'friend' in the court. They're trying to paint me as an unfit father...and succeeding."
"Let me help you fight this," Milford pleaded. "I've never met a more capable father than you. Let me testify."
"It's not going to make a difference at this stage," Joe insisted. "God, I can't stand it. The only thing in the world that matters to me now is that boy, and it's spinning out of my control."
Milford frowned as his friend's fist curled inwards like a frightened hedgehog, but practically the second that the notion of violence crossed his mind it vanished like a puff of air.
"Well, sorry to put a downer on things, pal," Joe sighed, standing up so abruptly the wooden bench creaked from the change in pressure.
"Don't be," Milford replied. "Whenever you need an ear to cuss or yell at, I'm your man."
Joe smiled appreciatively, before rolling up his sandwich bag and tossing it through the open slit of the nearby bin.
"Back to paradise," he grimaced.
Paradise was the antithesis of what transpired that afternoon.
The balloon-dispensing machine started to make a churning sound like a bad case of indigestion around 3pm. Prising the disgustingly-cheerful, almost-ghoulish smiling face open to fix the problem was enough to bring back memories of when he had designed the bloody thing, sketching out awful caricatures of demons past and present until his sculpture had come oddly-close to resembling his beloved boss, James.
"Would you like a red or a blue one?" the headless torso giggled churlishly, its voice warping beyond creepiness without the top of its cranium.
"Gotta feel sorry for the night shift with you skulking about," Milford heaved under his breath.
More so than perhaps any of the other animatronics, Balloon Boy had nightmarish round white eyes that followed your every move. Milford couldn't imagine a family sitting on an adjacent table getting too comfortable with this thing perched nearby, watching closely and with eerie intent.
"What was wrong with a squid?" Milford mumbled, recalling his original design. "Squids are friendly!"
Finally removing the debris from inside the animatronic, Milford withdrew his oily-black limb and snapped the Balloon Boy's head back into place. As if in response to Milford's success, the frightful child let loose with a disconcerting giggle, promoting a wave of shivers to run down the engineer's spine.
Turning, Milford came face-to-face with a dirty white rag that was quickly thrust over his eyes and nose. A sickly, pungent stench of chemical product wafted into Milford's nostrils, and he fell back gagging.
"Sorry," Ramses laughed. "Didn't see ya there, Milf."
"You son of a bitch!" Milford spluttered, still disorientated by the fumes. His eyes stung sharply from the exposure, tears surging from his pupils.
"I'll be more careful next time," Ramses sniggered, pushing his trolley away and out of reach of Milford's bunched fist.
"Bastard," Milford cussed, only just remembering to keep his voice at a hush as a disgruntled father with two daughters passed him and glared.
Quickly, he retreated to the bathroom, proceeding to splash torrents of cleansing water across his reddened face and eyes. He could feel the rage boiling inside of him - he was like a kettle, steam erupting from his spout and warping the shape of his porcelain body.
"Little shit," he whispered to himself, picturing Ramses' detestable grin before becoming awfully-aware of a small presence next to him.
Practically wincing at the thought, Milford turned and saw a little boy, no older than five years old, staring at him with a puzzled expression, the soapy bubbles on his outstretched hands going unwashed by the water from the tap.
It was of course, in that moment, that he realised he had wandered into the public bathrooms.
"Hi," Milford greeted, aware of his own gawkiness as he spoke. "Just ignore the trash-talking man. I'm on my way out."
The boy continued to stare blankly, so Milford started to retreat. That is, until the boy suddenly spoke.
"Are you a friend of Freddy's?"
Milford froze, trying to recall the 'corporate' answer to such a customer question.
"Yes," he said, cautious not to say anything that might provoke unhappiness. "Freddy and I are good friends."
The boy smiled slightly. "He's my favourite, but I don't like his friends. Bonnie scares me."
Milford pictured the purple peril, eyes cold and lifeless, mouth like a Muppet gone horribly wrong - it was hard to disagree with the boy.
"Me neither," he admitted.
The boy's face visibly lit up. "Finally! Somebody agrees with me."
Milford chuckled. "What's your name?"
"Matt," the boy replied.
"Well, Matt, I hope you have a good day here at Freddy Fazbears."
The boy grinned toothily. "I sure am!"
After that, he quickly trotted along, wiping his soapy fingers down his trousers as young boys tended to do. Milford examined himself in the mirror again, noticing the redness of his eyes, and wondering whether his appearance had initially startled the boy.
"Little shit," he repeated to himself, once again picturing the hateful janitor.
He'd made an enemy today. An enemy with connections. That could never bode well.
Matt exited the bathroom, still rubbing his hands across his jeans as he searched for his parents' table.
On-stage, Freddy was performing the Fazbear theme-song, a catchy yet somewhat repetitive and irritating ode. Microphone in hand, the bears mouth moved as though it were singing each lyric itself, even though any discerning ear could tell the background tune was a recording.
Matt spied his parents and younger sister across the room, and started to make toward them. However, all of a sudden a figure moved in front of him.
Matt looked up at the golden bear that stood in front of him, face frozen in an eternal goofy grin.
"Hey there, buddy," the Golden Freddy called. "I heard it was your birthday today!"
Matt shook his head firmly. "Nope."
Golden Freddy tilted its head in mock surprise. "Oh. There must be a mistake. I've got a big birthday cake with your name on it. What should I do now?"
Matt giggled mischievously. "Well, maybe I could help you eat it, Freddy!"
Golden Freddy threw up his paws in glee. "You'd really do that? Oh, thank you! Come with me, I'll show you the cake!"
Matt beamed as he followed Golden Freddy through the restaurant, imagining the size and taste of the treat he was about to receive.
Golden Freddy opened the door to a backroom that Matt had seen several employees go in and out of. Inside were several discarded animatronic costumes, mostly disembodied heads, which left Matt feeling greatly-uncomfortable.
"I don't like this room," Matt announced, looking around for his parents again.
"Just a little further, buddy," Golden Freddy sang, gesturing to a door which could only have been a supply closet.
Matt followed Golden Freddy through the door, for his gluttony was stronger than his fear. Inside, he quickly realised that there was no cake visible. The room was dark and frightening, and he saw the movement of rodents out of the corner of his eye.
"I wanna go back," Matt protested, trying to pull away from the bear. But Golden Freddy took his arm firmly, tugging him fully into the room, before closing the door on the pair.
"What's going on?" Matt whimpered, isolated by the walls of sheer black that comprised his every direction.
"I'm going to show you a secret," Golden Freddy whispered, his voice closer than before. "You have to promise not to tell anyone."
"I don't like this anymore," Matt cried. "I want to l-"
But he never completed his sentence, for it was at that moment that a large carving knive was thrust forcefully through his chest and into his heart.
There was barely even a sound.
Golden Freddy caught the boy as he fell, crimson red staining his yellow fur.
"Now, we can't leave you just lying around, can we?" he asked, still speaking in his klutzy cartoon-like voice.
"Time to find you a bag."
TO BE CONTINUED...