Chapter Eleven: Limoncello (1985/7)
Every paper ran the same story that morning, each with similarly-catchy and exciting headline captions accompanying them.
In the Local Lad, it was 'PIZZA TERROR PUT TO REST.' In News Nation it read 'FAZBEAR'S FRIGHT: CHILD MURDERED CAPTURED.'
Even the more satirical side of the media was chipping in, with the Blues from News running the headline 'WOULD YOU LIKE EXTRA STAB WITH THAT?', accompanied by a caricature of an overweight Fazbear employee leaning over a child dressed as the titular character, with a Cheshire grin stretched well beyond sensible proportions.
Murder (and especially serial killing) was not a clean subject for national news, but most outlets had suitably dirty hands already. It was just another story - hot for a few days (maybe even a week if British politicians decided to take their job seriously for a bit) but sizzling out before long.
Or, at least it was to most.
For Fazbear Entertainment, and its proprietor Henry Fazwick, it was a giant headache - truly a migraine of publicity-destroying proportion - and it was not going away anytime soon. The custom, on the other hand, vanished like a rabbit in a top hat at the blink of an eye. Soon, frantic and panicked meetings were called. A multi-million dollar franchise was about to fall to ashes - there wasn't a dry brow in the house.
Henry Fazwick was, predictably, the most stirred of the lot. He'd been sitting on a veritable throne of profits with the Faz franchise, but now, like the cold stone walls and floors of the safe room, their beloved mascot was drenched in blood that would never fully wash out.
"We have to downsize," he insisted, pausing only briefly to speak before return to pacing the boardroom. "Rebuild. Rebrand. Reinvent."
"Tear down the whole legacy?" a flustered suit asked. "Is that wise?"
Fazwick rounded on him. "We're sitting on broken foundations, Phil! If we don't cut out the rot, the whole thing will collapse! The Fazbear name is mud - it's just baggage now, and if we don't leave it behind, we'll never be able to move forward."
"Henry, we won't be able to just sweep all of this under the rug."
Fazwick looked around, identifying the skeptical voice coming from the opposite end of the ebony desk. The balding board member to which it belonged sat forward as he became the centre of attention in the room.
"People aren't stupid. Some lucky snot-nosed journo's going to catch wind and then we'll be back at square one."
Fazwick, listening to the man with only one ear open, twitched at the tones of his words. Face reddening, he opened his mouth to slay the dissenter, but was cut off immediately by another.
"He's right you know."
Every suit in the room turned their chairs, startled at the voice which had dared to interrupt their boss. It belonged to a man in a deep, dark red suit and black tie, who had arrived moments ago and now stood in the open doorway of the room, casting a long, slanted shadow across the carpet.
He walked briskly across the room, manicured hands free of any suitcase or paperwork which would signify his membership of the board. Each stride was a heavy, sonorous thud as his shiny-black boots struck the floor, each movement a powerful, confident and controlled one.
The man was not a part of the company, but he might as well have owned it.
Finally, Fazwick broke the silence with a confused, and clearly-agitated "Who are you?"
The man smiled with both his teeth and his eyes, glimmering like the models from the old adverts who looked like they'd been handcrafted by God and sent down to Earth to teach us meaning of charisma. His hands, fingers stretched apart, clamped together as he stepped forward to stand beside Fazwick, beaming all-the-while.
At last, he spoke again. "My name is Mark Marvell, and I'm here today to save your company."
(-)
- Two Years Later -
Milford Barnes sat at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee gently sifting away at one side, and a congregation of assorted ballpoint pens across the other.
As he sat, nearly-motionless, humming a song that had lodged itself in his earhole on the drive in that morning, he found his gaze drifting towards the door of the office.
His door. His office.
He read the words which were emblazoned upon it. Backwards though they may be from his perspective, he had read those words so many times it was simply a matter of stimulating his memory.
Milford Barnes - Correspondent
Correspondent was a big word. A word with weight; ramifications. When he had first seen it in that fateful ad nearly two years prior he had found instant gratification from the way it sounded. Simply whispering it to himself whilst lying awake late at night filled him with a sense of self-importance.
Not that he'd done anything of importance in his two years in the job. Forever on the cusp of his killer story, drifting between wars and bombings and breakthrough dog hair therapies, he found himself stuck in his office on most days, sitting idly amongst stacks of disordered paperwork. Balls of screwed up paper with scribbled titles like 'Why Your Boss is Screwing You Over' and 'The Meaning Behind the Poodle Wax' were accumulated around the bottom (and outsides) of his bin.
It was a still life. Perhaps a little too still.
The door opened, bringing Milford out of his trance. The balding head of Max Fairbank popped through like a little gopher.
"Milford, can we speak in my office please?" he asked, but with a tone that told Milford he had very little say in the matter.
Milford nodded a bit too keenly, standing up quickly and following Fairbank into the crimson-carpeted corridor.
The pair walked to Fairbank's office, Milford nearly tripping up on a poorly-placed bonsai tree. Just as he reached the door, hand hesitating in front of the knob, Fairbank stopped to look at Milford.
"Were you the first one in the toilets this morning?" he asked suddenly, brow slightly creased.
Milford frowned. "No, I... I don't think so."
Fairbank looked at him for a few more seconds, before whatever thought he had been having drifted and he shook it away with the palm of his hand.
"Never mind. Let's go inside."
Milford, relieved to have moved quickly on from the strange conversation interval, nodded, and the two entered the office.
It was not a particularly or spacious large room, but it still held its own thanks to dozens of framed newspaper clippings and a giant shaggy moose head that overlooked the room like one of Big Brother's telescreens.
"Sit," Fairbank said, gesturing to a slightly-too tall chair that was positioned on the opposite side of the desk from which the moose was placed.
"Thanks," Milford said, flopping down on the chair and slipping down into its leathery sinkhole.
Fairbank sat opposite, taking the time to adjust the papers on his desk before his eyes settled on Milford, and he again moved to speak.
"I have an opportunity for you, Barnes. The story of your career. Are you interested?"
Milford's face immediately rose by several shades. He leant forward instinctively, hands pressed hard onto the surface of the table.
"I'm listening," Milford replied, smiling.
It was perhaps the understatement of the year.
But then the look on Fairbank's face changed, and what he said next was enough to wipe the smile off Milford's face and into oblivion.
"Barnes, they're re-opening that Fazbear place. Y'know, where you used to work; where those kids got killed. Under new management, so I hear. Updated all of those old robots. Cost millions, or so I hear. I think there's a great story here. Maybe you can help be responsible for bringing another scandal their way."
Milford's expelling breath caught in his throat. Before his eyes, the demonic smile of Freddy Fazbear - the fuel of his nightmares - flashed big and white like a firecracker.
Being crammed inside that springlock suit, with his arms pinned to his side, blood slowly trickling down his brow from the cut in his forehead.
Hearing those little kids scream when Joe had stabbed them, a crooked smile slowly spreading across Golden Freddy's bloated lips like every drop of blood brought him closer and closer to a life of his own.
Milford must have pulled the distraught expression of a millennia, because when the mist finally parted inside of his head, Fairbank was actually shaking his shoulder, repeating his name with a slowly-increasing crescendo of worry.
"Here, I'm here," Milford stammered groggily.
Even as he said it, he wasn't entirely certain that it was true.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to bring any bad memories back," Fairbank said, clearly more quiet now, and perhaps slightly guilty. "I know that place must be the source of all your bad dreams, which us why I thought you'd be perfect for this assignment. Y'know, so you can give it to the place, take em' down once and for all. Help ya sleep again. What do you think?"
Milford was quick, foregoing the manners to even pretend he was giving it any thought.
"No."
He stood up almost immediately afterward, making a beeline for the door.
But he never made it. Fairbank spoke up again, and his words stopped Milford in his tracks.
"I'm sorry, Barnes. But if you don't accept this assignment, then I'm going to have to let you go."
Milford rotated his head slowly to look at Fairbank, barely moving his rigid torso at all. Incredulous flames had lit up and started to burn inside of him, whilst something deeper and more primal lay just under the surface, like magma primed to burst from the earth.
"What?" To his own surprise, it was all he could muster.
Fairbank sighed a vacuous, corporate sigh."It gives me no pleasure to tell you this, Barnes, but we're not satisfied with your career trajectory. You've had an unremarkable record - we don't like unremarkable. We try not to hire it, least of all keep it on our payroll."
Milford looked down at his quivering hands.
How could this be happening to him?
Why?
"I saw the potential in you as a great correspondent," Fairbank continued, voice all but an air raid siren to Milford's ears. "I still do. But you have to seize it. Go home. I'll give you twenty-four hours to consider. If you decide not to pursue it, I expect your resume on my desk tomorrow morning."
With the last of its bombs depleted, the Fairbank-shaped fighter plane flew from the room.
Following his departure, it was a good few seconds before Milford could find the feeling in his body again. When he did, it came in the form of his bottom hitting the carpet as his legs buckled.
As he sat, legs sprawled out in front of him, Milford thought back to his time at Freddy Fazbear's.
Of the pizza. Of the animatronics.
And of blood.
And then, he called Wendy to come take him home.
(-)
Across town, a much different office encounter was about to begin.
"Kinda creepy looking, aren't they?"
The nineteen year old smiled a goofy, buck-toothed grin as he pointed at the poster adorning the wall.
"You know they say the old ones attacked people, right?"
The twenty year-old who sat to the right of the nineteen year-old tried hard to ignore his neighbour. Instead, he studied the meticulously-compiled, stapled and coffee-stained interview notes sat on his lap. They covered everything from creating good first impressions to avoiding terrible working hours. Of course, a brief history of the franchise was a must, although the omission of the parts where a man had been hospitalised by an animatronic, and a golden-suited maniac had slaughtered five kids had seemed like a wise choice.
They weren't great conversation starters for a potential employee, after all.
After what seemed like an eternity, and following several more outbursts from the nineteen year-old, the door across the hall was opened, and finally, his name was called.
"Jeremy Fitzgerald?"
Jeremy stood up, brushed his hands over the creases at the top of his trousers, and walked over to the open door.
He was greeted by a man in his early thirties who introduced himself as Greg.
"I'm the regional manager for Freddy Fazbear's," he explained. "Please, take a seat."
The inside of the office was a man-child's paradise. Purple and red streaks and swirls that didn't so much demand attention as catch it in a net decorated the walls. At least two gumball machines lined the wall, along with a MSX console and a small TV screen. The desk where Jeremy sat across from Greg was covered in orange crisp crumbs and smelt like plasticised cheese. It was all Jeremy could do not to gag.
"Well, welcome to the new and improved Freddy Fazbear's, a fun place for kids and adults. First thing's first, I am obligated to wave any rumours that are circulating about the company. Fazbear Entertainment does not endorse demonic possession, worship or rituals. We also have no ties to the illuminati. I hope that clears up any doubts. Do you have any questions before we begin?"
Jeremy smiled nervously as he sat in his chair. "No, I don't think so."
"Good," Greg said, plonking himself down opposite Jeremy. He sounded tired, which, considering the amount of sweat and blood every single Fazbear employee had shes trying to turn back time, was not surprising. "First, lets start with your CV, right here. It says you left school at 16 to pursue a life ambition. How did that turn out for you?"
'How do you think?' Jeremy thought loudly, watching as the frantic movement of Greg's squeaky stool shook one of the gum balls in his machines loose. Instead of speaking his thoughts however, he picked out one of his three hand-selected responses. "I gave it my best shot but I eventually decided it wasn't for me."
"Interesting," Greg remarked, himself sounding anything but engaged. "And after that you spent a year making... vacuum cleaners?"
"An assembly line in a small town a couple of miles away," Jeremy recalled. "We made hairdryers too."
"So what makes you think you have what it takes to be a part of the new face of Freddy Fazbear's Pizza?" Greg asked. From the tone of his voice, this would be the closer.
Jeremy took a short pause before replying as enthusiastically as he could.
"I've lived around young children in the past so I know how to react to them. I don't drink or smoke, or have a criminal record. Oh, and I like animals."
Greg looked up from his notes. For the first time in their conversation, he actually seemed pleased, with the ghost of a smile raising at the corners of mouth.
"We'll be in touch within a couple of days, Mr. Fitzgerald. Thanks."
Jeremy stood up and walked out of Greg's office. There was a spring in his step that not even the sight of the irritating nineteen year-old outside could dissuade.
In fact, he barely stopped skipping until he got out to his car.
But he did stop. And he looked around.
Freddy Fazbear looked back at him from his lofty perch upon the pizzeria sign. His eyes, wide, white and ever-gleeful, seemed to beckon to him. If its mouth could move, Jeremy was pretty certain he knew what he would hear.
"Welcome to the family."
(-)
"And if Orpheus ever looked back on his way through hell, he would lose the love of his life and everything he held dear. This time, for good."
Milford sat quietly on a loose public bus seat, travelling home through the suburbs. Next to him, a mother was reading to her young son from a book entitled 'Children's Greek Myths.'
He had not caught the bus in four years since Wendy had started working from home, but today she had told him that he would have to get the bus.
She was busy, so it seemed. Stressed perhaps.
What he was about to tell her would make it a lot worse.
He wouldn't pretend he hadn't given it sone thought. A part of him was really appealed by the notion of finally getting some closure on the characters and memories of the place that so haunted him.
Joe had been caught. He was behind bars, likely for all of time. Justice had been served.
'So why does it feel like an open case?' Milford thought. 'Because those children he killed will never find peace? Who really believes in that stuff anyway?'
What Joe had done had been horrific, nightmarish and terrifying, but it was still the acts of a human being. There was nothing unexplained about any of it; nothing extraordinary or, whisper it, supernatural.
'And yet, there's something more. There always is.'
Perhaps he owed those kids. He had been working alongside Joe - no, they had even been friends - for the whole time he gad been killing, never suspecting a thing.
'Could I have saved them?' Milford whispered under his breath. For the first time in quite a while, his thoughts turned to Andrew.
Does he feel the same way, wherever he is?
Maybe he had an obligation to those kids. Maybe he didn't.
But they would never leave his thoughts until he turned around and faced them.
(-)
Jeremy was sitting on his couch at home when he got the call.
"You've got the job, Mr. Fitzgerald. Can you start tonight? On graveyard shift."
Jeremy's heart sank slightly at that last remark as he lay the phone back upon its stand.
The 12-6am shift? Wasn't that the one where all the bad stuff happened?
"History doesn't repeat itself," Jeremy assured himself, as he lay back on his sofa and flicked on the TV.
"What are the odds of that?"
TO BE CONTINUED...