I have made it NWS due to the sensitive nature. Please do not read this if prose like this does not suit your tastes. I do hope it does not offend anyone.
The Ad
I.
He had seen it advertised in the local paper; the lettering was red and the font was large italicised letters that ran unevenly across the page. The only image was a box that was covered in wires. It read:
Requesting the services of certain individuals to test product x
Reply c/o Forster P.O. Box 1892
Henson shook his head, put the paper down, rubbed the smudged ink off his hands and took another sip of his now cold black coffee. He looked at the advertisement again realising that on the bottom left hand corner in tiny lettering it read: terms and conditions apply. Now such a find opened up more questions such as what the terms really were, who were the individuals, what was product x, what was the image of the box, what was the need for a PO Box and what was the need for no details about the company itself.
After paying for the coffee that he treated himself to once a week he crossed the busy road, newspaper still in hand and headed off to the campus park where he would whittle away the rest of the afternoon admiring the various species of ducks, then turn his gaze towards a passing college fresher, with her blonde hair and blue jeans, looking hopelessly lost. This day was different; his attention was turned towards the ad in the paper and his skyrocketing student debts that would only cripple him after graduation.
Intrigued by the ambiguous request of certain individuals to test product x he pulled out a small notebook out of his blazer jacket and then a pen out of the same location and wrote.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing in relation to the ad seen in the Mansfield Press. I am requiring to the nature of such an advertisement and to arrange for an appointment to obtain further information on such a statement. You will find on the back of the envelope my address.
Sincerely,
Henson Dockard
Now such a formal letter should have been written on crisp white paper, but Henson having worked out his financial spending pattern a month in advance knew that writing paper had not been figured into the accounts. Envelopes were allowed, though only the brown starchy kind, the kind that scratched like sand paper. He posted the letter.
Studies were all that Henson could think about and the weekly drink down in Harty’s Pub followed by a game of footie on the college grounds.
A letter arrived, in a white envelope; he opened it carefully and read:
Dear Mr. Dockard,
Thanks for replying to the ad campaign we have been running in the Mansfield Press. We are pleased to announce that an appointment has been arranged for you.
Sincerely,
Forester
Henson discovered a small piece of paper detailing the whereabouts and time of appointment. It read: Tuesday, 12pm 19A Rectory Place, Parklands Industrial Estate. Tuesday was only a day away so he made sure his suit was ironed the night before his black shoes polished and shined and his hair combed back for the event.
It was a grey day, smoke stacks reached into the sky bellowing out plumes of smoke. Henson brought his little red Ford to a stop and got out of the car to see where he was.
He read the sign of the building – twelve, he got back in the car, carefully closed the door put it into first gear and rolled the car around the corner and down an empty road.
He counted the numbers, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen….
Once again he got out of the car, noticing the dent on the bonnet, the dent reminded him year ago when a newspaper boy cycled into his car and left a mark— he didn’t know what happened to the boy.
He stood in front of the large red brick building; it was tall, the top floor was painted black, only a window or two to let the light in. He brushed off his jacket locked the car and briskly made his way to the entrance, giving his watch a flick with his wrist making sure he was on time. Upon entering the empty lobby that contained no sign of life, no desk, no chair, no whirring of sound, beeping of monitors, no ring of phone, he spotted a sign, off colour yellow, hanging on a door that read in hurried handwriting: Interviews in Progression. He put his hand around the door handle and pushed gently. A row of chairs filled on side of the wall, a coffee table in the middle with a pile of magazines, a tall palm tree in the corner lay in a ceramic pot that was too small for the roots. Another door lay to the side the door to the interviews.
A man with greying hair and red bloodshot eyes sat on the chair occasionally giving out a whimper of a cough that bounced off the walls as if there were a chorus of coughs. Henson sat on the wooden chair, clasped his hands, and stared at the clock - he was on time. The incessant ticking transferred into his head and then a whirring, droning sound entered which was eventually followed by a squeal of a door, clicking of heels, and then a, “Mr. Finchley will see you now sir.”
He slowly followed the woman, the brown knee length skirt the voluptuous hips, her shoulder length hair. He passed through the door noticing an empty chair in the centre of the room. A man enveloped by a cloud of smoke sat behind a desk surrounded in papers, pens and empty mugs covered in a light film of brown grunge.
Henson took the seat. The door closed behind him.
“So Mr. Dockard,” the voice was monotone, slow-droning, enough to put anyone to sleep.
“Yes,” he replied conscious of his body language.
“You are probably curious as to the nature of the ad campaign we have been running.”
“Yes,” he replied crossing his legs. It was obvious he was interested, that’s why he was there.
“Basically we are undergoing tests on a certain product and we need subjects who are willing to undergo analysis.”
Henson’s eyes widened, a puzzled look stretched his face. When were they ever going to get to the point?
“Yes, well, it consists of once a week going to a certain location hooking yourself up to a machine for an hour, we will monitor all your behavioural patterns and then you will be on your way. This will last for six months, which means twenty-four visits. We will deposit five grand a visit which added up makes…”
120,000? Henson titled his chair back with shock though he managed to throw his feet out in time to bring the chair legs back to the ground.
“I am sure that amount is adequate, though if you don’t think so, we can always make other arrangements.”
Not wanting to push his luck and reverse the good fortune he gulped and said, “No, no 120,000 is adequate enough.”
“There are certain stipulations, you must show up every week if you are to receive your 5,000, if you miss one appointment the entire contract expires and that is the end of any future deposits. You will undergo a full examination both physical and physiological, and you will keep all contact you have with us to yourself. You will be given a copy of the contract and terms and conditions if you are interested in taking this interview further. That is all. Oh, yes and you will be given a manual on how to operate the device, it is very straight forward, you will find no difficulty whatsoever.”
“And will I be helping advance science?”
“Don’t ask questions, if you want to take part in this, and receive the payments you have to learn not to ask questions. Follow through with all the given procedures and you will manage.”
Henson left the building with a large enough document in his hand. In all the excitement he forgot to ask about the risks. Were there any dangers? 120,000 kept on playing, rolling, swimming inside his head. What to do with all that money, more than enough to payback student loans, his old beat up car could be replaced, he could rent a flat and get far away from the student dorms, and he could invest. He jumped into his car and pulled out of the estate.
There was no thinking about it, no tug on the conscious, no question as to what it was all about, the terms and conditions were too long and time consuming to even read so he signed the end of the document posted it back and awaited a response. A letter arrived in the post two days later telling of the examination he was to undergo and if everything checked out he would proceed to complete the task.
He was seated in the waiting room, a noticed a stack of magazines on a metal coffee table, a leafy green plant grew towards the ceiling. A door opened a woman in a white uniform said, “This way Mr. Dockard, the doctor will see you now.” He walked down the long white hall, not much sound, except the clippity-clip of the woman’s high heels clicking off the floor. He was led into the room where a man with a stethoscope was waiting for him behind a desk. Everything was fine; he was healthy as a spring lamb. Henson was given a document as he left a jangle of what sounded like keys could be heard from the package.
Certain things annoyed him, irritated him, caused him to think of storming out of class and joining a student’s protest group, and this was one of them. Professor Evans was once again going on, furiously driving the white chalk into the blackboard coming up with some new theory. Today it was Faust, which concerned the fate of Faust, who in his quest for the true essence of life summons the Devil. He offers to serve him for as long as he lives.
There was a fury of writing, of screeching the chalk against the board of muttering to one’s self, and an occasionally glance at the students.
“Who was Faust one might ask.”
A hand rose.
“Yes?”
“Faust was a man who only wanted to attain his zenith and he was willing to sell his soul for it.”
“Yes, yes, though it was only really a teaching tool, an example, a way to exude fear. And who is to say there is a soul, the weighing of the soul, the scientific study was flawed, hence you can concur that such a thing was only a fifteen century teaching mechanics.”
A freshman quickly shot up from the back, turned around and ran out the exit, another wrong class.
The professor continued: “Firstly hell and damnation was all the rage back then. Now such things have become passé, irrelevant, nonsensical garble of words, and a haematosis of pathogens in a divagation passed through the single state of an organism.”
Huh, what is he smoking? Henson thought, looking at the clock on the wall, thinking he was in the wrong class. God I hope Wednesday comes sooner so I can get my hands on the five grand.
“Imagine a hyperbole of activity, a strange reasoning, a mathematical occurrence of atoms spun by a single thread of neurons, attached only by the burning desire man has had for centuries to obtain ultimate wisdom, a perfection of sorts, a level where man can truly say – I am satisfied. Perhaps a prime example of such a man was Faust, the yearning, the realisation that he would do anything to pertain enlightenment.”
Henson found himself nearing for the desk, his eye lids closing and his muscles relaxing.
Part II.Requesting the services of certain individuals to test product x
Reply c/o Forster P.O. Box 1892
Henson shook his head, put the paper down, rubbed the smudged ink off his hands and took another sip of his now cold black coffee. He looked at the advertisement again realising that on the bottom left hand corner in tiny lettering it read: terms and conditions apply. Now such a find opened up more questions such as what the terms really were, who were the individuals, what was product x, what was the image of the box, what was the need for a PO Box and what was the need for no details about the company itself.
After paying for the coffee that he treated himself to once a week he crossed the busy road, newspaper still in hand and headed off to the campus park where he would whittle away the rest of the afternoon admiring the various species of ducks, then turn his gaze towards a passing college fresher, with her blonde hair and blue jeans, looking hopelessly lost. This day was different; his attention was turned towards the ad in the paper and his skyrocketing student debts that would only cripple him after graduation.
Intrigued by the ambiguous request of certain individuals to test product x he pulled out a small notebook out of his blazer jacket and then a pen out of the same location and wrote.
To Whom It May Concern:
I am writing in relation to the ad seen in the Mansfield Press. I am requiring to the nature of such an advertisement and to arrange for an appointment to obtain further information on such a statement. You will find on the back of the envelope my address.
Sincerely,
Henson Dockard
Now such a formal letter should have been written on crisp white paper, but Henson having worked out his financial spending pattern a month in advance knew that writing paper had not been figured into the accounts. Envelopes were allowed, though only the brown starchy kind, the kind that scratched like sand paper. He posted the letter.
Studies were all that Henson could think about and the weekly drink down in Harty’s Pub followed by a game of footie on the college grounds.
A letter arrived, in a white envelope; he opened it carefully and read:
Dear Mr. Dockard,
Thanks for replying to the ad campaign we have been running in the Mansfield Press. We are pleased to announce that an appointment has been arranged for you.
Sincerely,
Forester
Henson discovered a small piece of paper detailing the whereabouts and time of appointment. It read: Tuesday, 12pm 19A Rectory Place, Parklands Industrial Estate. Tuesday was only a day away so he made sure his suit was ironed the night before his black shoes polished and shined and his hair combed back for the event.
It was a grey day, smoke stacks reached into the sky bellowing out plumes of smoke. Henson brought his little red Ford to a stop and got out of the car to see where he was.
He read the sign of the building – twelve, he got back in the car, carefully closed the door put it into first gear and rolled the car around the corner and down an empty road.
He counted the numbers, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen….
Once again he got out of the car, noticing the dent on the bonnet, the dent reminded him year ago when a newspaper boy cycled into his car and left a mark— he didn’t know what happened to the boy.
He stood in front of the large red brick building; it was tall, the top floor was painted black, only a window or two to let the light in. He brushed off his jacket locked the car and briskly made his way to the entrance, giving his watch a flick with his wrist making sure he was on time. Upon entering the empty lobby that contained no sign of life, no desk, no chair, no whirring of sound, beeping of monitors, no ring of phone, he spotted a sign, off colour yellow, hanging on a door that read in hurried handwriting: Interviews in Progression. He put his hand around the door handle and pushed gently. A row of chairs filled on side of the wall, a coffee table in the middle with a pile of magazines, a tall palm tree in the corner lay in a ceramic pot that was too small for the roots. Another door lay to the side the door to the interviews.
A man with greying hair and red bloodshot eyes sat on the chair occasionally giving out a whimper of a cough that bounced off the walls as if there were a chorus of coughs. Henson sat on the wooden chair, clasped his hands, and stared at the clock - he was on time. The incessant ticking transferred into his head and then a whirring, droning sound entered which was eventually followed by a squeal of a door, clicking of heels, and then a, “Mr. Finchley will see you now sir.”
He slowly followed the woman, the brown knee length skirt the voluptuous hips, her shoulder length hair. He passed through the door noticing an empty chair in the centre of the room. A man enveloped by a cloud of smoke sat behind a desk surrounded in papers, pens and empty mugs covered in a light film of brown grunge.
Henson took the seat. The door closed behind him.
“So Mr. Dockard,” the voice was monotone, slow-droning, enough to put anyone to sleep.
“Yes,” he replied conscious of his body language.
“You are probably curious as to the nature of the ad campaign we have been running.”
“Yes,” he replied crossing his legs. It was obvious he was interested, that’s why he was there.
“Basically we are undergoing tests on a certain product and we need subjects who are willing to undergo analysis.”
Henson’s eyes widened, a puzzled look stretched his face. When were they ever going to get to the point?
“Yes, well, it consists of once a week going to a certain location hooking yourself up to a machine for an hour, we will monitor all your behavioural patterns and then you will be on your way. This will last for six months, which means twenty-four visits. We will deposit five grand a visit which added up makes…”
120,000? Henson titled his chair back with shock though he managed to throw his feet out in time to bring the chair legs back to the ground.
“I am sure that amount is adequate, though if you don’t think so, we can always make other arrangements.”
Not wanting to push his luck and reverse the good fortune he gulped and said, “No, no 120,000 is adequate enough.”
“There are certain stipulations, you must show up every week if you are to receive your 5,000, if you miss one appointment the entire contract expires and that is the end of any future deposits. You will undergo a full examination both physical and physiological, and you will keep all contact you have with us to yourself. You will be given a copy of the contract and terms and conditions if you are interested in taking this interview further. That is all. Oh, yes and you will be given a manual on how to operate the device, it is very straight forward, you will find no difficulty whatsoever.”
“And will I be helping advance science?”
“Don’t ask questions, if you want to take part in this, and receive the payments you have to learn not to ask questions. Follow through with all the given procedures and you will manage.”
Henson left the building with a large enough document in his hand. In all the excitement he forgot to ask about the risks. Were there any dangers? 120,000 kept on playing, rolling, swimming inside his head. What to do with all that money, more than enough to payback student loans, his old beat up car could be replaced, he could rent a flat and get far away from the student dorms, and he could invest. He jumped into his car and pulled out of the estate.
There was no thinking about it, no tug on the conscious, no question as to what it was all about, the terms and conditions were too long and time consuming to even read so he signed the end of the document posted it back and awaited a response. A letter arrived in the post two days later telling of the examination he was to undergo and if everything checked out he would proceed to complete the task.
He was seated in the waiting room, a noticed a stack of magazines on a metal coffee table, a leafy green plant grew towards the ceiling. A door opened a woman in a white uniform said, “This way Mr. Dockard, the doctor will see you now.” He walked down the long white hall, not much sound, except the clippity-clip of the woman’s high heels clicking off the floor. He was led into the room where a man with a stethoscope was waiting for him behind a desk. Everything was fine; he was healthy as a spring lamb. Henson was given a document as he left a jangle of what sounded like keys could be heard from the package.
Certain things annoyed him, irritated him, caused him to think of storming out of class and joining a student’s protest group, and this was one of them. Professor Evans was once again going on, furiously driving the white chalk into the blackboard coming up with some new theory. Today it was Faust, which concerned the fate of Faust, who in his quest for the true essence of life summons the Devil. He offers to serve him for as long as he lives.
There was a fury of writing, of screeching the chalk against the board of muttering to one’s self, and an occasionally glance at the students.
“Who was Faust one might ask.”
A hand rose.
“Yes?”
“Faust was a man who only wanted to attain his zenith and he was willing to sell his soul for it.”
“Yes, yes, though it was only really a teaching tool, an example, a way to exude fear. And who is to say there is a soul, the weighing of the soul, the scientific study was flawed, hence you can concur that such a thing was only a fifteen century teaching mechanics.”
A freshman quickly shot up from the back, turned around and ran out the exit, another wrong class.
The professor continued: “Firstly hell and damnation was all the rage back then. Now such things have become passé, irrelevant, nonsensical garble of words, and a haematosis of pathogens in a divagation passed through the single state of an organism.”
Huh, what is he smoking? Henson thought, looking at the clock on the wall, thinking he was in the wrong class. God I hope Wednesday comes sooner so I can get my hands on the five grand.
“Imagine a hyperbole of activity, a strange reasoning, a mathematical occurrence of atoms spun by a single thread of neurons, attached only by the burning desire man has had for centuries to obtain ultimate wisdom, a perfection of sorts, a level where man can truly say – I am satisfied. Perhaps a prime example of such a man was Faust, the yearning, the realisation that he would do anything to pertain enlightenment.”
Henson found himself nearing for the desk, his eye lids closing and his muscles relaxing.
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