It is 1981 or thereabouts and Clayton-Thomas, the company’s CEO calls you to the main office in Knightsbridge for a meeting. Prior to entry, you slip off your cream brogues as requested and slither across the white shag pile to take your seat in a Jacobsen Egg Chair, also white.
Clayton-Thomas is a large man who reeks of cigar smoke and whiskey and has a strange habit of letting out short, snort like laughs throughout the conversation. You are terrified of him.
He offers you a large cigar. You decline. He clatters a coffee tray on the Plexiglas desk and hurls himself into a vast cream leather armchair. “Remind me what floor you work on, Peters?” He glares at you over thick glasses. There is a moment of silence and you clear your throat. “12, sir,” you squeak rather than talk. “Accounts.”
“And Briers? What floor’s he on?”
You pause for a moment and reply: “14, sir. HR.”
Clayton-Thomas suddenly lunges across the desk and fixes his gaze on you. “I can change that for you, Peters. I can move you up to the next floor!” You furrow your brow. “HR, sir? The 14th floor? I’m in accounts … as I just said …”
He throws back his head and lets out a strange, strangled, guttural guffaw. “Damn you, you pathetic worm!!! Accounts? HR? Think, man! Think harder! What floor comes between yours and Briers?”
Your brow furrows deeper and you begin to perspire. In the ten years that you’ve worked for Amicus Productions, you’ve never seen the 13th floor. You don’t believe it exists. You feel a tight knot of nausea start to build in the pit of your stomach. You notice that Clayton-Thomas’ eyes are now red, and they glow. You hear a chant off in the distance. There’s no 13th floor! There can’t be!
You start to blackout, and just before you lose consciousness you hear music. The band are called Moondrive71. Their new album is The Silent Watcher. It’s really bloody good.