310

You step inside the maintenance office, which is fairly cluttered with old machine parts and tools. A table lamp flickers, and you smell a mixture of oil and burnt cigarettes in the air. A tall, burly man sits on the edge of a metal desk. He is wearing a brown uniform with work boots and a tag on his chest reads "Mike." He has a dirty rag pressed against his neck and blood streaks through it. A bottle of whiskey and a .38 Special lie on the desk.

"Hey, how you doin'," he asks in a husky voice. He breathes heavily and grimaces every few seconds.