The plan was supposed to be simple. Get in, grab the recipe, and then get back out again. None of this ‘explain to me how you got in here’ business.
That’s never how it works. In the movies, the good-looking protagonist always gets out in the nick of time, saves the day while making a funny quip or two, and in the rare times they do get caught, they always find a way to twist the situation to their advantage. Instead, I’m now in this room that looks straight out of those Law and Order scenes where they attempt the good cop, bad cop trope. The small bulb is shining directly into my face and it’s making my nose feel really warm. I can’t scratch my nose and I’ve been awake for thirty hours, can someone please come and get me?
As if right on cue, the door slams open and a buff man walks in. He looks like he’s in his mid-40s, smoking a big cigar, black stubble on his chin. He looks like he has a really rough voice and is about to yell at me for whatever he thinks he caught me doing. He’ll slam the table a few times, I’ll act soft and cry straight away, tell him a sob story about how my wife used to work here before she died, and so I still come here every evening to feel her presence. Then he’ll let me off with a warning, recommend me a therapist, I’ll go home and all will be well. I didn’t take the recipe with me, but I took a picture of it and sent to from a new email address to a new email address, both made shortly before I got here. It won’t take long for me to get my soft drink business back in the running once I improve the recipe they’re using here and start producing, making different types of flavours and making sure no one can tell it used to be the same recipe.
“Oi! Ground control to Major Tom! Do you know where you are and why you’re here?” Suddenly, the cop is barely a few inches away from my face. His voice isn’t actually that loud, though. Or menacing. In fact, it’s a very soothing voice, almost enough to put me to sleep, which would not be a good idea right now. He also has an Australian accent, which isn’t very common in Fort Pierce, Florida.
“Answer the question, please.” I have the feeling at least a few seconds passed between his last sentence and now. It’d probably be a good idea to reply.
I pause. I should probably try to act like my brain has been fried blank as far as my actions of the past 24 hours go. “Well, to be honest, no, I don’t.” So far so good. No smiling yet, though.
“Nice try, mate. You’re in one of Toffein’s production factories, caught trying to break back out. I was surprised no one caught you getting in, you were really clumsy. Someone’s getting fired as soon as we’ve got you sorted out. What were you even doing here anyway?”
I try to start crying. It sounds like I’m choking on something. Just as I’m about to start telling my sob story, the cop leans forward a bit, worried. His chair scoots backwards. It ends up sounding like almost like Chewbacca, and I start to laugh. I can tell that by now I look like an absolute madman, as my abysmal fake-crying mixes with my real laughter, so that I end up actually choking on my own spit. I cough repeatedly as my face starts to turn red, my head jerking forward violently with every cough. The cop gets up and runs behind me, lifting me up with both his arms around my waist and performing the Heimlich manoeuvre.
It doesn’t take long for him to realize I didn’t choke on anything other than my own spit. He puts me back down and holds back a laugh while asking if I’m okay. Great, that’s definitely what I needed. Now, he doesn’t even take me seriously.
We both sit back down again, as I awkwardly look away, using it as a tactic to make time for me to think up a new plan. I’ll need one to get out, especially after what just happened.
“Look, I can tell you’re not clever enough to plan this yourself, mate,” the cop starts talking again, and I look back at him, “If you tell me who your boss is and who let you in, you’re free to go.”
Luckily, someone dropped their ID card just days ago and hasn’t come to work since.
“I have an ID card hidden between my phone case and my phone. That’s who let me in. I can’t tell you who hired me. You scare me, but they scare me much more. They have my wife and kids! I can’t let them die!” The last two sentences I yell out, and it hurts my throat, still aching from all the choking and coughing. A few single tears run down my face and I use the opportunity to look the cop right in the eyes.
“Tell me. I promise nothing will happen to you or your family. They won’t know it was you, mate. Trust me.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. I’ve got him hook, line and sinker, so now all I need is a name. Someone who is well-known, but not too famous, to keep it believable, someone who could profit from breaking in to the factory.
“It’s… The name… They’re called…” I stutter, buying myself some time to think about who I could use as a scapegoat. I’ve got it! Grenade has almost gone bankrupt! “It was James Carten.”
“The owner of Grenade?” The cop is startled. Judging by the look on his face, he was expecting a small-timer. He started pacing back and forth, grimacing, his arms crossed. Finally, he continues: “James Carten is about to go into witness protection. He helped us bust a major drug-smuggling ring that was using soft drinks as a cover business.”
I try to hide the surprise in my face but it doesn’t work in the lightest. All I can do is sit there and feel my eyes go wide. All of a sudden, the cop starts laughing and can’t. He’s tearing up, his face turning red. Has he gone absolutely mad?
“Today and tomorrow is Toffein’s annual Open House weekend, mate. We always do one of these around April Fools Day. I just had to play this prank on you. I saw right through your fake moustache and thought you were the one we should pick this year. So, how was it?”
I start laughing, too, purely out of relief and he un-cuffs me as we spend what feels like fifteen minutes simply laughing. I rub off my fake moustache and most of the small hairs start heaping up on the table, but I accidentally inhale a few while laughing. It itches a bit, but it’s fine, otherwise.
“You were pretty believable, you know that? I probably would’ve almost trusted you if you didn’t have that thing in the middle of your face.” The cop can barely catch his breath and he starts laughing even harder.
“Man, poor James Carten! First he goes bankrupt, then he goes into witness protection and is close to getting SWATted.” If I keep laughing this hard, I might end up pissing myself. I should probably get on my way. “Thanks for the laugh. I really needed that, because I didn’t know if anyone was going to find my joke funny, but at least someone did.”
“No problem, mate. Hey, you never told me your name.”
“Nor you yours.”
“I’m Bill Anker.” The cop holds out his hand to me, so I stand up and shake it. I realized that my legs had fallen asleep while I was sitting so I fall into the wall while shaking his hand.
“I’m –“ I quickly reposition myself and dust myself off, then continue: “I’m Richard Farrow, nice to meet you.”
Bill shows me the way out of the small room and a large crowd starts clapping. I turn around and see large screens around the factory showing the room, with the small flickering lightbulb swinging around from the force that Bill used to close the door. The light switches off and so do the screens. The prank was an ever bigger thing than I thought. I can use this as the perfect cover. I could not be gladder. Being awake for more than thirty hours and forgetting about what date it is was a much better idea than I could have ever dreamed it would be.
I arrive at home and take a deep breath. I’ve done it! I can save my company now! I jump around, throwing my body in every direction, then quickly stop to start up my laptop. The butterflies in my stomach are riding rollercoasters as I wait for my computer to be fully booted, then I quickly check the email address I made. There’s only one email there, and I open it. It’s from the other email I made and it has one attachment. I can use this recipe in so many different ways, I’ll be able to rejuvenate my branding and everything with all the money I make!
I read the recipe for Toffein’s soft drink out loud, almost ceremoniously:
“The ToffeinTM formula:
1 part carbonated water
0.3 parts lemon juice
0.1 parts sugar
0.1 parts melted toffee
0.05 parts human blood
0.05 parts coffee beans
0.014 parts APRIL FOOLS!”
God damn it!
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