Under The Orange Lights: Life On The Inside

     My name, which really no longer seems important, is George.  Well, that's no exactly true.  My name was George before I was locked inside this factory.  My new identity is #466664 and I am currently under the employment of General Ideas Inc.  To say that they are my employers really doesn't cover the situation I am stuck in though.  I am more like some kind of 21st century slave.  I'm not even sure I earn a paycheck inside this place.  If I am, I haven't been able to draw on it for the seven years I've been working here.  I started writing in this journal in the hopes that if I die, somebody will know what really goes on in this place someday.  Before I get to that, though, I'd better explain how I got locked in here in the first place.
     My journey toward becoming #466664 started with a letter, just as most strange adventures used to start.  It was nothing more than a flyer for a job fair, forwarded to me by my unemployment case worker.  I had been out of work for nine months, and times were really starting to get tough for old George.  The flyer was really something odd to read, though.  It sounded like this:
    Out of work?  Need a job?  Want to make big money?  Then come down to  such and such address in the industrial district and change your life forever!  Make a huge salary working in a fun environment!  Join your fellow employees in the Union!  Make new friendships that will last a lifetime!  Pay ALL your bills for once!
     It was a strange little flyer, but what really struck me as odd was the note on the back side.  It was somebody's scribbles that said, Welcome to the rest of your life, George.  Knowing that somebody took the time to personally address me by name made me feel good.  It's needless to say that I don't feel good about it anymore.
     Not knowing any better, and maybe more out of boredom than curiosity, I drove to the address provided.  I was informed by the phone number provided that I could come down for orientation anytime I wanted, day or night, because the place was always running.  I was greeted in the lobby by a heavy-set man in a three-piece suit.  He was balding and graying, and doing his best to hide both of these qualities.
     "Pleased to meet you, George!  My name is Mr. Prick, and I manage this wonderful workplace.  You are going to LOVE it here!  Just come right in with a few of the others and we'll get started."  I didn't make it five more steps before some kind of trap-door contraption pulled the floor out from under me and sent me down a chute!  I landed on a concrete floor under strange orange lights and lost consciousness.
     When I came to, I saw that I was no longer alone.  There were about fifteen to twenty others around me, all with similar stories to my own describing how we arrived there.  Just before we were about to introduce ourselves, a large steel door in the corner of the room opened and the same man that met me in the lobby walked in.  The only difference was that he was wearing a different outfit, consisting of a black button up shirt, dress slacks, and a "Union" button pinned to him.
     "Good morning/afternoon/evening.  I am Mr. Richard Head, your union representative.  You can all call me Dick.  Welcome to the General Ideas Corporation.  From now on, if you have any questions, don't bother asking management.  They are just a group of assholes out to get you.  Instead, since you are now enrolled in the union, you can ask me everything and I promise to be as honest as I'm allowed to be.  By the way, you will all be paying your union dues every month, which is currently half of anything you make here.  Now, are there any questions?"
     "Yeah, I have one," I spoke right up.  "What the hell is this?  You're not the union rep, you're Mr. Prick!  You're just wearing a different--"
     "You're mistaken," the large bulky man cut me off.  "Mr. Prick is running the factory right now.  He's far too busy to be talking to you about these matters.  I wouldn't ask him anything though.  Just like the rest of management, he can't be trusted."
     Before anything else could be said, we were whisked away to another area of the factory where we would begin training.  All of us, from that point on, knew that we had made a mistake coming to this place.  We were outraged that the "Union" would be taking half of our paychecks, but that didn't last terribly long once we found out that we would never see a check from General Ideas.  I'll get to that more at another time, though.  For now, why do I take a minute to describe what we do here?
     General Ideas prides itself on making the highest quality product that is on the market today.  What product would we be assembling in this strange orange-lighted no window or door factory in what I believe to be the year 2013 (I say believe because there are no clocks or any concept of time in this place)?  We assemble cassette tape players.  Yes, you heard me right; something that nobody could ever want, something that is completely useless in the twenty-first century; tape players.  We sell this now-useless 1980's product for just the low union-made price of $299.99, and at that price, people could easily afford to buy two!  Well, that's at least what Mr. Prick tells us, and that's probably on the supposition that some poor sap out in the world not only has 600 bucks to spend, but also actually owns two cassettes to use them in!
     So here I sit, composing my journal.  Why would I do this?  Why now, after seven years of orange lights and no clocks and building 700 cassette players per day and union and management the same fudge-packing person and never seeing the outside world again?  Why?  It's simple.  People in here are crazy.  I've noticed what happens to them.  The longer they are here, the more crazy they get.  I'm starting to feel it myself.  My mind is slipping away, and I'm writing this to hold onto any sanity that I possibly can.  I may eventually lose it, myself, but until then, I record this journal to tell the story that many outsider will never get to experience firsthand.  I'll tell you all about life in here, the unusual workers that meander around, and how we can NEVER escape.  Oh, if you were to ask Mr. Prick, or Dick, or whatever that asshole decides to call himself, he'd tell you, "They can leave whenever they want.  They just have to clock out through the turn-style."  That's the problem; the turn-style doesn't exist!
     So this is my story, our story actually.  This is an epic saga of a man who used to be named George; a man now only known to most as #466664;  a man trapped under the orange lights.

Under The Orange Lights: Introduction To The Nightmare

     Welcome, one and all, to a brave new world!  Step right up, come right in, and take a look around.  is everybody in?  Good, we've officially sealed the doors shut, so you can forget about second thoughts!  My good people, you have been pre-selected to take part in a wonderful opportunity.  A place now stands before you that most normal people never get to see.  What's better, most that actually see it never want to see it again, so congratulations on your entry.  Here in this wonderful place, you will work harder than you ever had before, become extremely bored out of your mind, and live your lives, and I do mean the rest of it, to the absolute un-extreme!
     There are many sights to see here; the one-eyed pirate, the never ending food consuming monster, the born again Christian, the born again virgin (whatever the hell that is), the pushers, the shooters, the pimp, and many more freaks of nature!  There are all kinds of attractions and side-shows that are ridiculous enough to make you scream yourself to death, banging your head against a brick wall as you do!
     One day, when you're old and gray, have a beard that falls to the floor (whether you're a man or a woman), maybe, just maybe, we'll let you out of here.  In the meantime, grab a workstation, don't sit down, wait three hours for your first bathroom break, and enjoy the rest of your life here.  Welcome, to life under the orange lights!