I want my kid to talk properly. Well I do.

Get your stuff on why don’t you.

The two of us sat on the wooden bench, pulling on the white overalls awkwardly, hoods, gloves and finally the visors which stuck out like a baseball cap. The floor was slick.

We got rooms 406 and 921. The four is bad.

Do it first.

We signed out the 20mm hoses and put them in the backpacks, slung casually over one shoulder though they are quite heavy. He was still going on about his kid, but the lift doors opened and we stepped into the box of stainless steel. Fastened the hoses to the big taps in the back of the lift, turned the red wheel all the way and felt the pressure build.

He grinned at me, positioning himself in front of the doors and crouching comically to deal with the kickback from the hose. Visors down! When the doors open, he said, do it right away.

How he derives pleasure from this escapes me. His kid will be a cleaner of rooms just like him.

The lift stopped with a  hiss. We braced ourselves and glanced at one another, then a clicking as the doors juddered open to reveal a still larger steel room, this with primitive metal furniture, neon lit and smeared with dirt. People shouting and running naked, gibbering. One was shitting, at least two were fighting, or maybe fucking. They did not see us. One woman sat, quieter, coiled and scowling at the ground. She then looked at me directly and I looked away. 

These are the children of the elite. They do what they want and have everything they need. They have lost the power of speech and so grunt and cry and claw at each other but cannot communicate. As they turned to us, we opened the hoses full blast, spraying them and the walls and beside me he was shouting what the hell, let’s fill the whole place!

When there was nothing but a sea of white blooming foam and the retching of those within.

921 now.

I shut down my hose to a dribble. Then we’re done?