He Better Watch Out

Chapter 1 The Toy Maker

The Toy Maker

“Mr. Porter, the old workers have assembled outside the warehouse.” The new security manager’s voice crackles through my Bluetooth as I take a careful sip of my latte. The taste of mint chocolate floods my mouth— sweet, creamy, and minty.

Soothing.

Comforting.

“Call the cops, get them off of the property. This is why I pay you, is it not? Mr….”

I draw a blank on his name, as I do most of the time with Porter Industries' employees. I’m not good with names; hell, I’m not even good with faces. But business? I’m excellent with business.

“Sir, some of the current employees are joining the crowd?”

My brows knit together. I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale, practicing the kind of breathing my therapist, whom I pay way too much money for, swore would help with my temper.

“Ban them from entering. And if you can’t do that, consider yourself fired.”

I end the call with a quick press of a button.

Annoyance rolls through my body, like static, making my nerves go rogue.

My body is itching to be at the warehouse, to see the boycotters, to manage and execute a plan.

As always, I’m surrounded by incompetent, useless workers who would rather spend their time complaining than working.

My father’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, warm and low. Echoing like it always does when I least need it.

“Hard work pays off, buddy. Soon this will all be yours.” Words he would say every night before locking up his small warehouse. I see him now in my mind—standing on the balcony above the production floor, his dark skin glowing under the fluorescent lights, pride written across his face.

“It might seem small, but soon, this will be one of many.”

He would always pat my head and guide my chin towards the endless rows of machines. Something inside me would always grow with an overwhelming sense of pride, and I mimicked my father’s stance and puffed out my chest, holding my hand on my hip and taking it all in.

I did it, Dad..

The thought sneaks in like a thief in the night, nostalgia intertwined with grief—one I try hard not to dwell on. I’ve worked hard to make his dream come true, and to honor such an achievement, I’ll be returning to where it all started.

Jollytown, our home, and the place where my parents met and died. Bringing my latte to my lips, I stare at the crowd that has gathered by the gates of the main building. Just as my driver takes a sharp turn, the latte in my hand spills onto my black trousers.

“Goddammit!” I snarl from the sting that blossoms in my skin from the hot liquid. The driver stammers an apology, but I silence him with a raised hand.

“You’re fired.”

The car comes to a stop by the entrance, and I shake off the aggravation as I step out. Not giving the signs or the chants calling me a ‘miser’ and ’Scrooge’ a second thought, I button my black suit jacket and step inside.

The glass doors slide open, and the warmth from inside wraps around me. Taking a deep breath in, the artificial smell of cinnamon and vanilla fills my lungs.

“Good morning, Mr. Porter,” Emily mutters beside me, phone in hand, and matching my look with a black pencil skirt and a white long-sleeve blouse, and her hair nicely placed in a bun.

My only competent assistant. “You have two meetings today. The cops are on their way to stop the disturbance. The production line is moving smoothly.” She finishes her brief with a breakdown of the stocks and meeting bulletin.

I turn towards the left wing, retracing my father’s routine back at the first shop.

Always inspecting.

Always looking over the production.

“Before I forget, you are expected to be present at the Gala, back in Jollytown,” she says warily. I nod before continuing my walk. The factory hums like a hive that’s forgotten what honey tastes like.

It’s a constant buzz…

Conveyor belts crawl with half-finished dolls, and the air smells of plastic and peppermint oil—Christmas bottled and sold by the ton. My lips stretch into a wide grin as I walk down the line, hands clasped behind my back and chest puffed out with my shoulders squared.

“Mr. Porter?” A man near the end of the assembly line wrings his cap in his hand. He’s older, face flushed from the heat of the molting machines. “Could we go home early tonight? They say there’s a storm rolling in.”

“And the roads will still be there after the storm is gone. The safest place for everyone is inside,” I reply.

I’ve watched the news report. The weather isn’t expected to be at its worst until two days from today, which is why I’m arriving a day earlier than expected in Jollytown.

“It’s almost Christmas, and with the Gala’s toy drive, we need everyone to work. ”

Silence follows; the workers closest to us just glance at one another but do not speak. The only sound is the whine of the motors and the thin, mechanical giggle of a doll testing its voice box.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize,” I respond flatly, opening my hand, motioning towards the belts. “Just work.”

With that, the man turns around, and I resume my walk down the line. No one dares to say a peep; everyone is working with frowns permanently on their faces.

No cheer.

I shrug off the discomfort. In the end, they will be thankful for the extra pay. The unlimited overtime I offer, what’s more to ask for if not a job that allows you to make enough to pay your bills. The back of the line is quiet, connecting to the camera room and a small lounge for them to use.

I step inside the room, observing the small couch and the small round table, but no real amenities, not even coffee.

My father wouldn’t like it. But when you provide too much comfort, people tend to get lazy, unmotivated.

Slowly, I make my way towards the small camera room and take a seat in the singular metal chair.

Four screens are mounted before me, each one showing a different angle of the assembly line. I lean into the small wooden desk, hearing it groan under my weight, carefully scanning.

When a camera feed blinks, turning into static, then resolves into a figure moving between pallets. What the fuck ?

The frame blinks again, and the figure is gone. Suddenly, all of them flash, turning off and then on as if practicing Morse code. The screen dances, two turn on then off. Just when it all goes silent, my heart hammers inside my chest.

My breathing becomes shallow before I hold it completely when the screen cuts on flashing static.

I frown. Jumping to my feet, I push away from the desk when the feed returns to normal, moving conveyor belts and endless work.

My gaze moves away from the screens just as my finger presses on the red call button for security.

“Security.”

Exhaling the breath I’m holding. “Check Sector B, and keep an eye on it.”

“Yes, Mr. Porter.”

With that, I remove my finger from the button and head back towards the catwalk right above the floor.

From the top, it all looks endless, fluorescent lights illuminating my parents’ dream.

Hands that, with ease, assemble a joy they will never afford.

My hand tightens around the railing when I catch a glimpse of the banner that hangs across the far wall.

I force out a smile when the sound of footsteps draws closer. “Good morning, Mr. Porter,” they all mutter as they walk past me. I offer the small group a nod before disappearing into my office and pouring two fingers of scotch.

The liquid ember pours down my esophagus, the burn bringing a comforting warmth.

My pulse quickens, and it feels like the heat has been turned up a notch, maybe two.

I pull on my collar to loosen the pressure.

I spin around in my office chair, the large windows showing me the snowy and grey streets.

It almost looks peaceful with deathly stillness.

An eeriness that not even the cheer of the holidays can remove. Before I know it, my gaze falls on the banner moving with the wind, the red shimmering cloth dancing against its restraints.

In gold bold letters, it reads:

However, the crowd that refuses to break screams otherwise, their distant shouts becoming a melody uniting with the classical music that bleeds from the outside speakers. The words blur, leaving nothing but my reflection smiling back at me.

Not with pride or with joy…

But with emptiness, as my father’s words haunt my mind. “Soon this will all be yours, buddy.”

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

The loud knocks pull me from the trance, my brows knitting together. “Come in.”

KNOCK.

KNOCK.

The third rattles the paintings hanging around my office, “Do you want to play?” A mechanical girl's voice says, “Best friends forever.”

My head cranes to the direction of the ‘Best Friend Alice’ prototype doll, her head cocked to face me.

Her green eyes narrowed, and I must be so sleep deprived that I’m conjuring it all up in my head.

Something slides underneath the door, the motion soft, almost impossible to hear.

I push away from the chair and walk over to the red envelope lying discarded on the floor.

SWOOSH!

SWOOSH!

SWOOSH!

Blood roars through my ears, adrenaline spikes in my body, overflowing to the brim as I bend to pick up the envelope addressed to me. Opening it, my eyes widen as I read over the golden cursive loops.

Devon Porter—Naughty or Nice?

Quickly, I swing open the door, only to find the halls deserted and void of life. As if the entire day has gone by, and once again, I’ve lost track of time. Lost track of me….

“Mr. Porter, is everything okay?” Emily's voice lulls me back to the present. “You look panicked.”

I want to scream, to shove the envelope in her face and demand an answer, but the words won't come out. All I can do is stare as her face blurs, the room spins, and the bell tolls inside my head.

DING!

DING!

DONG!