Alex Thorley in A Dramatic Irony - SCP Foundation

‘You’re familiar, of course, with Alex Thorley?’ You ask, your fingers lightly dancing around the outer rim of a spit-polished glencairn. These were the first words you'd exchanged with the man sat opposite you since you first arrived roughly thirteen seconds ago. Between yourself and the man was a lacquered desk – upon which – rested a series of manilla folders. His eyes pore across the folder and you continue observing the man’s tumefied face for any betrayal of cognitive awareness.

‘No,’ the man replies as he hastily reaches for the first folder with grubby fingers. ‘Is he one of yours?’

‘They,’ you reply in turn, slapping his sausage-like appendages away from the folder. ‘And no, they are not.’

The grotesque man nurses his fingers between cupped hands. His muttered complaints are inaudible beneath the din of halogen bulbs buzzing faintly within the cramped office. Above your heads, a large fan circulates frigid air around the office with a constant whirring and whining. Whir-whine; whine-whir.

‘One of mine?’

‘Again, no.’ You smile as you sip at the whiskey provided by the bloated man — it tastes like bitter regrets. The man's glassy, pale eyes blink like some gigantic confused frog. You watch as blood rushes beneath the surface of his flabby face.

‘Then why would I ever be familiar with them!’ He shouts, his fingers briefly curled into grubby fists gripping at the table's lip.

You offer an apologetic shrug and your kindest smile. ‘Just thought you might have been is all.’

‘Well then, how might I help you with this Thorley? Were they involved in some kind of altercation?’ The odoriferous beast smiles thinly — visibly struggling to conceal his apparent frustration with you.

‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ You reply as a smirk slowly begins to grow across your lips. An inside joke takes seed within your mind and you can't help but stifle a laugh. ‘It's a rather big story.’

‘Are you insulting me?’ The large man pauses for a brief moment, before gathering his composure and licking his crusted lips. ‘I feel as though I'm the butt of some cosmic practical joke. Here you are, rudely barging into my office with serious allegations regarding the conduct of an employee who I don't even recognise!

He pauses again, sipping at his own glass of whiskey and smiling thinly at you. ‘Now, please try and be reasonable with me, whatever did this Alex Thorley do to cause you such grave concerns?’

‘I heard it all started with a burger.’

The rotund ogre cries out with rage – standing up from his desk with some visible effort – before reaching for the nearest object and sending it flying over your shoulder. The glass figurine of a horse lays shatters upon the carpeted floor behind you.

‘My mistake, it was a bagel.’

Act II, Scene 13.

Department of Unreality, interior-exterior-betweenerior. — dusk, complacency.

ALEX THORLEY continues idly tapping away at the keyboard, their fingers brushing against cheap plastic keys the colour of… beige?1

ALEX THORLEY

I’m just going through the motions. That’s all.

ALEX THORLEY continues tapping away at the keyboard. The cheap plastic keys have worn away. There are no letters; only faint impressions. An inordinate amount of time passes. There are no burgers, no bagels, not even sushi — just ALEX THORLEY and a keyboard.2

ALEX THORLEY

I could have this finished tonight if I tried.

ALEX THORLEY continues tapping away at the keyboard. Each fingerstroke compresses and decompresses the spring. Letters shuffle across the piece of paper before them.3

ALEX THORLEY

Or the night before.

ALEX THORLEY sighs as they continue typing, each stroke of their fingers leaving a smudge upon the keys. Even if they were to delete everything upon the page, the smudges would remain and that's something.4

ALEX THORLEY

I’m hungry.

ALEX THORLEY stands up from the desk and peels their fingers away from the keyboard. In the absence of ALEX THORLEY, all that remains upon the keyboard is a sweaty patina of fingerprints.

Act II, Scene 512.

Department of Unreality, interior-exterior-betweenerior. — night, wisenheimer.

ALEX THORLEY continues idly tapping away at the keyboard, their fingers brushing against cheap, yellowed plastic keys.5

ALEX THORLEY

“Nothing upon nothing upon nothing.”

ALEX THORLEY looks at the piece of paper before them. There's more letters upon it now than ever before. Not all of them are good; some of them might even be described as bad — worse, some of them might be described as pointless. If ALEX THORLEY squints, they might be described as words.6

ALEX THORLEY

I'm not asleep, am I?

ALEX THORLEY turns around and looks over their shoulder. A sea of endless office cubicles surrounds their own cubicle; an island all to their lonesome. Sounds of endless, repeated keystrokes fill their ears, but ALEX THORLEY is all alone.7

ALEX THORLEY

I'm hungry again.

ALEX THORLEY reaches into the desk's compartment. It is cold, dark, and damp. Their hand brushes against something, but comes away covered in dust. There is no point to exploring the rest of the desk. ALEX THORLEY closes the compartment and sighs dejectedly.8

ALEX THORLEY

Why am I always hungry?

ALEX THORLEY receives nothing but silence in answer. To feel alone is natural, and natural things are comforting. But to know that you are alone – truly alone – is a discomforting, terrifying sensation. In this moment, ALEX THORLEY knows they are alone. They pick up the keyboard, balancing it between their two hands, before bringing it down across their knee. It snaps.

Act II, Scene 1276.

Department of Unreality, interior-exterior-betweenerior. — morning, satisfactory.

ALEX THORLEY is no longer tapping away at the keyboard. Instead their fingers idly dance upon the surface of the desk. They flick through the manilla folders in their desk's compartment. They are organised alphabetically and none of them are marked by red lines. Instinct or habit, ALEX THORLEY is unsure, but what they are sure of is that ALEX THORLEY had nothing left to do.

ALEX THORLEY

And—

ALEX THORLEY sighs in relief. They stand up from their desk and pace around the office cubicle. The first lap takes thirteen seconds. By the twenty-fifth lap, it only takes them four. They smile and lie down on the floor. Exhaustion floods through their mind. There is nothing. Their consciousness focuses upon the darkness. ALEX THORLEY has nothing left to do.

ALEX THORLEY

—I'm done.

ALEX THORLEY stands up and looks around their office for a moment. A halogen light buzzes somewhere in the distance. The sound of rapid keystrokes slowly fades into the tones of piano keys being struck. A scent of manilla folders wafts through the room. ALEX THORLEY still had nothing left to do.

ALEX THORLEY

I don't feel hungry today.

ALEX THORLEY exits stage left.

Footnotes

1. Beige? Thorley clearly meant manilla. How could that hideous colour have ever been considered the vogue for interior decorating?

2. There are other things aside from Thorley and a keyboard in this place, but they’re relatively unimportant in the here and now. You’ll see.

3. Thorley wouldn't have been finished tonight. If they had been able to be finished by tonight, they would have been finished by tonight.

4. Thorley wouldn't have been finished the night before. Again, if they had been able to be finished the night before, they would have been finished the night before.

5. Better, though how that colour ever became associated with interior design is a mystery to us all.

6. Thorley, of course, knows better than to listen to the solipsistic delusions of a dreaming unconsciousness. Their design is but a pale shade of another.

7. Thorley isn't alone – but then they don't know this – do they?

8. Their work continues.