"No comment."

McFlarm is a puzzle. No one seems to have any idea what his job is, or who he reports to. His specialty has something to do with quality control, although he never actually tells anyone to do a better job, so that can't quite be it.

He has an office, which is really a cubicle on steroids. It's prefabricated, and sits in an isolated part of the building where few people venture. The janitor runs a sweeper around the area once a week, but other than that, no one goes near the place.

Clint Palmer once suggested that McFlarm was a National Socialist. After a moment of stunned silence, McFlarm broke into an unintelligible stream of Germanic expletives, and stormed back to his office.

The mystery surrounding McFlarm is longstanding, as he is known to have been with our organization for at least nine years. Any time he drinks a carbonated beverage he gets really severe hiccups, which you can hear from far away, even from outside the building.

Perhaps his journal will yield insights into this man of the shadows.

McFlarm's Journal

Day One

After my massage I sauntered into work forty minutes late, as usual. Not that I was worried. Who's going to say anything?

I thought later today, maybe after I make my rounds, I'll peek in on that Reynolds chick. She's been giving me the eye lately, and I have to put an end to it.

Could be a long day.