Carmichael Industries — Morning
The sun hit the Carmichael Industries sign just right—
bright.
Clean.
Professional.
From the outside, everything looked exactly how it was supposed to:
Employees arrive.
Badges flash.
Gates open.
Work begins.
Smooth.
Efficient.
Controlled.
Then Jeff and Lester showed up.
The Booth
From inside the parking booth—
control had already been lost.
The standard entry system?
Rewired.
The polite beep of the gate?
Gone.
Replaced.
Music blasted across the lot.
Not just music—
Jeffster music.
Jeff Barnes sat hunched over a battered electric guitar, amp plugged into an extension cord that looked like a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Lester Patel stood beside him—
sunglasses on, scarf dramatic, microphone in hand—
like he was about to headline Madison Square Garden instead of parking duty.
First Victim
The first car rolled up.
Paused.
Confused.
Badge halfway raised.
Lester leaned in—
and committed.
🎵
"Welcome to Carmichael Industries!
Where the parking is tight,
But the service is freeeee!"
🎵
Jeff hit a chord.
Too loud.
Slightly painful.
Absolutely intentional.
"Pull forward slowly, man—no need to rush!
Park straight… park proud!"
The gate lifted.
Perfect timing.
Like it had rehearsed.
The driver blinked.
Then—
laughed.
And drove in.
Escalation
Second car.
No hesitation this time.
Lester dropped low to the window, eyes intense.
"State your badge number…"
A dramatic beat.
"…in song form."
The employee just held up his ID.
Lester didn't miss a beat.
🎵
"Four-nine-seven, you're in heaven,
Slide on through to spot twenty-seveeen!"
🎵
Jeff slammed a chord like it was the end of a world tour.
Mid-Morning
By 10 AM—
the parking lot wasn't a parking lot anymore.
It was a concert.
Employees pulled in—
and got serenaded.
License plates became lyrics.
Parking spots became destinations.
Jeff invented "parking solos"—
full guitar breakdowns whenever someone backed in perfectly.
One analyst actually clapped.
"…Best parking experience of my life," he muttered on the way inside.
Inside
The reports reached me quickly.
Of course they did.
"Bartowski," one analyst said, barely holding it together, "your parking attendants…"
A pause.
"…sing at us."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"Are people getting in?"
"Yes."
"…Are they parking?"
"Yes."
Another pause.
"…Are they enjoying it?"
"…Also yes."
Decision
I leaned back slowly.
Weighed the options.
Then sighed.
"Then they're doing their job."
Documentation
I opened their file.
Typed it in.
Strike One — Unauthorized Parking Lot Concert
Saved.
Closed.
Regret pending.
Finale
Out in the booth—
Lester raised the mic like a man addressing thousands.
"Ladies and gentlemen… Jeffster thanks you for your cooperation!"
Jeff slumped in his chair, nodding slowly.
"Best gig we've had in years."
Final Thought
I stared out the window toward the lot.
Music still echoing.
Employees still laughing.
Chaos—
contained.
For now.
"…This is going to get worse," I muttered.