He readjusted his tie for the third time in as many minutes and shrugged the shoulders of a suit that formed a near-perfect square on his lanky frame. Attempting to get comfortable in the small, plastic chair he perched on was a Herculean task. The rubbery leaves of a pot plant brushed the nape of his neck and made him shudder. It wouldn’t have been a problem if the barber had simply listened to him.

He dragged his seat a few inches from the plant, earning him a glare from the receptionist. She had a lazy eye and far too much make-up on. Reaching up with his left hand, he plucked at the loose hairs on his neck that always lingered after a trim.

The door directly opposite opened, and a heavy-set man in his late forties emerged. His face was the colour of chip shop batter, and he avoided eye contact. He walked with a heavy limp. His suit fitted him perfectly.

The receptionist looked up, one eye quivering at the ceiling. “He’ll see you now.”

The first thing he noticed when he sat down in the dangerously cramped office was the rows and rows of egg boxes lining the walls. The interviewer sat watching as he shifted in a seat that was somehow even less comfy than the previous one. A row of framed photos sat on the interviewer’s desk, each one showing him stood over an animal’s corpse, holding a gun.

After about a minute of studying the younger man, the interviewer broke off his unnerving gaze to open one of the desk drawers. “Ok, first question”, he said calmly, reaching into the drawer and pulling out a gun. “Why should I let you live?”