o n e  m o n t h  e a r i I e r

Tyler tugged the knot of his tie toward his chest. He wasn't used to the choking feeling of fabric pushing up against his neck. He sat in the nearly empty coffee shop, a wrapped straw on the table in front of him. Not a coffee drinker, he wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming smell of the beans used to brew the caffeinated beverage.

Finally, the door to the cafe opened, a dark skinned man stepping in. He wore red shorts with white piping down the sides, a white tank top adorning his top half. The woman at the counter shot him a dirty look.

Tyler raised his arm. “Mr. Glover,” he called, his voice coming out a bit higher than he would have liked.

The aforementioned, Donald Glover, nodded, approaching the table and having a seat. Taking in Tyler’s appearance, he let out a light chuckle. “Lookin’ sharp, brother.” He outstretched his hand in greeting, as it was the first time they had met.

Tyler’s smile was a thin line across his face. “Wanted to make a decent impression, I guess. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise, likewise.” Donald adjusted in his seat a bit before sighing lightly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Joseph?”

The mentioned scoffed. “Tyler, please.”

“Of course,” Donald agreed.

Tyler reached down into his briefcase, pulling out a manilla envelope and sliding it across the table.

Donald opened it, reading through the contents. His brows furrowed and his eyes widened, trailing across the pages with fervor. “What… what the hell is this, man?”

“It’s an experiment. I’m a psychologist, I… I want to know the effects of prison on the human mind.”

“You really wanna know? Walk into the state penitentiary, brother. Hell, ask me. That's why you invited me, right? Because I’ve done time?”

Tyler nodded. “Yes, sir. I need you to help me make it as accurate as possible. To keep things under control.”

Donald groaned. “I… This is crazy. You know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

The curly haired man’s head fell into his hands. “Fuck.”

Tyler nodded. “Straight out.”

. . .

“Hey, Kells,” Jon called, slapping his friend on the arm as they walked down the hall towards the business classes of Stanford. “Read the paper today?”

“Haven't gotten around to it,” Kellin replied, his glasses sitting low on his nose. “Why, has something happened? Was it the damned Russians?”

Jon laughed. “No, no, check it!” Jon unfolded the newspaper, pointing at an ad.

$15/DAY
LOOKING FOR VOLUNTEERS IN A RESEARCH EXPERIMENT ON THE EFFECTS OF PRISON LIFE
‘PRISONERS’ AND ‘GUARDS’ NEEDED
CALL TYLER JOSEPH AT 801-826-4917 IF INTERESTED

Kellin blinked, then huffed out a chuckle. “15 bucks a day?”

“You in?” Jon’s eyes were bright, practically glistening with hope.

“Do you really have to ask?” Kellin outstretched his hand to Jon for their secret handshake, one they had made up during their sophomore year of high school.

“I'll call the guy on the ad after class, okay? Meet me at the phone booth outside of the pizza parlor on the corner.”

“Sure thing. Catch you later.”

. . .

“Before I split you all into groups for interviews, I'd like to get all of your names,” Tyler told the group of boys in front of him.

“Joshua Dun.”

“Awsten Knight.”

“Jack Barakat.”

“Otto Wood.”

“Brendon Urie.”

“Geoff Wigington.”

“Spencer Smith.”

“Kellin Quinn.”

“Jon Bellion.”

“Harry Styles.”

“Vic Fuentes.”

“Zack Merrick.”

“Pete Wentz.”

“Alex Gaskarth.”

Tyler swallowed the lump in his throat. “Alright. Awsten, Harry, Joshua, could I have you three step into my office? The rest of you, make yourselves at home out here.”

Donald was already sat in the office when Tyler, Awsten, Harry, and Joshua entered. The four extra men settled quickly.

Donald clapped his hands together. “All right! Let’s do this.”