Hi. My name is Joe. And I work in a button factory. I’ve got a wife, and a dog, and a…stop me if you’ve heard this one, before.

Working in a button factory isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, you hear stories about the glamorous lives of the button elite, wining and dining over heated debates about four vs two holes, ending the night with whoever’s coat button they fish out of the cookie jar. Here on the ground, in the button middle class, however, it’s just conveyer belts and needle tests, and turning those buttons over and over, first with your right hand, then with your left, and then over again. Day after day, night after night, week after week, year after year.

You see, each button has to be tested and turned for various reasons. The needle check is, of course, to make sure that each hole is properly designed for optimal threading. Button hole malfunctions are serious hazards, causing almost two deaths and at least five thimble accidents a year. Woe be it to the unsuspecting button sew-er who expects her needle to slide through the hole smoothly and without any resistance, only to be stuck halfway through. That type of blockage can only be safely and effectively removed by a heavy and well balanced tug. Too little pressure and the needle will remain trapped. Too much, and the results can be devastating: eye loss, finger paralysis, there was even a strange case where a woman pushed so hard that the button shot off of the needle, ricocheted off the floor and bounced back, hitting her directly over her left eye. It left a permanent imprint of Two Hole #733.58, and complete memory loss. And so it is that I take the utmost care in my needle tests, threading each hole thoroughly and carefully, and then stamping each button with my seal of approval as inspector #24601.

The turning, then, has an even more important purpose. Each button that comes through the machine must be turned equal times on equal sides by equal hands. This means that if Four Hole #743.56 comes down the belt and is turned once on its lateral side by a technician’s right hand, then on the second trip down the belt, it must be turned once on its medial side by the same technician’s left hand. This is to ensure that both sides of the button are formed symmetrically so as to diminish the chance of it being misshapen, oblong, or otherwise unusable. The button buying market wants their buttons to not only match each other, but compliment and direct the buyer’s lifestyle. Many a relationship had been thrown into chaos over mis-weighted buttons, his being too heavy on one side causing hers to weigh more to compensate. Jobs have been lost over that one button that is just a millimeter too big or too small. Lives have been ruined and tossed into disarray all because of that one strange oval button. It may not be a glamorous job, but it is an important one, and is not to be taken lightly.  



One day, during my 587th right handed button turn, my 587th left handed turn, and my 587th needle check, my boss came up to me. He said, “Hi Joe, are you busy?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “You turning those buttons with your left hand?”

“Yes,” I answered, “of course, sir.”

“’Atta boy,” he replied, clapping me on the back, “Why don’t you take a break, here, son, and come join me in my office. I’d like to discuss something with you.”

“But sir, the belt—“

“Have Mindy keep an eye for you. Those turns and needle checks will still be there when you get back, don’t worry. I’ll see you in my office in five.” That said, he turned back the way he had come, up the seventeen stairs to the upper offices.



After catching Mindy up to speed on the patterns of progress of the buttons on my belt, I walked the seventeen stairs to the upper offices, knocking lightly on the closed door.

“Come!” Came my boss’s gruff command.

I opened the door, crossing the threshold. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Jacobson?”

“Joe!” he greeted, looking up from his papers, “Just the man I wanted to see! Come in, come in! Have a seat, boy.”

I walked the 45 feet across the room, sitting in one of the brown leather chairs in front of his desk. Boxes of button prototypes were stacked along the far end of the desk, folders of shipment information and lists of recipients spread themselves over the desk blotter. Mr. Jacobson leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his large stomach.

“You know why I wanted to see you, Joe?”

“No sir,” I answered. I noticed a stray Two Hole #743.56 lying on the floor by my toe. I picked it up, placing it on the desk.

“How long have you been with the company? Five years? Six?”

“Uh, fifteen, sir.”

“Fifteen! Well!” He scratched his mustache, “It’s about time I got you up here, then. You, Joe, are getting a promotion.”

“A promotion?” I could hardly believe my ears.

“That’s right, son, a promotion. A position opened up heading up Receipts and Shipping that I think you would be just perfect for.”

“Receipts and Shipping? But isn’t that Carl Sanders’ department?”

Jacobson’s face grew dark for a moment, his mustache seeming to curl into itself on his chubby, stubbly face. “There was an…incident with Sanders. He’s no longer with the company.”

“Oh,” I have to admit that I was taken aback. Carl Sanders had been working for the ButtonButton Button Company for thirty-five years, heading up Receipts and Shipping for the past four. He was a good guy—a little jumpy, but quick with a joke. He was the only man I knew to drink soda spiked with bitters. He got a good laugh at the company Christmas party every year, offering sips of his drink to people just to get a look at their face.

Jacobson must have seen something in my face. “Don’t worry, Joe. Carl’s fine. There was just a bit of a conflict of interests between him and the board. There’s no hard feelings. He was coming up for retirement, anyhow.”

“And…and you’re sure you want me for this job? I’m a Conveyer Inspector. I don’t really know much about the Receipts and Shipping end of things.”

“Which is why you’re perfect for the position,” Jacobson answered, “You’re a fresh mind! You have fresh ideas to liven up that dusty old department! And it’s easier to train someone in a position they know nothing about—don’t have to worry about writing over any old hardware up in that brain of yours.”

“I suppose…”

“Plus, it’s a fifteen thousand a year raise.”

“R-raise?”

“Of course! The head of a department can’t be making Conveyer change! You and Rachel have a new baby on the way, don’t you? You could put an addition on your house, set up a new nursery, get yourself one of those eco-friendly minivans. Come on, Joe, what’dya say?”

I took in a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. “I’ll take it.” I answered.

Mr. Jacobson clapped his hands together, sitting straight in his chair. “Fantastic! I knew we could count on you, Joe. I already took the liberty of having the proper papers drawn up, so just stop by Henderson in down in Human Resources to sign them and tomorrow I’ll show you to your new office.” He stood. I joined him, offering my hand to shake.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” he answered, his hand tightly grasping mine, “I know you won’t.”



“…And this is your office,” Henderson finished, opening the door. The room was an eight by eight square, furnished with a desk, a chair, a computer, three filing cabinets and a table with a few scattered packages waiting to be sent out. On the desk sat a small venus fly trap in a brown and blue striped pot.

“That’s Seymour,” Henderson explained, following my questioning gaze, “Carl left it here after he left, so I’ve been making sure to water it and everything. I’ll take it if you don’t want it, but it livens up the office a bit so I figured I would give you the choice.”

“Seymour?” I asked, approaching the plant. It had two pods—one open, its red tinted surface looking like some happy singing cartoon clam. The other was closed, tightly, digesting whatever small bug had been unlucky enough to land on its surface. I touched one of the outstretched leaves, pulling my finger away just in time as it snapped itself closed. Realizing it had been duped, it slowly unfolded itself back into an open position.

“Carl named it that. I guess it reminded him of that movie with the giant plant that eats that dentist. I don’t know. You want it?”

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” I answered, turning back to the HR representative, “So…what do I do?”

Henderson laughed, “The job’s pretty easy. The shipments come in from each department and will be stacked up on the table over here,” he pointed to the table along the far wall, “all you have to do is match the labels on the boxes with the shipping paperwork and then place the boxes in the bins for pick up.”

“…That’s it?” I had to admit that I was a bit disappointed.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds. Wait till you get a box that doesn’t match up, then the real fun happens. But you’ll do fine. Just keep your records organized and you’re set.” He picked a box off the table. “Here, this is for Melody Calbert. 200 Two Hole. Think you can handle it?”

“Yeah…yeah, I got it. Thanks.” I took the box from him, returning his reassuring smile.

“Alright. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He nodded, and left, leaving me alone with my boxes, computer, and the plant. I slid into my chair with a sigh. As if echoing my sentiment, the closed pod of the fly trap slowly opened, revealing a small, white button. Two Hole #744.88.

“How’d you get this?” I asked, carefully plucking the button from the plant’s surface. Seymour stayed silent.  


And so went the next few weeks. Every day, the shipments came in, I checked them off in the system, and sent them out to their rightful owners. I fed the plant, I surfed the internet, I clocked out and went home. Day after day, night after night, over and over and over again.

And then, the body was found.


It was the fifth body discovered in the last few months. The presidents and CEOs of the Nicely Does It Needle Company, Threadbare Threads, Thumbable Thimbles, Penny’s Pins, and now Simply Sewing Sewing Machines had all suffered mysterious accidents in their homes, leaving their companies headless. It was news that shook the sewing world. Someone was knocking off the heads of major sewing companies. But who? And for what gain?

“Really makes you wonder about the world, huh?” asked the guy next to me as the news footage of the most recent body being carried out of the home replayed on the tv screen over the bar. It was Rachel’s night out with the girls so I decided to treat myself with a beer at the pub down the street.

“Huh?” I answered, turning my attention away from the television.

The man next to me was a few years older than I, sporting a scruffy grey beard. There was a small, round scar over his left eye. He cocked his head towards the screen, “These murders. They’re something, ain’t they?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of scary.” I answered.

“Psh”, he breathed through his teeth, “ain’t scary unless you work in the sewing industry.”

“Which, uh, I do.”

He jerked his head towards me, his eyes wide, “Oh, sorry man. I didn’t mean—“

“Nah, it’s okay,” I answered, waving him off. “I’m not a big wig or anything, just send out the shipments. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He relaxed a bit, swirling the last of his drink in his glass before gulping the rest of it down. “Still, you should probably keep your eyes open, kid. Somethin’ not right’s goin’ on.” He motioned to the bartender, “I’ll take another bitters and soda, Charlie.”

Something clicked in my brain. “Carl?” I asked.

“Yeah?” the man turned back towards me, “How’d you know my name?”

“Carl, it’s me. Joe. We used to work with each other at the ButtonButton Button Company, remember?”

“Nah, you got me confused with someone else, kid. I ain’t never worked at no button company.” He turned back away from me, focusing his attention on the tv. I grabbed his arm.

“Yes you did, Carl. You were the head of Receipts and Shipping. You used to try and get people to try that awful drink of yours at parties, you had this venus fly trap—“

“I told you,” he jerked his arm from my grasp. His face was red, the red scar above his eye glowing white, two red dots standing out of the center of it. “I never worked at no button company. I don’t know who you are, kid, but you got me confused with someone else.”

Whatever I was about to say next was drowned out by the voice of the news announcer registering in the back of my brain as she announced the name of the most recent body found killed in her home. Melody Calbert.

I was on my feet in an instant, the bar stool clattering to the floor behind me. Something wasn’t right. Something really wasn’t right. I tossed a five on the counter. I needed to go pull some overtime.


The search for Melody Calbert’s order took less than a second. Two hundred Two Holes. Delivered three weeks ago. And now she was dead. Was there a connection? I played with the button the plant had coughed up. Two Hole #744.88.

…Wait.

I pulled Melody’s order back up on the screen, clicking the “Order Detail’ link. Two Hundred Two Hole. #744.88.

I looked back at the button in my hand. It stared back. It knew something. I knew something. I knew.

A quick Google search provided me with the names of each of the recently murdered sewing heads.

Nancy Williams, Nicely Does It Needle Company—Two Hundred Two Hole #744.88, delivered two weeks before she died.
Elizabeth Sanders, Threadbare Threads—Two Hundred Two Hole #744.88, delivered a week and a half before her death.
Amy Callahan, Thumbable Thimbles, three weeks before she died.
Penelope Jhonson, Penny’s Pins, dead a week later.
And finally, Melody Calbert, Simply Sewing Sewing Machines, dead three weeks after I signed the slip for her two hundred Two Hole #744.88 to be sent out.

This wasn’t a coincidence. She was dead. And I signed the execution order.

“I’m a murderer.”

“Well, not technically,” a voice answered. Jacobson stood leaning in the doorway to my office, flipping a button in the air like a quarter, “Technically, the delivery men were the murderers. You just sent them where they needed to go.” He smiled, his mustache seeming to curl on its own as he caught the button out of the air.

I stood, backing my chair against the wall. “You…you sent hit men after these women? Why?”

“Tsk, tsk, Joe, Joe, Joe, so focused on the details to keep from seeing the big picture. The deaths of the heads of these companies leaves them ripe and willing for mergers, take overs if necessary. Soon, ButtonButton Button Company will be the number one manufacturer of all your sewing needs.”

“You killed these women to monopolize the sewing industry? That’s just—“

“Brilliant? Amazing?”

“I was going to say, ‘insane’, but—“

“Insane?! HA!” He moved towards me, his weight seeming to fill the room, “You Conveyer men, you’re all the same! Carl cried the same tune to me, the small minded fool. Good thing he was always so…absent minded, huh? Though he seems to be a bit more now than usual, doesn’t he?”

“Carl? Then you—“

“Yes, yes,” he silenced me, waving his hand, “Spare me more amazed exclamations. You, of all people, should know what a button can do.” He looked at the button in his hand, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, “Two Hole #733.58. I thought I lost this little beauty after Carl left my office, but then you were so kind as to find it and pick it up for me, weren’t you?” He turned back to me, the smile of a disappointed father on his face, “I really hoped that things could have turned out a better way, Joe. But as it is—“

His arm shot out, releasing the button in a perfect arc. It ricocheted off the floor, turning back towards me. Next thing I knew—


Hi. My name is Joe. And I work in a button factory. I have a wife, and a dog, and a…stop me if you’ve heard this one, before.