Rats in a Sack

I was sucked into a science fiction film. The corridor to our company's staff room was lined in thick plastic sheeting. As I progressed I saw that the door to our staff room had been sealed too. There was something going on inside, behind the plastic and keep out signs. I could picture men in Bio-Suits, chasing a diseased monkey, trying to force it into our microwave. I was worried, not least because it meant eating my sandwiches in the public arena, being watched by thousands of slack-jawed Easter travellers (and their foul, moping teenagers with the terrible acrid pheromone smell). Suddenly a man appeared at my side, gas mask swinging nonchalantly around his neck.
"What's going on?" I asked, half expecting him to shout APRIL FOOL and punch me on the shoulder. Instead, he put his hands on his belt, jostling the waistline of his jeans.
"Asbestos, mate," he said. "This place is full of it and we've got to get rid of it."
"What?" I yelled, appalled and shocked, horrified by the tumour that I now envisioned growing in my lungs.
"You shouldn't be here, mate," the workman said. I didn't need telling again, and I scurried off down the plastic lined corridor.
I immediately called Stockton, who has a talent to create worry and fear about this sort of scenario. True to form he made me worry more, he began to talk about failing lungs, mutated bronchial nodes and the ubiquitous idea of a massive tumour.
"We might as well go and get a pack of Gitanes," he said, "and really go for it."
God knows how long this will last, and God knows why they are only removing the poison now. They must have known about it for years. Someone, somewhere has known since the building was new, since before the walls started crumbling and before the roof started collapsing. Passengers think the airport is a glittering concourse full of glamorous perfumes and designer sunglasses. As Shakespeare said, the world is a stage, and behind the scenes it is a disgusting, barely functional room filled with sweat and poison.