Handmade Spool-inspired Key Fobs

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Theory on the Key Saga after the break in video

Ok... After watching the recently October 20, 2020 video about the break in, a small part of me (the skeptical part) is starting to wonder if this is all an elaborate fiction story. Again, I say a small part of me is thinking this.
However on to my theories.
  1. Either the person works for or has a contact with the security company that allowed him to gain access to "master code" for the key fob. I dont know how realistic some tv shows or movies are, but some media portrayals indicate that companies might have a hidden 'master' code that allows anyone that uses that code (fob or keycode, etc) to gain access to being the highest tier in that system. I would at least talk to the security company and the police so that an investigation on how that the suspect was able to gain entry.
  2. Suffice it to say, regardless you and Kevin need to seriously consider getting a new security system installed. This would help to eliminate any old/hidden master codes. I would even suggest to not put up any branding of the new security system so that it would even be harder for them to know who to talk/go to or even help make it harder for them to figure out what any hidden/master codes might be.
  3. You might even suggest that everyone be extra vigilant with their FOBS to try and make sure that no one can scan it without their knowledge. I know that Brian Brushwood and Jason Murphy over at The Modern Rogue did a small series this year about ways to gain access and 'copy' fobs, key cards, etc. It may be worth a watch, but I am not going to link it in this post.
  4. Keep all materials about this (safe, key box, etc) at an undisclosed location like a storage unit or some other off site location, and dont register it under a name of anyone associated with the studio. This way, one of the only ways that the person could find the materials would be to physically follow whoever goes to check on the items or pay for the unit.
  5. Even better than #2, turn EVERYTHING over to police, let them see all of the nest cameras, videos, etc. It might be time to cut and run from this ordeal, even if you "love mysteries", Matt. Is figuring the mystery out worth another break in? Is it worth the security of your office, staff, or even family members of anyone on your team?
  6. For cameras, I would look at higher resolution camera for the bigger areas (replace the camera that is pointed at Sam's office with a higher res one if possible), and put cameras back in all offices and common areas. You might trust the staff, but they might appreciate the sense of security that the cameras add more.
  7. On cameras, you might even want to have some more paired with some sort of light soruce and not rely on the IR camera sensor in the cameras. Like how it appeared that the suspect was wearing a white mask and hood, but when he walked toward the armory we were able to see that it was black due to the light that was on in that area.
submitted by TuxedoJericho to MatthiasSubmissions

Surgical Theater (TP)

*Once again, I have a story in both Third and First person. Let me know which you prefer and enjoy*
"They're ready for you, Doc," Nurse Chastain said as she stuck her head through the double doors.
Doctor Clyve didn't look up from the wash sink, where he stood mentally preparing himself for the coming surgery. Doctor Clyve, just Doc to the nurses in his OR, started each surgery by reminding himself that he was the Hand of God, sent to cure the sick and heal the living. He was God's Instrument, and he must help those in need so that he might fulfill his purpose.
He finished his cleansing ritual and stepped through the same double doors the nurse had just exited.
The gleaming surgical suite was awash with men and women garbed for surgery. A nurse stepped forward, gowning, and gloving the Clyve as he stepped close to the table. The trays were laid just so, the breather nearby, and his patient was prepped and ready. Clyve took a moment to glance up at the theater seating around the top of the sunken operating room and saw Styner and Merkle, along with a few curious onlookers, sitting and observing as he began. Then he cast his gaze still higher as he basked in the radiants of God that flowed down like mana through the high glass ceiling above the Gallery. St. Merkis Hospital was one of the few hospitals in the country with an operational operating theater. The administrators thought it good for business, letting guests who desired witness surgeries beyond anything they could ever imagine. The tag line for the operating theater was "Come See Gods Miracles Daily" on the promotional materials, and Dr. Marucs Clyve was the chief performer of those miracles.
He made eye contact with Dr. Styner and had to remind himself not to wink at him. He was above such baser gloating, even if it would really get Styners goat. He knew as well as Styner did that it was a prestigious honor to operate here. An honor granted only to Clyve these days. He had never had a surgical mishap, never lost a patient, and had no black marks to his name. They had called him a prodigy at Johns Hopkins, just like his father. Unlike his father, he had not been snared by the bottle or by the lusts of the flesh. He kept a clear head and was a dutiful spouse, unlike his Father.
"Unlike Gwendolyn," the voice of the serpent whispered.
He shook that voice off; that was the voice of darkness.
"What do we have today?" he asked Nurse Breecher.
"Male, Mr. David Goss, here for an Aortic Valve Replacement, Doctor."
Clyve smiled behind his mask as he held a hand out for his scalpel; he could have done this procedure in his sleep.
"That was inspired, Doc. I don't think I've ever seen a replacement go that smoothly."
Clyve washed his hands, closing his eyes as he spoke the ending of his mantra.
"I think Dr. Styner stayed for the whole procedure."
He could almost see Nurse Breecher's smile as she spoke. She was leaning against the scrub sink, Clyve just finishing washing his hands. The washing was how it always began and how it always ended. It cleansed him, made him clean before the eyes of God. He looked down as he washed but had to look away and kept scrubbing. The blood was thick there. He had wallowed in it, been stained by it.
God's instruments are often hard to clean after they've served their purpose.
"Some of us are...going out for drinks. They wanted to know, I wanted to know if you'd like to come with us?"
She twirled her finger through her hair when she said it, looking like some high school girl trying to figure out if a boy liked her back. Clyve had seen her look at him like that for the last year, and it always made him uncomfortable. If she desired him, then it would be best that she never say. He was a married man; she wanted too much of him. Who was she to try and test his bonds with Gwendylne? Who was she to test the will of God's…
Her hand felt warm on his when she covered it as it sat on the wash sink.
"I know...things have been hard for you, Doc. But they could be better. We could…"
He took his hand away, "I need to go."
She turned away, hurt but not surprised.
"Next time," she said, hopefully.
He knew that time would never come.
Styner was waiting by the elevator, almost as if he were waiting for Clyve.
"Great show today, Doc. Great show," he said, flashing that huge toothpaste commercial smile.
Clyve had always been unnerved by that smile. Styner looked like a doctor from a soap opera, swooped back blonde hair, chiseled jawline, body by Bowflex crammed under a white coat. Many of the nurses lusted after him, some of them had even followed him to bed, but Clyve had always felt uneasy around him. His mouth was too wide, his jaw threatening to unhinge like a snake when he talked. A mouth like that could swallow you whole, and he suspected that might be Styner's plan for replacing him.
Just swallow him whole, bone and all.
Clyve said nothing; he just pushed the down button as he prepared to leave for the day.
"I talked to the Board today, Clyve. Mr. Mason doesn't think it's fair that you get to use the theater and no one else does."
"Mason is a Godless fool, a Darwin Worshiper who has no place inside these walls."
Styner smiled that too-wide grin, and Clyve had to stop himself from shuddering, "I'll be sure to tell him that."
The door opened, and Clyve stepped inside, Styner following after him.
The doors closed, and the two were locked inside this falling coffin.
"Regardless, he has given me time in the Theater next week. I've got a tricky bit of brain surgery that he thinks the public might like to see. It looks like you're not the star of the Theater anymore."
Clyve scoffed, turning his stoic face into that oncoming leer, "I wish you well of it. May your efforts be to please and glorify God, and not simply to prop up your own damaged ego."
His smile then became a real sneer, "That creepy, holier than thou bullshit you spew is not going to win you any favor around here anymore. Daughty and Morris are in a few months, and Simmons will be gone by the end of the year. Clemmonts is a weak-willed snail, and Mason will be free to move in some individual with a less narrow outlook. Your days are numbered, Marcus."
Clyve did not flinch from his sneer. Daniel never flinched within the lion's den, and certainly, Styner was no lion. He and Merkle could hover over him as he worked, but they would gain nothing for their efforts. Clyve was above the judgments of man. He answered only to God, and God's will would be done.
"If that is the will of God, then I shall bow to it."
Styner scoffed, "You can use your god as a veil for your pompousness, but the rest of us can see what it really is. Pride cometh before a fall, Doc, and your fall will be long indeed from atop your high horse."
When the doors open, Styner pushed past him and skulked out into the hospital at large.
Clyve let him get a dozen paces away before leaving for the parking garage. It was late afternoon, and the autumn leaves scuttled across the parking deck like skeletal rats. He walked through the rows of cars to the service elevator and took it down to the sub-basement. The maintenance men had looked at him like he was crazy when he had asked them to put his spot down there, but Clyve didn't want to park his BMW somewhere with high traffic. The car was his pride and joy, the first vehicle he had bought after becoming a doctor, and some days he felt like he loved it more than his wife. It was almost a decade old, but the chrome still shined, the paint was still immaculate, and the engine purred as it had the first day he'd driven it.
The doors opened on the sub-basement, and Clyve was pleased to see that his was the only vehicle there. He walked across the concrete tomb, one of the lights flickering overhead, and stopped halfway to his car when he thought he heard that same skeletal scraping of leaves. He glanced around. Surely there were no leaves down here? No wind either, even if there were. He was five floors underground. The sound of his sensible shoes clocking on the pavement must have been what he heard, but as he started again, he stopped after hearing the same sound.
It sounded strange in this place, but the noise sounded like laughter.
Not real laughter, that false laughter that polite or rude people make sometimes. He had known people, in his career, who would laugh at any joke in just that way if it came from the lips of a superior. It was false, a lie, and Clyve had never stooped to such since becoming a man. He was still convinced that it was his shoes, the clump of his heels somehow making that noise as it bounced off the shadowy corners of this garage, but as he approached his car, he became less sure of it.
As he approached his comfortable BMW, he could almost feel someone's eyes on him. That scuttling, skittering laughter blew like a wind across the pavement. He clicked the key fob as it got closer and closer, seeing the lights blink and hearing the cheery horn toot. He took a step towards the car, meaning to get in, and then turned suddenly to confront whatever prankster thought they were funny. No one would scare him, whether it be in the light of day or the darkest tomb. He was God's Instrument, an extension of his love and mercy, and he would not stand for being hounded by some catspaw of Styner or Mercle or Mr. Mason himself.
He turned and found no one behind him.
Just an empty garage and his uneasy breathing.
He closed the door behind him as he climbed behind the wheel of his BMW. He felt comfortable behind the wheel, he felt in control again, and he pulled out his phone to check his messages before driving off. He had asked Gwendolyn if she intended to come to mass with him tonight before going in to wash for surgery. She hadn't gone to Wednesday mass since...since the miscarriage. That had been a dark day for Clyve, a dark day for both of them, but he had seen it as a sign that it wasn't time for him to have a child. When the time was right, God would bless him with a child. Gwendolyn had taken it very differently, having a lapse of faith and a general stagnation of her relationship with God and the Church. That had been a year ago, though, and it was time to get back in the lords good graces.
It was time to stop all these dalliances and get back on the righteous path.
Her response had been short.
"Go without me. I have plans."
Clyve thought of asking who these plans were with. The Gardner? Her Tennis Couch? Her Fitness Instructor? Some stranger that she would drag into their marital bed to satisfy her lust? His fingers hovered over the buttons to do just that but, instead, he put the phone away and started the car. Gwendolyn would come back to the fold eventually. She would see the error of her way and…
He recoiled in his seat, his knee hitting the horn as his brain tried to make sense of what he had seen. There had been a face outside the window, an eyeless, inky black thing with grinning teeth and a too-wide mouth. That mouth reminded him a little of Styner's, and he felt his breath hitch in his throat as he looked back to confirm what was imprinted in his memory. It was gone, though, when he turned back. The only thing reflected was his own haggard face. He shook his head; maybe he'd been working too hard lately. Maybe all of this was starting to catch up with him. Maybe...maybe it was time for a break, a chance to relax and reflect.
He shook the thought away.
God's Instrument never rested.
He pulled out of the parking garage and turned for St. Dominic's.
He needed to bask in the glory of God before returning to the Sodom that his home had become.
He arrived home just as the front door opened, and Gwendolyn walked out with her personal trainer. They were mooning at each other, hand in hand, as they came onto the wide front porch, but their hands slipped from each other when they say his car in the driveway. Clyve had never bothered to learn this man's name; he was one in a long line of lovers that his wife had brought home over the past year. He didn't linger on the front porch. He said his goodbyes and was pulling out about thirty seconds later.
Clyve prayed daily that this wasn't the only pulling out he was doing.
He also prayed that she was being safe if not smart.
She was waiting for him on the porch as he sat in his car. Clearly, she wanted to talk, to put his mind at ease, that "they were just friends" or "he was just here for her session" or some other excuse. He looked in the rearview mirror to be sure the man had left and cringed away before turning to look in the back seat. He was panting as he scanned the back, eyes darting like a scared animal. The thing from the garage had been there, had turned and grinned at him, but now there was…
He jumped, hitting his head on the ceiling as someone knocked on his glass.
It was Gwendolyn.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice muffled by the glass, "It looked like something startled you."
He killed the engine and stepped out of the car, sending his wife stepping back so the door didn't hit her.
"I'm fine. I see your plans went well."
She followed in his wake as he walked towards the house, timid and unsure.
"Randy came over for a private session since it's hard for me to make it to the gym these days."
"Mmhmm," Clyve commented as he walked into the house.
"You're home early," she commented, awkwardly, as the two of them stepped into the grand old house that had once been Clyve's childhood home.
"Service ended at eight, and it is now eight-thirty. I am home exactly when I should be." Clyve said icily. You are the one who was late in sending your "plans" home was what he wanted to say. She had put cuckold's horns on him, him, and all he could manage was passive aggression with her.
He paused in the entryway, looking into the living room where his father's chair still sat. He had allowed her to re-decorate every room except for this one. The couches, the old photos, that canary yellow rug his mother had loved so much, and of course the tan leather chair that his father had sat in the evenings and nursed his tumblers of whiskey. How many nights had he played on that awful rug, careful to avoid his father as he drank and read his medical journals? How many evenings had he come home from school to find his father right there and already drunk as he pretended he could see straight enough to read the evening post? He could almost see his father ghost slumped in that chair now, and as it turned its head to regard him, its lips peeled back in a too-wide smile.
Clyve buried the shudder so Gwendyln wouldn't see it and think less of him.
"Are you hungry? I've got dinner ready if you'd like to eat with…"
"Not tonight," he said as he gave her a pointed look, "something has turned my stomach, I'm afraid. I'll be in my study," he said, walking across the hall and leaving her standing there like a guest who's unsure of where to go.
He was operating. His scalpel was a gleaming silver sword as he cut the cheeks of his patient. He cut and cut and cut until the face was one long smile that grinned eternally even as the wearer groaned beyond the haze on anesthesia. He looked up when he was finished, raising his arms to the Gallery and finding it filled with the eyeless, smiling creatures. They clapped and capered like Satin's imps, and when he drew off his surgical mask, he could see that he too had a wide carved smile that dribbled blood onto the sterile floor of his theater. The monstrosities clapped and clapped, and their laughter rang out hollowly through the theater, devoid of all mirth or joy. They laughed without knowing joy, and he reveled in their regard.
The thunder outside woke him suddenly, and he sat up in bed. He was breathing heavily, the dream having rattled him, and the rain had started coming down sometime after he'd gone to bed. He had kissed Gwendyln dutifully goodnight and gone to what had once been their marital bed. Now he slept there alone; she banished to a guest room until she was ready to make herself clean before God and confess her sins to Father McCormick. She said she wouldn't, it was no one's business, but hers and Gods, and Clyve had rejected her, frankly, secular outlook on what was a shameful practice.
The lighting made him jump, and when he looked at the window, he nearly screamed. Outside was one of the grinning abominations, clawed hands splayed against the glass and rain dripping down his eyeless face. Clyve stared at it, his heart feeling ready to leap out of his chest, and the creature starred eyelessly back at him. The two stood in silence for a count of thirty before a bright flash of lightning dispelled it.
When his eyes adjusted, it was as though it had never been there.
Clyve looked a mess as he came into the hospital the next morning. His scrubs were immaculate as always, but he hadn't had time to press his lab coat. His graying hair sprang up in cowlicks, and he was jumpy after a night spent under the eyeless gaze of those monsters. Every time he had managed to doze off again, he found himself back in that demonic operating theater, the Gallery full of those waiting ghouls. He smiled at them in the dream and reveled in their regard, but beneath that facade, he was screaming. He woke up screaming more than once. Gwendolyn never came to check on him. She had likely taken a sleep aid and was catatonic in her bed. He had slept through his six am alarm, and when he came awake at eight with the sun beating in on him, he had thrown himself out of bed in a blind furry.
Now it was nine, and he was hours late for his rounds.
Nurse Breecher was coming out of the elevator as he was getting ready to go up, and she seemed relieved to see him.
"Doc, thank God. We were getting worried about you. Your ten-fifteen has been moved up to nine-fifteen. They need the operating room at noon for some procedure with Dr. Styner. Did you know he's been given authorization to use your operating room?"
Clyve climbed into the elevator beside her and pushed the button going down instead of up, "He said as much yesterday."
Nurse Beecher looked at him out of the corner of her eye as the elevator rumbled to the ground floor where the operating rooms were.
"You don't look so good, Doc. Are you okay?"
"I...had a rough night," he said, stepping out as the doors came open. The last thing he wanted to do was step into that operating theater that he had spent so much time in last night, but the room was his domain, and he would be damned before he would let Styner or some faceless boogie men take it from him.
Those words would prove prophetic.
He hung up his lab coat, told Nurse Beecher to get everything ready for his gastric debridement, and set about washing his hands. He spoke the words he always did, a prayer to God to make his hands steady and his mind clear, but the words were muddled as that canned laughter of those creatures crept across his mind. He tried to dispel them, tried to exorcise them from his thoughts, but they just wouldn't go. He felt himself begin to cry, his tears falling into the sink, as the warm water and soap ran to join them.
He had gotten control of himself by the time Nurse Beecher returned.
"They're ready for you, Doc," she said.
He strode into the operating room and cast his eyes skyward, but the day was overcast, and it appeared there would be no transplendent mana from heaven today. His eyes fell upon the Gallery instead, and he sucked in a nervous breath as he saw them. Not the creatures, of course, but Styner and Merkle and their dear sainted Mr. Mason were all sitting up there with a handful of guests and staff on break. They sat on high like the jury of God, judging him and watching him, trying to catch him slipping.
He straightened himself and set his mind to rights.
God's Instruments did not slip.
He made sure the patient was ready, a fifty-five-year-old with a GI tract full of tumors, and began his first incision.
He had opened the chest cavity, the room as silent as a church when someone in the Gallery laughed. Clyve paused, almost dropping his instrument had it not been for the textured surgical gloves he wore, and put it out of his mind. The second chortle was worse. It sounded like fake laughter, like sitcom laughter, like the sitcoms that Gwendolyn watched in the den sometimes that had never appealed to him. He called for silence in the operating room and was elbow deep in the patient's abdomen when he heard the third laugh. A mirthless chuckle that rolled through the Gallery like a dead leaf and sent his nerves skittering.
"I said quiet in the Gallery. If anyone else makes noise, nurse, I would like them ex…"
But that was when Nurse Beecher suddenly started laughing. The woman doubled over, her face pressing against the unconscious patient, and sprayed laughter as the Gallery rumbled above him. He looked up then, getting ready to yell at them, administrators or not, but he dropped his instrument and gaped at the assembled crowd. Styner, Merkle, Mason, and numerous others, were laughing like loons as the dark creatures sat patiently amongst them. One of the nurses who had come on her lunch break suddenly leaned out over the railing and fell to the polished tiles below. She burst like overripe fruit, dousing the machine sand instruments in gore and sending the other nurses in the room into gales of laughter.
Clyve backed away, his breath hitching as their laughter became more and more mechanical. They lost that rosy laughter; their human mirth drained from them as they laughed their lives away. The laughter echoed off the walls, bouncing against the glass ceiling and ringing eerily throughout the operating theater. Clyve put his hands to his ears, reminded of a time they had went to a mental hospital when he was in med school. The inmates had laughed like that, laughing despite the horror they lived in daily, and Clyve had heard that laughter in his nightmares for weeks after.
It was the laughter of the clinically insane.
It was the laughter of those trapped in Hell.
Then the man on the table sat up, his guts spilling out as he chuckled and laughed, and Clyve felt his bladder let loose as he turned to run. He made it to the wash-up room, his hip striking the sink and sending him spilling, but when he tried to push the door open, it wouldn't budge. He threw his body at it, his hip aching where he'd hit it, but the door would open for nothing. Clyve finally slid down the unmoving door and sat with his back against it, watching the shadows of those imps coming for him through the foggy glass of the doors beyond.
He began to pray, hoping that God would show him mercy.
Maybe, God even did.
Whose to speculate on the merciful nature of God, after all?
submitted by Erutious to Erutious