Claiming the Steel Bunker

The kitchen monkeys finally shut down the fryers and killed the floodlights. Sitting upside down against an overturned milk crate was a dented, commercial stainless steel mixing bowl, dumped like unwanted junk. Naturally, I wasn't about to let five-star real estate sit empty. I kicked an old wooden clothespin straight under the rim to prop the lip open, clamped my green cup, and crawled right into the polished cavern. I braced my dress shoes against the curved metal and rapped my knuckles hard against the bowl. The entire dome chimed like a busted church bell, buzzing straight through my teeth. My own personal echo chamber, acquired with zero manners.