We know about you.
We know that after Mocon was decommissioned, a small population of gremlins quickly occupied the space, as gremlins are wont to do. You filled the musty bowels of the building, lurking in the dark, rough spaces behind unplugged industrial freezers and rusting furnace-system components. In the moonlight, you climbed into the jumble of gears and chains that once comprised the conveyor belt underbelly and cranked the old system back to life, turning the corroded cogs by hand. We imagine that the latches slid and creaked in ghostly imitation of their former function.
We also know that you, the gremlins, worship as your deity an old vending machine, sliding votives through the food slot and dancing around the base of its rusted husk. (According to one experimental ethnographer, your form of worship descends from older Eastern vending machine cults.) And we the students of Nicolson V write today to inform you that we have stolen your deity, this vending machine.
She is safe and intact, but we will not consider her return until you meet our one demand: through your gremlin necromancy, disinter and resurrect Sir William T. Butterfield, patriarch of all debauchery and buggery.
Once Lord Butterfield is again among us, he will supplant the current ruler as potentate and consider our demands for grilled whole baby calamari at Summerfields. And a Butterfield Inferius would be a formidable opponent to any of our enemies.
Mark our words: if Procurator Butterfield is not resurrected by the end of this lunar cycle, students from Down II will deface and destroy your deity with halberds and glaives. And you will have to show yourselves. Nobody has ever seen a gremlin, but when I am in the shower at night I hear soft voices that tell me you exist.
You have been warned.
The Federated Students of Nicolson V