CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (10 page)

18

“Who was that laughing?”
Wilmer asks me.

“I’m not sure,” I reply while
walking into his office, “I think it was the water cooler man.”

“Figures. He’s an idiot.”

Finally Wilmer and I can agree
on something. I’ve got the bowl hidden behind my back. Wilmer is sitting in his
office chair staring at the screen. He’s already minimized whatever he was
working on. Perhaps a few smutty videos or whatever the deviant views. I don’t
have a clue. But I do know that you should always be suspicious of some one who
minimizes their screen when you enter the room.

“What can I do for you,
Joachim?”

He’s back to foreign names? I
don’t believe it… But I must conceal my rancor for the sake of this grave
mission. This is, after all, a life or death undertaking.

“You see sir… I went out and
bought a little present for you.”

“For me? What is it?” Wilmer’s
mouth stretches wide enough I can see every single one of his teeth. I guess
it’s true what they say, flattery is the fastest way to a person’s heart!

“Well I know you’re a big fan
of dishes, so I took the liberty of buying you a new lunch bowl!”

It has finally arrived! The
moment of truth! Have it Mr. Cromwell!

I bring the bowl around from
behind my back and carefully place it on Wilmer’s desk, as if it is an
all-important object not to be damaged. His eyes light up. He reaches forward and
begins unwrapping the item. Ravenously, strangely.

“Jamey I don’t know what to
say.” Wilmer’s got a big arrogant
I’m better than you
smirk on his face.
Even when receiving a gift he’s still got to be a jerk about it. What a beefy
clodpate.

“Think nothing of it, Mr.
Cromwell!” I bellow proudly.

He removes the last of the
paper. It’s finally here! Cromwell stares at the bowl with wonder. It’s
magnificent. He shifts it from one hand to the other testing its balance.
Flawless. And then
it
happens… my heart sinks. His saccharine smile
dissipates, soon replaced by a confused expression. No! It can’t be! How can he
dislike this
faultless
dish! This inimitable work of art! Impossible!

“Don’t you like it?” I ask
weakly.

“Umm, well… you see…” Wilmer
is stalling, forever the diplomat. I know he’s looking for a pleasant way to
turn me down. He’s equivocating. Scum!

“It’s just that it’s, well…
it’s plastic.”

“What’s wrong with plastic?”
How can he not like plastic?!

“It wrecks the flavor.”

What? Plastic wrecks the flavor?
Is this guy a dingbat?

“Oh?” I ask becoming quite
agitated.

“Yes. Let me put it this way,
what is your favorite drink container you like to drink from?”

“Glass,” I answer
unconsciously and then it hits me… Glass does make things taste better. Or at
least purer.

“Exactly. Glass gives the
purest taste out of all the materials. Plastic, paper, wood, steel, metal, all
the others. They all leave a noticeable taste on the food over time. Glass
doesn’t. But thanks for the gift all the same.”
Pretentious smile…

“Sure,” I say even more
abjectly than usual. My spirit is crushed. I’m at a loss as to what to do.
Wilmer hands me the bowl. I let it hang at arm’s length as I walk out of the
room, defeated. What am I going to do? Death is a certainty if the clanking
continues… Only being one step removed from his office, I already hear Wilmer
pull open his desk drawer. He’ll no doubt be taking out the large glass bowl for
his lunch. I accept my doomed fate and continue walking. The dead man’s final
minutes. Soon to be escorted straight to hell – ushered in by those malicious
clinks and clanks playing my final, mocking tune.

And then… a recent
conversation between me and Todd Storton comes to mind. I had asked him what
he’d do if someone disrespected him, disregarded his wishes in the most
egregious of ways. He responded without hesitation and with the utmost
conviction. His answer was, “I’d kill them.”

HARDBOILED ESCAPIST -- 19

Before that day I had never
actually contemplated the act of murder with any seriousness. At least not in
reality. Sure I’d thought of it from a character’s point of view. That was
bound to happen due to my copious reading of crime novels. But I’d never
thought of committing the deed myself. All of that changed the instant Wilmer
refused my gift. It had now become a matter of survival. Me or him.

He’d refused my dish, refused
to stop eating out of the glass bowl and in doing so willfully resigned me to
death. An act of murder in itself. I believe it’s called willful negligence in
legal terms. Then again I’m not a lawyer and I don’t care much for the law or
its workings. My only focus now is on perpetrating the perfect murder. The
killing of Wilmer Cromwell.

Murder is a strange thing
indeed. Society frowns on the act… in some cases… and commends it on other
occasions. Take war for example. During those militant circumstances your
country
wants
you to kill of the enemy, whoever it may be. Many states
impose the death penalty for a variety of crimes. How does killing someone
illustrate the point that killing is bad? It seems to me to be a sort of
physical oxymoron. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the death penalty. I think
it’s a great system. I just don’t understand what they’re hoping to accomplish
from the process. Other than the fact of offing a criminal and even some
wrongly convicted innocents along the way.

Perhaps my diligent reading of
murder and crime stories desensitized me. In my mind, as of right now, I don’t
find murder repulsive or gruesome. It’s not a sin. It’s merely an action. One
could rationalize any action given enough time. To me it is pointless. People
will either agree, disagree, or be ambivalent. In the end their opinion doesn’t
matter because we’ve each got to decide what is right and what is wrong.

In society there is simply
power and perspective. Whoever holds the power creates the perspective.

I now hold the power. The
power to kill. The power to take life. And so my perspective sees it as just
and equitable. Wilmer won’t acquiesce to my requests? Then I shall remedy the
problem starting at the source. Just like the character Parker from a Richard
Stark novel. Run ‘em down boy!

Philip Hone once said, “They
committed murder, it is true; but their situation may have rendered it
inevitable.” That is precisely my predicament.
Rendered it inevitable.
There is no other choice. My only conundrum… how? What method shall I use to
take Wilmer Cromwell’s life? Gun him down? Poison him? Shove him out a window?
Run him over? Strangle him? Bludgeon him? Hire a hit-man?

The more I think, the more
tantalizing and appealing they all seem. So many opportunities. However, some
options are obviously more viable than others, but each is plausible at this
point. I mustn’t rule out any possibility lest my choices become limited.

Music is a very powerful
force. I’ve always imagined a soundtrack to go with each murder. While reading
novels I would organize a playlist and keep the music on a loop as I read the
gruesome details. It takes some creativity and imagination, ingenuity if you
will. Movies have rendered this skill useless as they already employ a song.
But I’ve always wanted to see a murder committed while 1920s-30s cruise music
played in the background. The kind of staticky, melancholy songs usually with a
male singer. The sound comes blaring out of unseen speakers as the murderer
creeps silently into his victim’s bedroom.

Perhaps I’ll incorporate such
a soundtrack into my little homicide. To be honest I feel embarrassed. To think
that it took me so long to reach this conclusion causes me great chagrin.
However, I consider myself to be a rational person. And rational people don’t
jump to murder at the drop of a hat. You’ve got to seek other avenues – as I
have done, at great length. I’m sure you’ll agree with me in that I have no
other alternative. Every outlet has been explored… Except for my greatest
decision ever: To murder Wilmer Cromwell.

Murder. Kill. Slay.
Annihilate. Assassinate. Eliminate. Rub out.

The words roll off my tongue
like ice cream on a hot, sunny afternoon. They feel so natural, so joyful, so
empowering. Now, I can truly understand what the lowlife scum in my crime
stories thought. I sense what they felt. The same fears, worries, concerns, and
exhilarations that went through their minds are now going through mine. We
share a bond, an intimate connection. And on that note, I returned to my lowly
chair just in time to receive a message from Sexkitten69. Sorry, babe, can’t
right now. The mind is racing. There’s much to do! I open up the music folders.
Ah yes… there must be something fitting in here.

I heard the familiar lumbering
steps of Todd Storton as he approached my office. Of course he toted four water
jugs along with him. And of course he looked utterly stupid as he flirted with
an attractive, although uninterested office girl. She beat a hasty path to her
office door and slammed it loudly in his face. The oaf grinned as he galumphed
into Ellington’s office and replaced the empty water jug. I can only guess
whether or not he would have spit into the container if Ellington had been out.
But perhaps he tampers with the liquid before entering. Who knows how devious
this corpulent cow actually is. Storton told me a few sordid stories that
involved him and Ellington’s water jug. Things I don’t care to recall. Just
imagine how vile, filthy, and squalid Storton is. Imagine that foul, repugnant
character spreading his bodily fluids, his body parts all over the water jug
and cooler spout. Then imagine a man drinking said water. If you can picture
all of that and keep from gagging…I commend you.

The goon exits Ellington’s
office and plods toward mine. He’s down to three full jugs with one empty
barrel. His hat is titled upwards at an odd angle. It makes him appear dumber
than normal, like a badly dressed toddler and just as clueless (if not more
so). My own water jug is just about drained. I presume Storton will mosey in
here and slap on a fresh one. The grunge and grime covering his putrid shirt
catches my attention. His slimy hands grope at the handles of the water jugs.
Sweat drips down his flabby forearms. Muscles. That’s who he is. Muscles. The
big brute in a crime story that does what he’s told and doesn’t ask questions.
A myrmidon. He’s far too idiotic to be inquisitive.
Hey Muscles, go snap
that guy’s neck! Sure thing boss, dur dur!

Sure enough Storton barges
into my office, clunking the jugs roughly against the doorframe. No wonder
there are a few chips in it. The buffoon is smiling, still excited from being
ignored by the office girl I assume. Life is so much simpler when you’re a
duncepot.

“Storton, ol’ boy! How goes
it?” I shout in a friendly tone. He seems a bit put off by it. Probably because
it’s not my normal greeting.

“Uhh, hi Joplin.” he says
stupidly. “I’ll uh. just put this new jug on for you. Okay?”

“Sure, be my guest Toddy.”

“Okay, pipsqueak…”

Little does he know, I’ve
already begun plotting Mr. Cromwell’s doom. Watching this behemoth toss around
the cumbersome jugs elicits a smile from me. The muscles! Storton is going to
play a prominent role as either the fall guy, or at the very least, an
accomplice. He won’t suspect a thing of course. He’ll be unaware of his
involvement in the crime. Although his complicity will be deep and integral.
I’m going to make sure that if I go down, this brainless twit will be right at
my side. I don’t plan on being caught; however, one must plan for all outcomes.
It’s merely a contingency plot at this juncture.

He clumsily knocks off the
empty container before swinging up a full one to take its place. I must have
been eyeing him a little too intently because he looks over and says, “Are you
checking me out, dude?”

“What? Of course not. I’m just
observing how you perform your duty so effortlessly.”

“Why not? These jugs ain’t too
heavy and I ain’t too weak. Unlike you, pipsqueak.”

“Good point,” I say. I’m
trying to buddy up to the goon for now -- without being obvious. He needs to
trust me a bit more before I run him on a few
errands
of my own.

“At least I’m not an
overweight slob.”

“What did you say shrimp?”

“Just kidding, Storton, my
boy. Why don’t you sit down and rest a spell. Take a moratorium from your menial,
yet honorable job.”

“If you want.”

He sets the remaining water
jugs on the floor with dull thuds -- then plops down on the couch across from
me. The waiting room section. His eyes scan the area, absently looking, without
any sign of intelligence in them. My watch says 12:20 which means there’s not
much time left before Wilmer brings out his tormentor’s tool. I’ve already
decided to eat elsewhere for the next few days. I can rough it until the plan
is complete, a mere matter of days. That’s how soon…

Wait, a few days?
you ask. Shocking, right? Anyone else would need an exorbitant
amount of time to plot and design a crime of this magnitude. But I’m somewhat
of an expert from having read hundreds of crime novels. I know just where the
police will look. I know the amateur mistakes to avoid and the clues to leave
behind to throw suspicion off my trail. This should have been my real
profession. Not a lowly peon – but a hired, skilled assassin.

“Storton, would you like to
accompany me to lunch today?”

He pauses for a moment,
chewing his lower lip.

“That depends… Are you
buying?”

“Of course, fathead!” Anything
for you Storton… My dearest lackey.

I’m sitting here thanking the
Gods for putting this goon into my life. I couldn’t have asked for a better
stooge. And just at that moment Ellington Fairfield walks in front of my
window. He glances in for a moment. Wilmer is exiting from his own office.
Ellington sees him, and quickly averts his gaze at once. His eyes look straight
forward as he picks up the pace, getting away as fast as he can without
running. Like trying to escape a wild animal. You know sprinting will only
trigger their innate nature to kill.

“Hello there,” Wilmer says to
Storton. They exchange pleasantries.

“Oh, Jergen, I’ll need you to
change a few appointments for me. Something’s come up and I won’t be coming
back this afternoon. Cancel or reschedule all of them. Okay?”

“Sure,” I say apathetically.

“Terrific, great job today!”
Wilmer says before returning to his office.

It’s at this point that I
realize something. Ellington Fairfield. The paranoid buffoon from down the
hall… He could be a valuable asset to me, surely. Hell, he’s already been
stalking Wilmer. Jesus Christ! That’s it! Ellington knows his every move! The nut
has followed Wilmer for weeks or God knows how long. Jesus, he even snuck into
my office to eavesdrop. Huddled under the desk like a crazy fan stalking his
celebrity obsession. I can’t be sure of the extent Ellington has gone to at
this point. But my only hope is that he’s gone far, far, far beyond what even I
believe to be possible. The more the better.

Just when I thought God had
blessed me with a single perfect lackey, here I discover a second unknowing
accomplice! Who is perhaps even more beneficial to me than Muscles. Now I’ve
got the nervous jittery man. The snitch. The spy. The informer. The lookout.