CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (11 page)

20

Sexkitten69 hasn’t been online
in awhile. I wonder if she’s taken ill. Our games were quite fun; they
certainly helped to pass the time. But honestly, as of late I haven’t missed
them. My mind is consumed by Cromwell and his demise. Go Fish! will have to
wait. Go Kill! Got any Wilmer Cromwell corpses? Just one? I’ll take it!

So far I’ve been unable to
detail a single concrete strategy. Anyone might consider this a massive
problem… as the deed is supposed to be handled within several days time. I must
cogitate intensely on the predicament until an answer is divulged. Wilmer
Cromwell the squalid rat. A flea infested scumbag. A useless noisemaker that will
soon be put down for his crimes against humanity. His opprobrious ways and
maladjusted mannerisms are at an end! I shall do the world a favor and rid them
of this pompous, fustian cretin! This orotund and sonorous windbag! Clang away
Wilmer Cromwell! Because it will be your last! You’ve invoked my wrath, now you
will soon feel the cold hand of death resting upon your square shoulders!

Okay, whew. I’m glad to have
gotten that out of the way. It always does one good to vent a little. You rid
your mind of stress just like exercise does for the body. A laugh, which I am
unable to stifle, escapes my mouth – the thought of seeing Cromwell’s lifeless
body just tickles my funny bone.

Natasha walks by my window
without so much as a glance in my direction. She’s wearing a dark green shirt
and a rather short skirt of the same color. Her hips bump from side to side
with each step in an exaggerated, cartoon fashion. I imagine this vixen walking
into my office, taking a seat. Somehow she’s now wearing a dark green aristocratic
hat. Her eyes are lined with green eyeliner. Her lips are coated with a thick
layer of red lipstick. Those vicious eyes staring daggers at me. This malicious
woman would complete my team of ragtag miscreants. My seductress. My beguiler.
My black widow. The perfect gang for a perfect murder.

The brains, me. The muscles,
Storton. The informer, Ellington. The beguiler, Natasha.

But for now the idea is only a
mere fantasy. Natasha has never shown an interest in me -- I doubt she ever
will. I think she’s frigid and prudish. But, oh boy, what I would love to do
with that body! She has the kind of figure men murder over. In fact, that
reminds me of another true crime story I read. Back in the early 90s -- Oh, oh
well. I’ll tell it later. Nonetheless, this trollop’s participation is hardly
necessary to my plot, it would however, give me that sense of committing a
real
crime. The kind authors wait their whole lives to write about. The flawless
setup, the meticulous execution. It assuredly has a certain poetic nature to
it. At this point I will settle for what I have. Focusing, devoting all my
mental faculties to perfecting this plan in a timely fashion. As they say,
murder must never be late.

I presume the first order of
business is to speak with Ellington, my informant. He’s got all the crucial
facts I require. The nutcase’s handbook! Once I have attained those I’ll be
better able to formulate my plan of attack and organize the crime.

Now, where is that little goon
gone off to? He’s probably cowering in his office wondering if Wilmer Cromwell
will come bursting through his door with a 12-gauge shotgun. I stand up and
walk to the door without caring if Wilmer sees me leave or not. He’ll be dead
in a few days, what’s it matter?

The hallway is empty. I look
down to spot the black marks on the marble floor. The lazy, fainéant janitor
has been slacking again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t properly cleaned
these floors since I took up employment. The dope mopes around the building
without the slightest sign of mopping. No labor whatsoever. How useless. If I
cared enough about cleanliness and sanitation, or even proper work ethic, I’d
report him to his employer. But he’s not my concern. If the brainless twit can
make a living by doing nothing, then more power to him.

Ellington’s door is shut –
Strangely, as I approach the room there is a voice coming from inside. One I
can scarcely hear. It sounds like he’s talking to someone but as I look through
the opaque door window, there is no one else in sight. Figures… He’s in there
talking to himself! The man is really losing his grasp on reality, however
tenuous it was to begin with. Now would be a good time to have a little fun
with him.

And so, without warning, I
slam the door with my fist and shout, “Open up, ya goddamn black bastard!”

There’s scurrying from inside
the room. Ellington shouts some incoherent babble. A few seconds later I turn
the knob, ever so slowly, so that he may watch as the commonplace metal object
rotates menacingly… then I enter as if nothing has happened, assuming my usual
self-effacing demeanor. A comical scene unfolds before me. Ellington is in the
process of preparing to dive under his desk, but he’s frozen in place, staring
at the door.

“I hope I’m not interrupting
anything, Mr. Fairfield.”

“What? Who was that shouting?
Is there a madman out there?!” Ellington jerks his head around, making little
movements to see if anyone is hiding behind me. He’s still standing on one
foot, slightly off balance, poised to lunge beneath the desk.

“Huh?” I’ll play dumb for a
bit. “No, no one is out there. Although… I did hear Mr. Cromwell shout
something a few moments ago.”

Ellington uprights himself and
quickly snaps his fingers. “Cromwell! I should have guessed…”

“Actually, Mr. Fairfield, I’ve
come to speak with you about Wilmer.”

“Who? About what?”

“Mr. Cromwell, my boss. Do you
remember the phone conversation of his you told me about?”

“The
exterminator
call?
How could I forget it!” Ellington’s eyes bulge outward.

“Yes, I think he’s plotting something
very evil. And, well, I’m hesitant to say so Mr. Fairfield…but…”

“But? But?! But what, Jethro!
Out with out, Joel!”

“I don’t know if I should,”
comes my reply as I shyly look to the floor.

Ellington moves toward me.

“Comon! Tell me! I’m in danger
aren’t I? What’s he done!”

I spit the words from my mouth
in one rapid shot of deceit, “I think he’s plotting to off you!”

There, I said it. The deed had
been done. The first seed had been planted. The rest was up to Ellington, my
little freak.

“My God! Jesus Christ! I knew
it! I just goddamn knew it! The call was damning enough… but now you, you
Jeremiah also believe it’s true!”

“Listen, Mr. Fairfield. I have
a plan. Only, no…” I cast my head away dramatically.

“What? What is it?!” he
shouts, swallowing the bait whole.

“Well, it’s complicated Mr.
Fairfield. Nah. It’ll never work…”

“Comon! Just say it! Tell me
what makes it so difficult!”

Step inside my parlor, said
the spider to the fly…

“It just requires me knowing
Wilmer’s exact movements -- for the past week or so at least and where he might
go in the future. But
how
can I get
that
kind of information?”
Here I bring one hand to my forehead like one of those histrionic girls in the
old black and white films.

Ellington blurts without
hesitation. “Jerald! I’ve been stalking—err,
following
him for months
now!”

“You haven’t!” I shout in
feigned surprise.

“Oh yes I have! I can tell you
where he’ll be at any second of any day!”

My arm rises to pat Ellington
on the back.

“You don’t know how easy this
makes things, Mr. Fairfield. You really don’t…”

“Listen Jimmy, I’ll do
whatever I can to save my life. Tell me what you need and you got it. Whatever
it takes.”

I nod my head in appreciation.
My eyes lock onto an empty chair across from Ellington’s desk.

“Please, please take a seat,”
he says.

We both plant ourselves in
well cushioned chairs and get down to business.

“Alright Mr. Fairfield—“

“Please, call me Ellington.”

“Okay. Ellington,” I say with
a smile. “Ellington I need you to tell me
everything
you know about
Wilmer Cromwell. His movements, his habits, his everything.”

“His weaknesses?” Fairfield
smirks.

“Yes, everything!”

“You got it.”

I yank a sheet of paper from a
nearby printer. Here I snatch the pen from Ellington’s shirt pocket. He commences.

“Wilmer always, without fail,
heads to the…”

My midmorning conference with
our token black lawyer proved to be very fruitful. Very edifying indeed. It
lasted only thirty-five minutes, but the information I acquired is invaluable.
I literally have the whereabouts of Wilmer at any given moment of any given
day, aside from those unforeseen circumstances that will cause deviations in
his normal routine.

Not only that, but Ellington
is convinced Mr. Cromwell is set on killing
him!
I managed to convince
Ellington that I’d thwart every effort and endeavor Wilmer might try – I’d
protect him from any harm. But, back in his office, I leaned in close to the
paranoid man and made him promise to keep this little secret between us, as we
are unaware of who we can trust. As it stands now, if anything should happen to
Wilmer, Ellington will keep his mouth shut, supposedly, and enjoy the relief.
But who knows if this will be the case? Fairfield is obviously coming unhinged!
Look how easily I played him for the sap. Something so effortlessly done… could
another do it as well? However, I never expressly told him I’d kill Mr.
Cromwell, only that I’d stop him from causing any damage. Ellington is so
delusional, so detached from reality that I doubt he’d suspect me of any wrongdoing.
Not the meek, quiet little worker drone.

They always say that of mass
murderers and spree killers, “He was a quiet man.” The stereotypical loner,
barely saying a word or giving a wave. These facts are, without fail, divulged
AFTER the incident. No one suspects the meek while they remain so. Yet, how
many of these timid fiends are caught or convicted for commonplace murders?
Such as the seemingly unwarranted slaying of an employer? What motive could he
have? None. They are never caught. How could they be? After all, I’m not
walking into a mall full of people, machine gun in hand, and blasting them all
to hell without provocation. Not yet anyway.

Although my newest lackey’s
job is not complete. Far from it. He will continue to serve my purpose, acting
as my fly on the wall. He will be my eyes and ears. An unknowing accomplice in
the murder of Wilmer Cromwell.

Murder.
It sounds like such a happy word.
Murder.
I can imagine
being at a large dinner party and shouting it out during a lull in conversation.
MURDER!
And everyone in the building would cheer me on. They’d smile and
shout along with me.
MURDER! YEAH! MURDER!
Like some kind of pregame
chant.

Seriously, think of a “good”
word for a moment. Take
considerate
for example. Let’s analyze it. The
first three letters c-o-n. Con. The very act of consideration is a con. Mere
tripe. Consideration is ineffectual and futile. Murder is long-lasting and
substantial. One carries weight and the other is swept under the rug.
Murder.
Murder. Murder.

I awoke this morning with a
feeling of absolute clarity. Somehow during the night a set of laws became
known to me. Well, they’re not really laws per se, but more like crimes; the
only two crimes in all of humanity in fact. The first is pedophilia. And the
second and more egregious of the two is bowl clinking! The first crime, while
despicable, might be tolerable at times. It’s not something I lose sleep over
unlike the second. But the latter… which is detestable and sickening. There’s
nothing more despicable than an arrogant, self-important beefcake with a
clanking problem. If you’re going to be a jerk, then at least have the decency
to do it in private! Do not sit around in public places committing the most
flagrant of crimes, the most flagitious of iniquities!

A woman attempts to cash in on
her husband’s 135k life insurance policy by quickening his demise. She was a
good housewife -- always preparing his meals, and snacks – this is, as you
know, one the easiest ways to off a person. The woman began mixing ground up,
triturated glass into the man’s favorite dish: mashed potatoes. You’d think one
could tell if there was glass in your food. But no, that is a misconception.
When the particles are pulverized so finely they become undetectable to the
person. The effects, however, are still just as brutal, just as lethal.

Tiny shards begin cutting the
gastrointestinal tract. As a result, this causes internal bleeding to occur.
Our greedy lady fed her husband glass laced food over a matter of weeks. Night
after night, each meal, every bite worsening his condition, increasing the
bleeding; but he believed it to be stomach pains and nothing more. The ploy
eventually worked. Her husband succumbed to the injuries a short while later.