CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (13 page)

23

I made sure to scan a few
extra case files, for extra wiggle room, before leaving the office last night.
I stashed the papers at home to be read over again. I’m hopeful that by the end
of today I will not only have a fall-guy selected, but also the means by which
I wish to eliminate Wilmer with. He’s a lowdown, rotten, supercilious,
presumptuous bag of slime. I’d like to toss him from the top floor of this
building and watch him fall, feet kicking and arms whirling – right up until
his body splatted against the pavement below.

“How’s it going today,
Jaleel?” Seriously? Jaleel?

Mr. Cromwell is obviously
attempting to show concern about my health. But it’s an empty question without
any sincerity. The kind of perfunctory remark one makes while exiting the room,
which is precisely what Wilmer does.

“Much better, thank you,” I
say to the empty space.

Mr. Cromwell has already
seated himself in his office. The door is slightly ajar; I can hear the sound
of tapping coming from his keyboard. How I detest that man. Je le déteste.
That’s French. Insults rarely sound as good in the French language. Everything
seems sweeter, not that I care one way or the other. This is America and I’ll
speak American.

A message pops up on my computer
screen. It’s Sexkitten69 challenging me to a riveting game of Go Fish! I
probably shouldn’t play, but knowing Wilmer’s demise is only days away imbues
me with the happiness to accept. Though in truth I don’t care whether I win or
lose. This game is a mere mockery when compared to my most important task --
the killing of Wilmer Cromwell.
Murder. Murder. Murder.

There I go again. The words
are said without any dark connotation. They are what they are. Years ago I once
described my outlook on life to a psychiatrist. He told me my philosophy was
akin to that of a moral nihilist; which is basically someone who holds the
belief that no choice or act is inherently better than any other. They are
merely different; any further meaning is manmade, societal, or cultural. All of
them equally unimportant and pointless. Murder is no worse or better than
retrieving your morning paper. Quaint, isn’t it? I agree with the sentiment.
Everything in life is subjective, I say. There are no objective morals. Just as
I’ve mentioned before, there are but two things in life: perspective and power.
Whoever holds the power creates the perspective.

Oh good, it’s my turn for a
go. Woop-dee-doo. I ask for sevens. It turns out Sexkitten69 was hoarding
several in her stash. She grudgingly hands over three. That puts me in the
lead, setting up for a quick win. A little tidbit here… We stopped using the
new fish cards because the names were too hard to pronounce, but more
importantly, too tedious to spell out. Nobody wants to be typing out
broadband
dogfight
every time they need a card.
Two. King. Ace.
Much better.
We’re back to the good old fashion deck. And I feel a bit at ease as a result.

There’s a blur of motion from
outside. Ahh… Beautiful Natasha walking down the hall. I distinctly see her
look up from the floor. Our eyes lock on one another. An attempt to be sneaky.
She’s not smiling, yet not frowning. It’s an indifferent face as if she were
looking at a blank wall. What splendid glasses she has. Red-rimmed spectacles.
Very stylish in a devilish sort of way – far removed from the bubbly, ditzy
cute sense. Her hair is a bit wavier than usual today. It looks nice. Natasha
averts her gaze before quickly moving out of sight, although her image remains
in my mind for hours after – yet I feel nothing. There is too much at stake to
appreciate the woman and all her glory. What a shame, but…

Yes… maybe… Is it possible for
this vixen to lure Mr. Cromwell to an out of the way, rundown hotel? A hotel in
which I would be hidden, waiting in the closet.
The two would enter in a
burst of movement through the door. She would cast a furtive glance in my
direction. I’d smile watching them through the door slats. No, not in a deviant
sexual manner… She tosses Wilmer on the bed with a flick of her hair. He lies
down, legs spread. At the exact moment Natasha unbuttons her blouse I eject
from the closet, wielding a silenced pistol. Wilmer jolts upright. I press the
pistol against his forehead and pull the trigger. THUMP! The dull shot rings
out as he falls over, quite lifelessly, to the floor. My hand grabs Natasha by
the back of her head, a firm grasp on the hair, as I pull that little wench in
close. I plant a kiss on her full lips as she finishes unbuttoning that
annoyingly spectacular blouse.

Ahh, but alas, mere fantasy.
My life is filled with these reveries, these daydreams, these phantasms.
They’ll never come to fruition. Natasha will never be mine. I probably wouldn’t
even like her. She’s a gossip-monger. A real prude. The grapes are sour anyway.
Yet, her alluring and tantalizing presence captivates my thoughts. That
fleeting, spectral woman. At times I wonder if I’ve only imagined her… Is she
real? Can she walk through walls? Can she float? Does she breathe? Then I
realize it is my lack of courage, my lack of conviction, my lack of confidence
which prevents me from approaching the damsel. Now, not for a single moment do
I think I’d have a shot. But it would be nice to experience the actual
rejection for once. Instead of being content with these dull fantasies.

Drat! Sexkitten69 sneaks in a
dastardly good move. I never saw it coming. She steals all of my eights,
threes, and sixes to win the game. Though I can’t say I’m disappointed.

Wait until you hear the lovely
news… The answer is revealed at last!

Lionel Ducard. My fall-guy. A
smalltime thug, a bumbling twit Wilmer helped put away back when he was serving
as the district attorney. Lionel had been found guilty of assault, vandalizing
property, AND attempted murder. He’s the perfect candidate. The timing couldn’t
be more fortuitous. This week, five days ago in fact, ol’ Lionel was released
from the state penitentiary. You know what this means? I sure do… It means he
is left free to commit a murder. I must love the thought, for here I can feel
my lips spreading outward into a smile.

But let’s not get too excited
yet!
I’ve only just come up with the fool. Naturally, none of the details have been
worked out… yet. But I can take some joy, allowing myself to appreciate the
small victory.
Good work, today!
as Cromwell would say… Ok, that’s over
with… G-D-it! I still don’t know how I’m going to kill the simp -- but I do
know who will take the rap for it. Or at the very least, take the heat for it.
Lionel Ducard, a petty criminal trying to make it as a big shot.

“So, Storton, tell me the
truth here…” I lean in close to the gelatinous, girthy waterboy. “Have you ever
done anything to Mr. Fairfield’s water?”

“Huh?” he says, looking at me
with an overly perplexed look. “You mean the black guy over there across the
hall?”

“That’d be the one.”

Storton mimics me by leaning
in close. We’re nearly eye to eye now.

“Actually, yeah, I did. I
have. Things you wouldn’t believe.”

“Oh?” I ask inquisitively.

Storton shakes his head yes.
“Well for one, what would you think if I told you
Mr. Fairfield
as you
call him, drinks my urine on a routine basis?”

“You’re not serious,” I say,
despite knowing he is all too genuine. Todd Storton is a vile human being. As
he speaks the words I can’t help but wonder what he’s done to my water. A bit
of throw-up rising in my throat.

“I totally am,” he says
indignantly.

“You haven’t done anything to
my
water, have you fatty?”

“What? No, of course not,
pipsqueak. You’re one of
my
kind.”

“Your kind?”

“Yeah, you know,
our
kind.” Ah, so it is true. Todd Storton is a racist -- probably the only one in
the building too. Ellington had right to fear, although he suspected the wrong
person. Hah! What does it matter.

“Oh right…” My voice trails
off as I think of something else to fill the airwaves with. Racism is awkward
to me. Especially discussing it with this slack-jawed nimrod.

“So have you had any luck with
the ladies in here?” I know he hasn’t. In all the time I’ve been here, Storton
has never received one positive response from a single woman. And there are
a
lot
working in this building. Strangely they all seem to be of the same
variety. All are exceptionally good looking in an executive sort of way. It’s
as if all the bosses were fulfilling some porno fantasy of theirs by hiring a
young, voluptuous girl. But, I’m sure each gal is highly qualified; typing five
words per hour and has memorized all the law statutes.

“Jake it’s funny that you’d
ask me that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, because just today I
came
this
close to getting Stacy’s number.”

I don’t know who Stacy is. I
don’t know any woman’s name in this building aside from Natasha’s. And I’m not
even certain that is her name.

“Georgia? Really? Wow, you’re
moving up in the world.” I’m hoping I don’t sound too phony, although it’s
unlikely Storton could tell. Like making faces at a fat slug.

“Yep,” he says smugly. “Right
there on the stairs. I was carrying my four jugs—“

“Wow, all four?!”

“Yeah, my four jugs. And she
says I ‘look like an overgrown ox.’ I know she meant I was strong as an ox.
These girls ain’t the brightest, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, of course.”

“Anyway she had an excited
appoint to go to, so she runs off in a hurry. I know we’ll talk again soon and
I’ll nab her number for sure. If not… then she’ll be getting an unpleasant
surprise in her water jug.” He laughs out loud, nudging me with an elbow.

I fake a chortle to go along
with the somewhat amusing, mostly sickening joke – when suddenly a daunting
thought strikes me. How long can I go on socializing with Todd Storton? The man
is a worthless weed. A plague on society. He’s repulsive, repugnant, repellent,
revolting, and rebarbative. If this Wilmer killing goes well I might just off
Storton afterwards. Who knows? Maybe I get addicted to the sick rush murder
gives me and find myself forced to do it again, and again, and again. How
funny. Now I am chuckling sincerely, observing his overgrown jaw, jutting out
from the caveman-ish skull.

Our laughter goes on for
awhile before dying down into a dead silence. We both stare at random spots on
the floor.

“Well, I best be going
Jordan,” he says to me, rising to his feet.

“Yep, see you later…pal.” The
word
pal
comes out of my mouth like poison. I feel disgusted for having
said it. Ashamed and belittled.

Storton lumbers to the doorway
and leaves. He waves at me through the glass window. That dorky face of his
grinning broadly. Hideous. I’m able to force one more smile before falling face
first onto the desk. My head slides across the keyboard. Minutes later, upon
looking up at the screen I notice the portending sign… A mix of letters having
been written on the open spread sheet:
M
G
U
SD
R
O
D
KJ
E
B
R
.
Yes, I notice it too. The word murder is spelled out amid the jumble of
characters. It’s all around me. Everywhere I look the word is sure to appear. I
cannot escape this. It is destiny. Wilmer Cromwell must die so that I may live.
It is survival.

And then, speak of the devil…
I hear the sound of Wilmer’s desk drawer. It can’t be! Not now! Have I been so
careless?! My eyes dart to the clock. 12:43! Oh my God, Jesus Christ! No!
Without explanation I hop from my chair, bolting from the room. Wilmer calls after
me but I neither slow down nor answer back. Eat your G-D lunch, you bastard!
Clank away you scumbag! Enjoy your final days on earth!

It is a bittersweet feeling in
my heart. One side fears the clanking so much that I’m forced to tear away in
defeat. While the other side revels in the fact that Wilmer will be lying dead
in a matter of days.

After quickly descending the
steps, I exit the front of our building. There is a payphone out on the street.
An old woman wearing overly high-waisted pants is yakking away on the device. I
rush over to her and rip the phone from her unsuspecting hands. The old bag
shields her face with one hand as she takes sight of me. A disturbingly loud
scream comes from her agape mouth.

“Shut up! Shut up!” I shout.
Her cries are attracting some attention. But you know the city, nobody gives a
damn. Some one screams? Oh well. The crowd walks on by without bothering to
look at us for even a second.

“This is important, lady!
Stand back and let me make this call!”

“But my granddaughter! She
needs directions to the airport.”

“If she can’t find her way
there then she shouldn’t be traveling!” I scream.

“Well! I never!” the woman
says shaking her head. I don’t care what she thinks at the moment. I’ve got
business to attend to. Old biddy wants to palaver on the phone for hours… get a
private line, you old hag! No one cares to hear about your shoddily done perms
or what you ate for breakfast!