CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (16 page)

28

“Mr. Cromwell, I’m heading
straight to lunch now! Got a real important appointment with mother!”

I shut his door and run out
the office before he has a chance to respond. It’s a complete lie. In truth my
mother is dead. She died many years ago. Not that I cared. Her passing felt
like that of a distant stranger’s. I have no sympathy for my fellow man -- and
an even less, nonexistent empathy. I’ve never felt a connection to anyone. As
one psychiatrist phrased it, I’m “emotionally detached,” and another informed
me I was “socially retarded.” All these fancy names for the simplest of mental
attitudes. Oh well, it earns them a living. The damn gouging frauds!

I dash from the building,
taking note of the busy streets (as crowded as ever), making frantic efforts to
flag some yahoo taxi over. Several whizz past, ignoring me completely, before
one (after fighting his way across the hectic roads) pulls up to the curb. His
window rolls down.

“Where to, bub?”

The driver is your typical
schmuck. He’s got a brown mustache and is wearing a tattered brown jacket. A
dumb looking cap rests awkwardly on his head. The stench of BO well absorbed in
the interior – overwhelming rankness. But, seeing as my choices were limited, I
make the decision to hop in. There I am, struggling to crack the window,
battling this ancient grimy handle, before finally jutting my nose out into the
fresh smog-filled city air.

“To Razor Ridge Hospital, and
step on it!” I threw in the last phrase because I always hear it used in
movies.
And step on it!
That supposedly enters into the driver’s ears
and finds its way to his peabrain, which then sends out a signal to his foot
telling him to stomp on the gas pedal.

“You got it bub!” he shouts as
the car speeds up rapidly. My body is actually thrown against the backseat from
the acceleration force. Ol’ stinky knows how to move!
Gun it, boy! Gun it!

Driving along, I can’t help
but notice this city is filled with the most repulsive looking idiots I’ve ever
seen. It’s not just the singular appearance of many of them, but the absolute
abundance, the utter number of freaks. Everywhere I look another malformed
aberration is revealed to me. These misshapen, badly dressed nitwits. And you
know that each and every one of these dunderheads believes they look as cool as
can be. For instance, the skinny guy wearing a tight muscle t-shirt. Right…
Like you’ve got any muscle mass at all, pal. We’re not impressed by your ten
inch pythons.

Over on the left, another fat
girl can be spotted sashaying down the sidewalk. She’s wearing a tank top which
is entirely too tight, short and revealing. It’s only covering her upper
stomach, struggling to keep those rolls locked in tight – down to about the top
of her bellybutton, which appears to be an endless cavern of sorts.
Eww, I
shudder.
The rest of her corpulent gut is exposed for the world to see,
hanging down over her waistline like a gelatinous, sack of putrid fat. Her
pants are excessively, comically taut, which have now either been undone or
exploded some time ago from the sheer pressure of having to suffocate her lower
abdomen (the fourth roll if anyone is counting) – all of these attributes
causing her bulging waistline to not only present itself, but launch a
full-blown assault on the eyes of all who witness this atrocity. The folds of
fat actually descend a good half a foot below her beltline. Any girl wearing
this outfit must think she’s highly attractive. I can’t help but wonder how
this woman became so delusional. This is a crime against humanity!

We stop at a red light. A bum
comes running out of nowhere. He’s got a bottle of liquid in his hand and a
dirty rag in the other. I know his intention all too well. He’s going for the
windshield…. Preparing to wipe it
clean
with his cup of spit and oil and
dirt encrusted rag… It’s not my car, so I sit back, watching, waiting,
giggling.

The bum scurries to the driver
side of the car and begins wiping the glass. My cabby rolls down his window to
shout, “Hey buster! None of that nonsense! Get atta here!” A puzzled expression
forms on the guttersnipe’s face as he continues smearing his filth across the
smooth surface.

“Okay, want to play dumb,
huh?” the cabby yells. He suddenly reaches out the window, grabbing the hobo by
his collar, and pulls him over closer to the driver side window. I’m watching
in disbelief as the cabby yanks the bum downward -- causing his face to smash
against the roof of the car. He then pushes the derelict back a little and
wallops him right on the nose with his off hand. Ol’ bub here is pummeling him
like a speed bag. Bap-bop-bap-bop. The bum falls to the ground just as the
light changes. We drive onward, with neither of us acknowledging the incident.

“Here it is, bub.”

I look down at the meter – it
seems overpriced, but hurriedly I produce the required amount of cash. I’d
rather not linger in ol’ Bubs’ presence. There were still visible traces of the
blood running down the side door. The goon might pummel me just for the fun of
it. Madman! He snatches the few dollars from my hand as I take off running in
the opposite direction.

This is Razor Ridge Hospital.
Just a regular run of the mill hospital? Not quite. I have no sick mother lying
in one of the beds, coughing up her lung. A dear friend of mine isn’t coming
out of surgery and only wishing to see a friendly face. My reason for being
here is much more devious, much more wicked. It is an integral step in the
murdering of Wilmer Cromwell. Before I go any further, allow me to elucidate a
few facts. Ones I happened to research along the way.

The penitentiary where most
reprobates around here end up at runs a local rehabilitation program. Sure,
fine, great. You can think that’s fantastic, maybe it will help acclimate the
ex-cons to normal society once again. But I don’t. I’m of the opinion cons are
like alcoholics or drug addicts. They’re never cured. You’re always a
recovering addict, one step away from slipping back into your vile habits.
These people can’t be transformed. They’re evil. The great and wise all
knowing, benevolent creator has relegated them to fill the lowest stations of
human life. Alas, regardless of my opinion, my motivation for being here is
simple.

Lionel Ducard is one such
ex-con
who entered into the rehabilitation program. He now works at Razor Ridge
Hospital as a janitor, hence my presence. Connecting the dots yet? Remember, my
intent is to frame the miscreant. And what do they have at hospitals that could
easily be snatched by a malevolent con?
Drugs and poisons
. Now you’re
catching on…

The hospital has that familiar
antiseptic smell to it. Everything looks spotless and clean, but I just know
germs are crawling everywhere. You see, when a cleaner or sanitizer is sprayed
onto a surface it kills
everything
off. Not just the germs. What’s left
is a blank surface free of contaminates or healthy little antibacterial germs,
amoebas, or whatever the heck they are. This new barren surface is now
susceptible to either harmful bacteria or innocuous bacteria. Sometimes the
noxious substance takes over, other times it doesn’t. That’s the risk. Which is
why I’m not a big fan of sanitizers in general. Places like these are cesspools
and Petri dishes, breeding grounds for filth and squalor.

I can live with this fact, for
now. My sinister objective won’t take long to complete.

Walking through the hallways
I’m passed by a few doctors and nurses. Well, they’re wearing the typical
hospital attire anyway… so I assume they work here. To my left is a janitor’s
door. Just the place I need. I sneak inside and shut the door behind me, then
strip down. I’d previously put on a monotone surgeon suit beneath my work
clothes. Scrubs. Next comes the mask. I not only wear this to hide my face, but
also to filter germs from the air, of course. Two fold ingenuity, eh?

The internet is a remarkable
place. Earlier in the day, while still busy at work, I’d gone online and found
an extensive layout of this hospital. Complete blueprints, detailed maps. And
don’t worry… I used the public computer AND a proxy… The poison control and
research center isn’t far from my current location in the west wing. A few
minutes later I’m at the desired destination. Nobody questioned me on my trek
here. I blend in so well with all of the other idiots.

Before me sets a few metal
cabinets with glass doors. A small lock secures one or two of them. Inside are
a bunch of various drugs and bottles with green frowny faces – these line the
numerous shelves. I’ve memorized the names of a few poisons that would be
suitable for my purpose. These I found in my crime books some time back. I’ve
been known to commit a few such tidbits of info to my memory banks. Who knew it
would be so handy? I’m scanning the labels for a familiar name...
No… Nope…
Hmm, nope… Bingo!
On the second cabinet to my left, third shelf up, I find
the first delicious little bottle of clearly marked heaven.

There’s a tiny, circular lock
on the bottom area of the cabinet. It’ll take a bit of jimmying to undo. Now
don’t think of me as your typical cat burglar. I’m no lock pick, but these
aren’t the sturdiest of devices either. You could probably break them open with
a pair of scissors or strand of dental floss. Smashing the glass is definitely
the easiest and fastest way in. But I can’t be sure the noise won’t attract any
unwanted attention.

I look around the room
searching for a tool to pry the door open with. It doesn’t really matter if the
lock looks like it’s been tampered with or not. Because Lionel is supposed to
have stolen these drugs, so perhaps a little tinkering is good. That gives the
impression of a man who didn’t care if anyone noticed the break-in. The mindset
of a shoddy con.

Ah-hah! At last, the very tool
for the task. A fine tipped scalpel. I snatch it up, getting right to work on
the device.

Hmm… My fingers must be a
little sweaty… Tinkering and tinkering…Still not there yet, huh… Confound it!
This lock picking is much tougher than I imagined. The scalpel is of little use
in my untrained hands, even though I continue to poke and prod at the lock for
over three minutes. It’s very frustrating work. The blood in my body begins to
boil. I must constantly, and consciously, fight off the urge to smash in the
glass. Give way you son of a bitch! In fact, my fist might have given it a
sturdy thwack once or twice already. I’m stabbing the scalpel at the hole as if
trying to gut a fresh kill. The grating sound of the blade scratching across
the surface.
Die! Die! Die!

“What are you doing!” a voice
behind me suddenly shouts.

Goddamn! I’ve been had.
Caught. The jig is up! Confound it! Of all the debacles that I could commit… My
murder plan is foiled before it’s even begun! You opprobrious fool!
Scatterbrained ignoramus! But wait… I can get out of this morass. I’ve got the
wit – AND my face is concealed. Think, boy!

“Oh, I was just fixing this
lock,” I say casually without turning around to confront my inquisitor.

“What?” the voice barks
harshly.

I dip my head toward the floor
and spin around making a beeline for the door. The man questioning me is
visible out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing the stereotypical doctor’s
uniform. I can tell he’s quite overweight.

“Mother left the oven on,” I
say while walking briskly past him.

“Huh?” I hear the man reply as
I imagine the ensuing head scratching brought on by his confusion. See ya
later, stupid!

A few steps around the corner
I break off into the fastest walk I can muster. Scan, boy, scan! Where was that
blasted room… I think, err, I’m hoping that this path is headed straight for
the janitor’s closet where I stashed my clothes. Hell, I don’t care anymore!
Just lock me up! Kill me! Clank me to death! Arrg! The mission is a wash… A
complete wash! What can I do now? The murder is set to take place tomorrow. Can
I allow this misfortune to delay the plan? What is my recourse? I’ve developed
no contingency plan! Foolish! You cocky son of a bitch!

No one pays attention to me as
I enter the closet and slip on my street clothes. And they pay even less
attention to me as I depart from the room, proceeding to exit the hospital. My
mind is focused on formulating an emergency backup plan. And wouldn’t you know
it? Ol’ Mr. Crime himself does it again… I’ve not even had time to walk ten
feet out of the hospital doors and yet, I’ve already got one... It involves a
rather large oaf with a small brain and revolting tendencies.

NEGLECTED RATIONACTION -- 29

“Storton! Just the man I
wanted to see.” My tone is welcoming, as is my posture, and this seems to alarm
the idiot.

“Hey…Joey,” Todd Storton replies
hesitantly. He’s hauling four water jugs along as I usher him into my office.

“Everything going well,
fathead?” Storton smiles at my insult. The invective has lowered his guard once
again. A brilliant move.

“Just doin’ my job, shrimp.”

I believe Storton has only one
insult for me and it revolves around my size. Shrimp, squirt, midget, munchkin,
pipsqueak, shrimp.

“Good, good. Hey, I need to
ask a little favor from you.”

“Me? Why would I help you out
dwarf man?”

“Come now Storton, call it a
favor among friends.”

He raises his chin arrogantly.
It reminds me of Wilmer Cromwell.

“Call it nothing.”

I sigh and stare at the cold
floor.

“Alright, alright Storton. I
didn’t want it to come to this, but since you said no…” I pause once again,
waiting for him to react. A few seconds go by before he responds – just as
predicted.

“Come to what?”

“If you do this for me…”

“Yeah? If I do it?”

He’s getting impatient and
overly curious. Just the way I want him.

“I’ll arrange for you to get
five minutes in the break room with Georgia.”

His eyes brighten. A smile
spreads across that disfigured face.

“Georgia? Really?
Sexual
?”

“Now, now, now Storton. That’s
up to you. All I can promise is five minutes with her in the break room.” He’s
vacillating a little, still unsure of whether to say yes or no. So I decide to
tip the scales in my favor.

“Plenty of time for you to
work your
inimitable
charm on her…” His smile broadens. Storton has no
charm (even less idea what the word I used means, either – it was yesterday’s
word of the day, after all) and this Georgia woman won’t give him the time of
day. She’ll probably scream for security the moment he enters the room.

“Okay, buddy, I’ll do it! Uh…
What is it I’m gonna half to do?”

Now I’ve got a smile on my
face.

“Well, it’s really actually
very simple. I’d do it myself but time constraints have precluded me from doing
so. My mother, she’s very sick you know. If she doesn’t get her prescription
pills immediately I fear her heart will give out. But the problem is, is that
the pharmacy has lost her paperwork and it will take days before they can fill
out another prescription for her.”

“What do you want me to do?”
Storton interrupts. I can tell Georgia is the only thing on his mind. He
doesn’t care what I’ve got to say. Only that he’ll do anything I ask. And
that’s good enough for me.

“Well, you must head to the
hospital. Razor Ridge Hospital, and procure her prescription from one of their
medicine cabinets.”

“Pro-cue-ur? Pro who? What
does that mean?”

“Acquire.” I recall the young
man who referred to everything he stole as
acquiring it.

“You must acquire, get hold of
the proper prescription.”

“Isn’t that kind of like, uh,
stealing?” He scratches his head unintelligently, reminiscent of a simian.

“Only in the liberalist sense
of the word. G-D-it, Storton! My mother’s life is at stake here! Jesus Christ!
Not only that, but your precious encounter with Georgia depends on it. If you
don’t want that…”

“No, no! Wait! I’ll do it.
Comon, give me a chance. Tell me what I need to get and where.”

“Okay, okay,” I say pointing a
finger at him. “But this is serious Storton, you hear me? Serious.” He nods.

“Good. You go to the hospital
and take the drugs. That’s it.”

“How do I know which ones to
take?”

“Good point, fathead. No
worries, though.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a sheet of folded paper.
“I took this hospital layout and mapped out your path in pencil. See this
arrow?”

“Uh-huh,” he grunts

“Good, that’s you, stupid. You
start here. The name of the drug is written at the bottom of the page. All
you’ve got to do is find the cabinet, locate the correct bottle of drugs by
matching these little letters here to the ones on the label, then, then you
just pocket—err, acquire it.”

“The workers won’t care if I
just walk in and steal it?”

My face contorts into a pained
expression.

“Not
steal
, Storton!
Procure. And no, of course not. However, you must wear one of the doctor
uniforms. The surgeon outfit. Scrubs.”

“Where do I get one of them
at?”

I reach under my desk and
extract an XXXL suit before sliding it across the desk. His fat, meaty hand
extends toward the clothing.

“The bottle will have a green
frowny face on it.”

“Doesn’t that mean it’s got
poison?”

A chuckle comes out of my
mouth.

“Of course not, idiot. It
means it tastes bad so moms won’t buy it if their brats are persnickety.”

“Oh, right… That’s a good
idea, ain’t it?”

I ignore his comment and
continue on with the explanation of the mission. This way there’s less chance
of him getting sidetracked. Such a simpleton must be prone to forgetting.

“Also, you may have to pick
the lock. Or break it.”

“What lock?”

“The lock on the cabinet
case.”

“How do I pick a lock?”

Oh boy… Time to simplify the
plan.

“Okay, Storton. You just break
the glass. But do it quietly. It’s not very thick and won’t require much force.
Tap it until it breaks, no more.
TAP TAP!
Got it?” I mime the soft
tapping on my desk. “That hard, no more.”

He nods, stuffing the hospital
map into his pocket. The brute stands and begins to leave. As he’s halfway out
the door I say to him, “Remember, I need the drugs as soon as possible.”

He nods again, armed with an
ear to ear grin on his face, and undoubtedly leaves with thoughts of Georgia on
the brain. I lean back in my chair, kicking up both feet onto the paperwork.

All is going according to
plan. There have been a few snags along the way, true, but I dealt with
problems swiftly and deftly. My only real concern is leaving the poison up to
Storton… God willing the idiot steals the correct one. Procures I mean. Oh
lord, this may have been a fatal mistake! How could I trust such a buffoon! Can
he even read?! Shameful… Oh well, let’s assume the best for now. The next step
is for me to find some jittery junky slinging mickeys on the side of the road.

Sexkitten69 shoots me a
message. My mind is far too preoccupied to deal with her inanities. Go Fish!
can wait. I’m organizing a murder here.

“Yo, bub,” I nod my head at
the badly dressed stoner standing on the darkened street corner. My intent is
to assimilate some of the characteristics of my last taxi driver, which is why
I say bub.

“What’s kickin’ homey?” The
dealer says to me.

I walk up and position myself
beside him, but never once do I look him in the face. We’re staring off in
opposite directions almost shoulder to shoulder.

“Yeah, buster, I’m needing a
mickey. You got that shit?”

“A mickey?” he says to me,
somewhat befuddled.

“Yeah, bub, a mickey. You know
what I’m talking about or do I gotta wallop you one until you remember? A drug
I can plop into some schmucks drink so he takes a long nap, you got any?”

He looks around nervously
before answering.

“Well, I got some things
that’d do the job. It ain’t called no mickey or whatever the hell you said. I
can tell you, bro,” he leans in close and smiles, “from experience that this
shit will put a guy right out. Like a light. Flip. Out.”

“Alright, alright, gimme some
of that, buster.”

“That’s $75 bucks.”

“$75 bucks? Are you kidding
me? I could buy a pharmacy for that exorbitant price!”

“Exorbitant? What the hell is
you smokin’? That’s a good price, anywhere.”

I turn and stare into his eyes
for the first time.

“Hey, you look like nice
enough a dog. I let you have it for $50, no less, deal?”

“Deal, buster.” I reach into
my pocket to retrieve the loaded wallet. I peel a few bills off the wad and
hand them to the pusher. He gives me a few pills in return. I hope to God that
it’s what I asked for. He could be screwing me over -- I’d never even know it.
What experience do I have with narcotics of any kind? But alas… Circumstance
forces me to be content with these overpriced mickeys as I head to my next
destination. In truth, I’m just glad he didn’t try to stick me with a –

“Ahhhh!!” a shriek of anger.

I spin around just in time to
see an enraged hobo charging toward me. Froth and foam are dripping from his
mouth like a rabid animal. Dear lord! He’s got his arm raised in the air with
what looks to be a disease-ridden syringe, coming right for my throat!

“Sucka what!” the dealer says,
as the overpriced salesman suddenly performs a wild kung fu maneuver. His right
foot flies into the air, striking the bum squarely in the jaw. This move
crumples the homeless man to the ground, where upon the syringe rolls out of
his hand. Here I see the bent tip, coated with all manner of filth. Narrowly
saved…

I copied Lionel Ducard’s
address down from the case report at Wilmer’s office. It’s almost time for dear
ol’ Mr. Ducard to attend his place of employment. His apartment is in walking
distance from here. I arrive at his house minutes later, just as he’s leaving.
The wannabe sleuth in me says I should follow him, which is exactly what I do.
The sweat already running down my hairline. I feel the nerves in my chest.

Lionel Ducard walks to a bar
by the name of
TJ’s Hearty Swill and Grill
. He enters. It’s best that I
wait out here for a bit and let the con get himself situated. A little sauced
up. This is always the best condition to work in. Bosses love it.

The bar looks fairly high class
by slum standards. Many of the patrons are toothless, emitting foul and
unpleasant odors. The women are some of the most unattractive
females
(using the term loosely) I’ve ever seen. Half of them are anorexic,
flat-chested stick figures in short skirts with bony butts -- the other half
are saggy fat women with hygiene problems dressed in clothing of puke-inducing
scantiness. Both groups set about flirting and seducing the equally repugnant
men. Lionel Ducard is one such man. He’s drinking up the attention.

The con sits at the bar with
one of these fat women groping him in the vilest manner imaginable. The smell
is nauseating. I sit a stool down from the pair and order a beer. The
overweight bartender with greasy hair slides me a tall glass. I hand him a $10
bill not expecting any change back, then stare into the mug. It looks like
there’s a large loogie floating on the surface. I can’t be sure he didn’t just
snag this beer from one of the many motley customers in this rundown trash bin.
One thing is certain, and that is
I will not be drinking from this
contaminated cup.

A few minutes go by before the
pudgy woman wearing ten pounds of makeup hops off Lionel’s lap and saunters
toward the restroom. He must be a tough man to tolerate her girth for so long.
I decide it’s time to make my move.

“Hey, buster.” Lionel turns
around and stares at me. I notice he’s rather, well, extremely ugly in person.
His mug shots certainly did him a lot of favors…

“I’ve had my fill. Do you want
this?” I point at the beer. He nods his head after a few seconds of
deliberation. My hand slides it along the bar top in his direction. Ducard
swigs it down in under three seconds, loogie and all. I’m forced to swallow the
vomit in my mouth.

“Nice place,” I say in a gruff
voice. Or what I try to pass off as one.

“Yeah it is.” Lionel answers.

“You come here often?” I ask.

“You hittin’ on me, queer?”
Lionel shoots. I’m taken aback but know that if I show fear I’ll be in real
trouble.

“Nah, buster, and talk like
that’ll get you punched in the mouth.”

“Is that so, small fry?” Mr.
Ducard jumps off the stool with a
woosh.
The man approaches me in a
hostile manner, chest stuck out, hands already balled into fists.

“Hold on, hold on, bub. I’m
just making conversation. I gave ya a beer, let’s just be cool and shoot the
breeze, huh?”

He stares me down before
grunting, then takes a seat.

“Yeah,” he says, “I come here
every day before work.”

“I can see why,” I respond.

Our conversation is cut short
by the fat woman returning from the bathroom. Lionel says he’s busy before
turning away callously. Jerk. The woman has toilet paper stuck to her shoe. A
larger piece is firmly attached at the back of her miniskirt. I get up to leave
feeling satisfied having gotten the information I needed. And a little souvenir
of Lionel’s…