CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (18 page)

Blackness envelops my vision.
Darkness befalls the world…

31

Pfft. Pshht. Pow. Smack.

Something is slapping at my
face. It feels warm and moist. My eyes slowly open, yet the room remains
distorted. A brief moment later my disorientation steadily fades. I finally see
where I am. I’m looking at a mugger holding a gun on me, reaching for my
wallet. Wait… That can’t be right. And it isn’t. I’m actually looking at
Ellington Fairfield’s excruciatingly ugly face. Why is every one I know so
hideous?

“You okay? What happened?” he
prods me with a finger in the shoulder. The thing feels like a baseball bat.

“It was…” I half purposefully
pause here.

“Yes? What happened! Tell me
Joaquin!”

“Wilmer, Wilmer Cromwell,” I
squeak out dramatically, just waiting for the wheels of thought to turn in
Ellington’s brain. His face blanches, or at least goes as white as a black
man’s face can go.

“He came for you, didn’t he!”
Ellington grabs me roughly by the collar with both hands, reeling me in toward
his face. The inhuman strength he possesses turns me into a ragdoll. Somehow my
weak neck isn’t broken, though I’m not sure I didn’t acquire whiplash.

“Yes, yes… But not Wilmer… One
of his men came. I know too much… Ellington!” I roll my eyes into the back of
my head, saying no more, going silent.

“What?! Yes what!” Ellington
shakes my limp body like a retard’s play toy. It’s because of this that I think
it best to answer fast before he breaks me in two. And I was going to have such
fun!

“You must go through with the
plan tonight. I’m too weak to do anything; I’ll be on bed rest until tomorrow
for sure.” I finally realize we’re in Ellington’s office. That much was to be
expected.

“Alright, you stay strong so
we can bring that racist dirtbag to justice!” Ellington assists me up to a
chair, and finally, thankfully, releases his hands. My chest aches where his
knuckles had been pressed into the skin. It’s probably going to bruise -- but I
have bigger fish to fry. And cockalorums to kill!

I now find myself staggering
down the hall back to my own office. The clock reads 1:55. That’s quite awhile
to have been out. Especially, considering I’ve not eaten any lunch today.
There’s a growling in my stomach. Drat! I’ll have to rough it out or risk
Wilmer getting suspicious and asking questions. Thank God he didn’t see me
lying on the floor. Seems he should have been parading over my limp corpse,
relishing in his victory. The fool… you had your chance! Now it’s my turn.

I sneak into the office, tip
toeing my way across the dirty floors (damn janitor still hasn’t cleaned) and
take a seat at the desk just as my legs give out.

One positive has come from
this ordeal. A grand one at that. Ellington Fairfield is now thoroughly spooked
beyond a shadow of a doubt. He should perform his task with intense focus and
precision. The man will not falter on this journey. He mustn’t. Otherwise the
whole plot will be compromised and—Oh, Jesus…

A lumbering figure approaches
my office. It doesn’t look happy. Not at all. The lantern jaw and unintelligent
face are instantly recognizable. Todd Storton. With his angry, scowling face on
– like he just dropped the last cupcake. I know exactly what he’s here for…
Georgia and his five minutes with her in the break room. Yeah, about that… The
oaf hulks into my office – no water jugs this time. I guess that means he’s
serious. Storton plants the knuckles of his extended arms on my desk, leaning
forward.

“You ain’t a welsher, are ya,
shrimp?”

“Why no, Storton. I know what
you’re here for though. And I’m a man of my word. You want your five minutes?
Of course you do! Who wouldn’t? It’s the beautiful, ravishing, debonair,
scrumptious, sensual, lavish, and –“ judging by the look upon the caveman’s mug
I think, once again, it’s time to kill my darlings. “And you’ll get it!”

“I knew you was a smart guy,”
he says, trying to sound menacing.

“See that clock, fathead?”

Storton follows my finger
pointing at the wall.

“1:59, what of it?”

“Listen you blockhead. Georgia
will walk down this hall from the left and enter that break room in exactly
sixteen minutes. Okay?”

Storton rocks his head back as
the great, slobbering mouth opens. I’m reminded of Jonah and whale.

“Ahhh,” he says wagging a
finger at me. The brute leans over my desk, taking hold of my entire body, and
shakes me from side to side. A gesture of appreciation in dimbulb circles I
assume.

“I better go, uh what is it
they say? Oh yeah, I better go freshen up. Ha-ha!”

And with that final bit of
drivel, Storton leaves my office. The oaf heads off to the bathroom. He runs a
hand through his thinning hair. I choke down the vomit climbing up my throat.

32

The next highlight of my day
will come in approximately fifteen minutes when Storton barges in on an
unsuspecting Georgia. I’m sure the water jug man’s presence in the employee
break room, minus any water jugs, will cause quite a startle in her. Invasion of
the monster-man. There is an antsy feeling stirring in my gut. I can’t recall
ever experiencing this before. Is this happiness? Anxiousness? God forbid…
giddiness? It’s a pleasant sensation, perhaps what people refer to as the
butterflies.

Beep.

Sexkitten69… requesting a
game. One part of me finds it to be a bit prophetic in a sense. A final game of
Go Fish! on the eve of my most justified action in life. I accept the challenge
without hesitation -- awaiting Georgia’s entrance. Wilmer Cromwell is ensconced
in his office, the door is slightly ajar, and the sound of tapping reaches my
ears. He must be busy with his clandestine activities as always.

A flash of blond catches my
attention. I twist in my chair, right in time to spot Georgia walking down the
hall. She resembles a Barbie doll. The perfect figure, cherry blond hair,
smooth skin, poised, proper, naïve, and gives the impression of being
completely brainless. I’m not sure if it’s a fair assumption but my gut tells
me I’m probably right. My indifference tells me not to care. It’s almost here!

Georgia flips her hair to one
side. Time slows down as the lengthy golden locks whirl outward for a brief
moment, exposing her long, thin neck. As soon as her hair comes to a rest, the
world resumes real-time. Woah. Lucky Storton. She enters the break room.

I keep my eye trained on the
hallway for any sign of Todd Storton. Sure enough, the ogre doesn’t disappoint
– right on schedule. He steps out from the hall corner, where I assume he had
been observing the door, waiting for Georgia to pass by. What a creeper.
Storton kind of hop skips toward the room. The slackjawed doofus sees me
staring out at him, so he gives a wink as he passes the window (utter glee
written on his face). Now I’m not the only giddy one in the building.

Oh boy, here it comes!
Sexkitten69 is prodding me to make a move. Hah! Think again, woman! Your wee
game is trivial in comparison to the utter humiliation of Todd Storton. I can’t
wait to see him leave the room -- rejected and dejected.

Wilmer holds steady tapping
away as I slink to the hall door and peer down toward the break room. Storton
vanishes beyond the threshold. Only a matter of moments! Yes! She’ll send him
out shrieking, screaming bloody murder. “Security! Security! Help!”

…The wait is longer than I
anticipated. Has my sense of time been warped? Or has it really been
several
minutes since he’s entered? She hasn’t screamed. There’s been no noise
suggestive of a struggle. Is he raping her? The ol’ chloroform trick? My mind
is racing to secure a viable explanation when the break room door eases opens.
A woman’s hand pokes out. The girl is obviously facing away from the entrance;
her arm is extended out behind her back as if she’s --- speaking? As if she’s
speaking to someone! What in God’s name is going on?

Her hand, Georgia’s hand,
pushes the door farther open. She’s smiling and giggling in that self-conscious
way women do when flirting with a man. What in tarnation is happening! I’m
shocked, mortified to see Todd Storton standing in front of her with a broad
smile on his vapid face. But that is not the shocking part. It’s not unusual
for the troglodyte to smirk stupidly… Georgia backs out of the room without
taking her eyes from him – not in a
don’t come any closer, I’m warning you!
sort
of fashion either. They exchange a few pleasantries out of earshot. She then
turns to leave, but as she departs, Georgia looks over her shoulder and… waves
goodbye to Storton. Her face is genuine and pure. There is no feigned delight.
She is truly intoxicated by our grotesque, massively overweight, hairy, dull
water jug man!

I can’t believe it… Georgia
spins toward the hall in a sensuous manner. I catch the last glimpse of her
golden hair as she rounds the corner, removed from sight. Storton sees me
seeing him -- shows me the thumbs up sign, complete with a goofy grin.

The world is in a state of
disarray. Nothing is as it seems. Everything is chaotic, capricious. Storton is
landing supermodel quality women and I’m playing Go Fish! online with, in all
likelihood, a man posing as a woman. Bah! What do I care! Trivial! Trifling!
Picayune occurrences in a nugatory environment. These are meaningless things in
a meaningless world. Who cares if Storton wooed the office goddess? My true
task is the murder of Wilmer Cromwell -- the cessation of his clinking. Storton
can’t beat me on that front, not where it really matters. He can keep the
lifeless Georgia and all her talk of shopping and cosmetics. I’ve got a date
with destiny. It’s go time!
Sevens?!
She wants my sevens!

The hour grows late.
Thankfully the workday is nearly over. The sun begins to dip below the horizon.
Wilmer’s final productive working day is coming to a close. I’ve been sitting
in my office chair tuning out the world. Sexkitten69 has beaten me over
thirteen times in a row. Why she’s stilling playing is beyond me. Only a real
simpleton can be entertained by effortless victories. You might as well be
playing yourself. A true competitor thrives on challenge. Worthy opposition.
Such tests as, oh I don’t know… committing the perfect murder! That is my
contest… I have nearly succeeded. I will vanquish the man! The trophy is mine!
Victory will be had!

Tonight I will venture over to
Wilmer Cromwell’s home while he is at the gym, during which time, our pal Ellington
will be drugging the repulsive Lionel Ducard. Hopefully. If not, then these
days of planning and scheming have all been in vain. Just like my entire life.
Nothing would be new there. Yet I hold steadfast to the machination. Moments of
doubt are always common before the final culmination of your efforts. One is
forced to wonder if everything will be alright. Did you do everything you could
have? Has any task been forgotten or neglected?

I wonder if the pills that
junky sold me are the correct ones. I wonder if Storton didn’t somehow give me
the wrong bottle of poison. I wonder if Ellington’s notes were erroneous and
Wilmer Cromwell won’t be at the gym. He’ll be at his home and very curious as
to why I’m breaking into it. Perhaps I should have gotten a silenced pistol
just in case? When all else fails, whip out a gun. It seems to work in all the
hardboiled novels. The good guy merely draws a gun, puts a few rounds into the
goons and his problems are solved.

Then again, the authors of
those stories had months if not years to plan the action sequences. And not
only that but, believe it or not, they script the villain’s lines and
responses. I don’t have such luxury. I’ve got one shot.
Only
one shot to
execute this project. There won’t be any mistakes. There won’t be any mishaps,
see?

Ellington Fairfield galumphs
into the hallway. He appears ever more disheveled and discomfited by the
minute. What a weak-minded simp. Constantly unraveling he is, at the slightest
grievance. Pathetic. As I sit here staring at the nervous body before me, I
can’t help but think I’ve made a mistake. How could I entrust such an important
mission to this lummox? He’s been an unstable nutcase since day one. Then again
maybe that’s a bonus. Only an unstable nutcase would even consider helping me
drug a random stranger. No matter! We’ve come too far to turn back. At least on
my side… there will be no turning back!

Fairfield seems unsure about
something. He’s stumbling in the hall glancing in my direction every now and
again. It’s the kind of stagger terrified drunken people perform. The dull
keyboard sound suddenly stops. Wilmer is coming! I decide to have a little fun
with Ellington. So, I wave my hands in front of my chest in such a way that he
couldn’t possibly understand my meaning. Ellington’s eyes bulge from their
sockets like oversized baseballs. Wilmer exits the inner door of the office. He
approaches my desk. I quickly bring up the spreadsheet. The same spreadsheet
I’ve been
working
on for weeks without any progress. If he had a brain
in his head or was even slightly perspicacious in the least bit, he’d have
noticed this. But the dunderhead is an unobservant nitwit. The dense fool.

My eyes widen in mock terror
as Ellington attempts to dart away. But, and quite comically, he falls in the
process. The black lawyer from down the hall is now stuck on his knees trying
to secure footing, to find a way up, to sprint back to the safe haven of his
office. It’s rather amusing. Mr. Cromwell puts a hand on my shoulder as we both
stare at Fairfield.

“What a strange, peculiar
man,” Wilmer says, shaking his head slowly.

“Indeed, he is,” I reply with
sincere conviction. “Indeed he is.”

“Oh, James I’m heading off
now. See you tomorrow and great work today.” The predictable arrogant smile
greets me as I glance up to meet Wilmer’s eyes.

“Getting in a workout later
tonight?” I ask cheerfully.

“Why yes, yes I am Joseph.”

“Terrific, Mr. Cromwell. I
admire your healthful ways and wholesome habits.”

“Why thank you, Jafar. You
know,” Wilmer leans in close to me as if he’s going to reveal a secret. “You
could get in great shape too. Pump a little iron and you wouldn’t be so puny
anymore! Ha-ha!”

I try very hard to force a
smile and laugh along with the insult. But I only manage a pained expression
among several forceful expulsions of air. Like a man trying to catch his breath
after being punched in the gut. Hard.

“Well I’ll be seeing ya
Junior.”

“Have a good evening…”

Mr. Cromwell leaves the
office. He departs down the hall. His hair is shining brilliantly under the dim
hallway lighting. I’m staring blankly at the floor, but my mind is far from
empty. It’s imagining Wilmer lying on the floor breathing his last painful,
torturous breaths. Hard.