CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (23 page)

“Uh huh.” More jotting in the
notepad.

“Do you know of any such
people?”

“Me? No. I’m rarely at the
courtroom and it’s even rarer that I see the plaintiff or defendant. I’m just
Mr. Cromwell’s
assistant
.”

“Interesting,” he scratches at
his scruffy chin. “Ever heard of… Lionel Ducard?”

The world pans out like a
frenzied camera from a thriller film… Maintain, maintain! Control the eyes,
take a breath, maintain!

“Ducard?” I ask, a bit of
quiver in my voice.

Simmons nods.

“Hmm, no can’t say that I
have. But we do get a lot of cases. Why?”

“Ah no reason, don’t you worry
kid. Okay, Jerry. Thanks for your time. If you remember anything else, anything
at all, here’s my card.” He hands me a creased paper. It’s rather shabbily
drawn up, not very professional at all. Probably hand drawn. But at least it’s
consistent with the man’s overall appearance. Disorganized, messy, and
slovenly.

“Sure,” I respond.

Detective Simmons turns and
leaves. Though the momentary solitude does not last long. For here comes the
gluttonous Todd Storton bumbling in my direction. What a goon. His dress is as
slipshod and disgusting as always. However, I do notice a little more pep in
his step. I can guess why. There’s a euphoric grin glued to his face. I cringe
as he enters the office, without knocking, lugging
five
jugs today.

“Afternooooon Jeeeeeeet.” The
words are dragged out to a comical degree.

“Yes. Hello, fathead.”

“I can’t thank you enough,
pal! Since you gave me my time with Georgia in the break room my life’s taken
on a whole new outlook. She completes me, Jonah!”

“Isn’t that a bit cliché,
Storton? I mean even for your limited brain.”

“Hah-hah! Bitter boy, don’t be
so jealous! I might even help you find a gal!”

I leave Storton standing
there, free to ramble as I take a seat and resume my game of Go Fish! with Sexkitten69.
A few minutes pass by. They feel like hours. Yet Todd Storton remains as
loquacious as before. A constant stream of words flowing out -- like diarrhea
of the mouth. When the endless spewage sounds like it might be winding down, I
pay attention, just so I can insult him once more.

“I come here for a little
favor from you. You know, for helping me n’ Georgia get together. She’s swell,
Javier. Swell! Anyway I come here because she wants us to go on a double date.”

Woah. Back up the train. A
double date with Storton and some unknown friend of Georgia’s? Right…

“Is that right, tardboy? A
double date, huh?”

“Yeah that’s right. Me and
Georgia and you and her friend.”

“What’s her name?”

“Umm… Heather I think.”

“What does she look like?”

“Umm… She’s got hair and a
real pretty face.” Gee, the hair is a plus. But aren’t all blind dates
described as pretty? Who would agree to a blind date if they knew the other
person was ugly?

“Listen Storton. I’m going to
have to be honest here. It’s not looking good. Maybe you can have a threesome
with them or something.”

His eyes light up with
excitement.

“You really think so?!?!”

“No. Of course not, idiot.”

“Oh…”

“Maybe you can take Ellington
Fairfield.”

“The black guy?!” Storton is
repulsed by the thought.

“Yes.”

“Hell no!”

“Well that’s all I can do for
you, moron. Now please leave. I’ve got some very important matters to attend
to. Do you know Mr. Cromwell was killed last night?”

“Who?”

“My boss, you twit.”

“Haha, old snob man himself?
How’d he go?”

“Not shocked, eh? Interesting…
The detective didn’t say. He just said he’d been killed.”

“Shocked? Nah. He was a jerk!
Eh, oh well. Hey I’ll see you later Jansmir. Dumb shrimp passing up on the date
with Georgia’s beautiful friend!” Storton departs, a bit upset with me for
refusing to attend his debacle. But I’m sure Georgia’s friend is a 2 out of 10
at best. A girl of Georgia’s caliber has two kinds of compatriots: equally
gorgeous ones and fat, hairy, ugly ones who can’t get dates on their own. The
former wouldn’t need to have blind dates arranged. And the latter isn’t worthy
of anyone’s time.

The lummox moves out of sight
down the hall and I continue on with these extremely important matters. Namely
that of stealing two kings from Sexkitten69. She sends me a vulgar message
questioning my manhood. Ah, how sweet the irritated insult is. Well,
Sexkitten69, I’ve still got your kings and am two cards away from certain
victory. I reply with a simple but effective rejoinder. A smiley face emoticon.
Her rage is felt through cyberspace the universe over. I’m certain she slammed
a fist on her keyboard. Or he.

38

The office has remained
serene, quiet. Word of Wilmer’s death began spreading through the halls. I see
nosey faces, concerned faces, indifferent faces, and happy faces conversing
with one another. They’re obviously discussing the gossip among themselves.
Who
did? How did it happen? Where did it happen? Was it an accident? Was it murder?
What’s going to happen now?

Regarding the last question, I
haven’t the slightest idea. I hope I’m still getting my paycheck. Percy
Sullivan will, in all likelihood, find a new partner and continue on with the
business. The two will deliberate over me, questioning, wondering, cogitating
if I’m valuable enough to keep around. Am I replaceable? Am I a good worker? Do
I cause trouble? Have there ever been any problems with me in the past?

If they were halfway
intelligent I’d be out on my rear the second their conversation commenced. What
have I done that’s useful? Absolutely nothing. In fact if they do fire me I’ll
have one more accomplishment to add to my resume. Mainly that of killing my
former employee…and getting away with it. That’s the kind of feat which
inspires veneration. A commendable and worthwhile act – not to mention quite
cagey.

After speaking with the
detective I’m positive no one will suspect me. Surely such a spineless coward
looking man such as myself couldn’t possibly commit a murder. All I’ve got to
do is play it cool. But as I sit here in the office, thoughts creep, pace, and
race about my mind. The dreaded wondering sets in… What am I doing? What am I
supposed to do? There’s really no point to continue working. Wilmer’s dead so
what need is there for taking appointments? I guess I could cancel the
currently scheduled ones. Then again Percy might not like that. He most
definitely won’t take them on, but the very idea that I had the gall to remove
appointments on my own accord reflects badly on me.

It’s at this point I realize
something for the first time since Wilmer’s death. The notion rushes over me
like a wave of utter genius. Why it had taken me this long – an almost shameful
negligence on my part…His computer! That confounded mystery screen! Mine at
last! These months of secrecy are at an end! Nowhere to hide now, no hand to
slam it shut or pull the plug. Cromwell’s
absence
allows me the perfect
opportunity… Now I may ascertain what he’s been up to all this time!

But wait… Hold tight men… Now
is not the moment for sloppiness. Let’s be sure to use the utmost care and caution
as I sneak into his room. No one will see me. Heck, even if they do, I’m just
retrieving a file or two. Typical duties expected of my lowly position.

Unlit dark corners, the
lingering presence of a ghost? Spooky, isn’t it? The office is foreboding, ominous.
A dead man’s possessions always feel empty. Haunting. Luckily, this feeling is
an ephemeral wickedness. A mere transitory trepidation… Soon, a sensation of
sheer ecstasy grips me. I walk to the window and draw up the shades. A cascade
of sunlight rushes in, illuminating the room -- countless tiny dust particles
floating amidst the golden rays. All those germs and airborne bacteria going
into my lungs… Cromwell’s chair, ah yes, the beloved object. Hmm, the seat is
markedly plusher than mine. Perhaps how it ought to be. Very managerial. It
even has extra padding on the armrests. I take my time lowering into the
throne; the cushions mold perfectly to my body as I finish the plop. Ahh… Now
this
is living!

After a few of the obligatory
360 spin-arounds, I find myself face to face with his computer. We lock eyes in
a potent stare, a battle of wills. I’ve got you now! The shiny power button
calls my name (finally something utters the correct one aloud). I push the
round object, causing the machine to roar with life; fans spinning loudly,
wildly, various lights coming on, accompanied by muffled whirring sounds. An
awesome experience.
G-D-it!
As the monitor sparks into existence I
become aware of a problem. A terrible predicament… For there on the screen, a
menacing blue glow with a box located in the center, prompting me for a
password, denying one and all another step. Hmm… Use those quick wits, boy.
Think on your feet – just how you learned. What would ol’ Wilmer Cromwell use
for a password?

Wilmer Cromwell.
Nope, that’s a no go.
Lawyer?
Nope.
Modus operandi.
Nope.
Juniper lilies.
Of course not. Drat! This is such a futile act and
I know it. There’s no way I’m going to guess his password… Unless… No, it can’t
be… Or could it!

Wilmer was always mentioning
strongman competitions to me. The muscle shakes and workout routines. The
competitors and legends. One name kept recurring over and over. Some champion
strongman who’d won more competitions than anyone in the history of the sport.
But what was his name… A Polish guy, was it? Pujinkowski? Pujinowski?

These little fingers of mine
press the keys ever so daintily, hoping, wishing, praying for yet another
stroke of luck. I hope my reserve pot of the stuff hasn’t run out just yet!
Several tries are denied. But I am uncertain of the spelling. Those foreigners
like to toss in random letters here and there. Some vain attempt to appear
different and unique. I must keep on, experiment with the spellings… Puji?
Pudgi? Yes, there was a d. Pudzian – that’s it!
Dariusz Poodginowskee.

Now it’s simply a matter of a
little fortune. Let this be the fateful word:
P-o-o-d-g-i-n-o-w-s-k-e-e.

Bleep.
Success!

I’m in! I’ve done it! Thank
God for burly Poodginowskee!
Another 360 twirl in the chair for celebration.
Ugh… Dizzy. The sickness is bubbling in my head. Ok, ok, no more of that…

The computer loads,
dramatically the colors appear, shifting into Wilmer’s desktop.
Oh, good god
.
What the---Who the? His unsettling background image is the first thing I see.
It’s a picture… a picture of three shirtless strongmen posing in the shallow
end of a pool. Their muscles are gleaming under the sunlight, each tiny water
droplet glistening as it runs along their bodies. Wilmer has always been into
the strongman crowd… But this is pushing boundaries. Kind of homoerotic looking
stuff.

I’ll let it slide for now.
He’s a muscle builder guy. The image probably motivates him to hit the gym and
keep chugging down these nasty muscle shakes. Look where that gets ya! How
comical, the idea of Wilmer slurping his morning mix of death… Let’s progress,
shall we. Normally, the first thing one does when snooping on some one else’s
computer is check the internet history. That way you can tell their points of
interest. Are they into baseball? MMA? Cars? Gardening? Porn? Whatever.
However, I want to savor this moment, no rushing the sweetness. I executed this
elaborate plan (all under heavy time constraints); I deserve a little
relaxation now. As a result I won’t dive directly into the history. Allow the
suspense to build. The desktop should keep me busy for a moment or two. He’s
got a few icons set on here. One is labeled
My Computer
. A staple on
most every computer. Lower down there are a number of folders. The first is
named
Bahamas
. I click it. All of the files are images, so I view them
by thumbnails.

What the?

Each and every one of them is
repulsive! Tons and tons, pages and pages of the nasty material. All pictures
of well muscled men posing or lifting weights in what appears to be some type
of strength competition. There are at least one hundred and thirty files.
Sheesh,
Wilmer is really dedicated to this strongman crap.

The next folder is titled
Homme
fort.
That’s French for strongman. Again, it’s all picture files. I view
these by thumbnails as well. Again, all strongman photos! Countless pics of
beefcakes hoisting iron or flexing… some in very provocative poses. Yuck!
That’s enough of this. Wilmer can look at whatever creepy photos he wants, but
I’ve had all I can stomach.

Being deprived of my true
desire, to reveal his precious internet history, is agony. But this kind of
self-induced torture builds a strong character. You learn to handle depravities
with composure and a level head. Although, given the slight upset stomach
caused by the spinning chair, coupled with the bodybuilder bombardment, I’d
wager to say I’ve had enough of this game. It’s time to peer at those
mysterious files for the first time! Illuminating Wilmer’s deepest, darkest
secrets! Muhahaha!

Well, that may be a bit
overdoing it, but suffice it to say, I’m excited.

My hand drags the cursor
across the mouse pad; the index finger gingerly double clicks on the internet
browser. Yes! Reveal your lies! I see the loading bar slide along the top.
Almost there… come on little guy…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

What the heck is that?

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Confound it! Someone is at the
office door. They’re banging loudly, calling out, seeing if anyone is here. Do
I respond? Or do I allow them to think the office is vacant, instead waiting
for them to leave? Well technically, this is still an office. I’m still an
employee. Business is still in session. Nobody has seen me leave; then again I
doubt whether they’d pay attention or not even if I did. In the end, prudence
dictates that I answer the call. Your history will have to wait… for now
Cromwell!

There’s a middle-aged woman
standing in the dimly lit waiting room. Her face is quizzical at first, though
it quickly changes to a kinder expression when she seems me enter the area. The
office is fairly dark, which she no doubt finds unusual. Anyone would. However
the low-key, reserved ambience may better fit with the mourning man character I
am portraying. She will understand.

“Hello?” the woman says.

“Good afternoon, m’am. What
can I do for you?”

This lady looks like she could
be the dispensable woman in a hardboiled fiction novel. The somewhat affluent
hag with an overbearing demeanor just asking to be offed. It occurs to me that
she is likely a client of Wilmer’s. She’s much too young to be one of Percy’s.
I may have seen a similar looking portrait in one of the stories, actually.

“Yes, perhaps you could assist
me. I’m here to see Wilmer Cromwell.”

“Oh… M’am, I’m sorry, but
Wilmer has died.”

“WHAT! You’re kidding!”

“Afraid not, toots.” Did I
just say toots? Oh boy... “Excuse me. It is true. Wilmer’s body was discovered
this morning… They’re saying he was murdered.”

“Good heavens! Dear God! How?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I guess my appointment is
canceled,” the woman says. Here she finds herself a bit shocked by the words.
An unintended joke – done in poor taste.

“It would appear so.” I wait
for the woman to gather her senses.

“Then I guess… I’ll be
going…?”

I nod my head solemnly. She
turns slowly, hesitating for the tiniest of moments before exiting.

Good Lord! Get lost! Beat it!
Enough distractions for today! Leave me to my work!

At last my patience has run
out. I am resolved, dead-set, determined to discover just what Wilmer has been
concealing all this time. Come hell or high water I will find out! I vow to let
no interruption cause me to deviate from the course. It’s back to the computer.
Back to the truth.

Once again I find myself
ensconced in Wilmer’s plush chair, the cushions conforming to my tiny figure.
The internet browser is still up and it’s time to reveal the contents of his
history! An overpowering sensation stirs within me. The entire room feels
magnificent as a euphoric emotion surges through my body. With no further
delay, nothing to stop me, my finger presses down the mouse… The history sites
flood across the screen’s left side. They’re sorted by last visited.

Oh…

What I see is appalling. It’s
more than that… It’s ghastly! An utter abomination. I’m horrified, sickened,
and nauseated by the unveiling. No wonder Wilmer tried so desperately to ensure
this would never see the light of day. This perhaps being even worse than the
clanking… I’m sliding back in the chair, scrambling to be free of this wretchedness
– when, thank god, there’s another knock coming from the door. This time I
can’t wait to flee Wilmer’s room. A part of me wishes I had never entered in
the first place…

A familiar voice is whispering
an unfamiliar name. But I know just which clodpate it’s referring to and the
goon who is saying it.

“Jude! Jassem!” Ellington’s
voice is a whispered shout.

“There you are!” he exclaims
too excitedly.

“Yes, here I am Fairfield.
What can I do for you?”

Ellington shuffles farther
into the room as we meet at the center.

“Is it true? Is it true what
they’re saying?”

“That depends… What are they
saying?”

“Wilmer Cromwell is dead!”

I stare intensely at him. His
eyes are ablaze, his gestures near manic.

“Yes, Fairfield, it
is
true. Wilmer is dead.”

Ellington pumps his fist into
the air. He stifles a shout just as it leaves his mouth. The man is relieved
beyond all measure of human emotion.