CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (4 page)

7

The Natasha situation has been
weighing heavily on my mind. It’s not that I think I’ve got a shot with her.
Because I don’t. But I’d prefer if the entire building didn’t think of me as
the guy who wants to, what was it Storton said?
Ride and spank her all the
way home till the cows come home?
That doesn’t even sound like something
I’d say. But nobody knows that, they care even less. I’m simply the resident
pervert now.

As of late I’ve been noticing
the other office girls in the building staring at me with a contemptuous eye. I
can surmise Natasha spread the gossip around, which makes her a gossipmonger.
Normally these kinds of people are first on my hate-list. However, she’s
good-looking enough that I’ll overlook the flaw and continue on adoring her.
Nuisance or not, the body, no not just the body – her aura is magnetic.

Last night proved fairly
eventful. I spent several hours drawing portraits of Natasha. Large, massive,
some near full-scale representations. Now don’t think that I’m this crazed
lunatic obsessing over a woman who hates my very presence. But, she has a
spectacular face and amazing figure. Simply put, it’s great inspiration for my
artwork.

They turned out decently.
Nothing good enough to display in an art gallery of any credibility. Although the
pieces are…unique is the word I’d use. Unique. The style being a cross between
cartoon and realism. Everything is in proportion. Just imagine putting a
photograph into a “cartoonizer” machine. The result is what my piece looks
like. I add a fun flair to everyday things. A lively touch. Some vim and vigor.

Drawing has been a hobby of
mine for quite a number of years. The process is relaxing, therapeutic,
cathartic – it allows me to vicariously live out certain fantasies which I
harbor. In my youth as a middle-schooler I got into a small amount of trouble
because of my doodling. I’d drawn several comics depicting me
slaughtering
my
teachers. That’s how the school counselor phrased it anyway.
Slaughtering.
Perhaps it was a bit dramatic, don’t you think? In truth, they were much more
like
butchering.

Anyway, as a result of this
little run in, they placed me under psychiatric evaluation for three days. I
was taken to a special place for loonies -- where they keep you in a tiny cell
and everything. Their attendants performed numerous tests on me during my short
sojourn. Basic examinations to evaluate my sanity levels. Real simple stuff.
Nothing to worry about for any sane fellow.

Naturally, I was released with
a clean bill of health. Only now the other children forever thought of me as
the teacher killing psycho. That seemed a bit odd to me. I didn’t kill a
teacher. I only drew what I thought was a funny cartoon. Yet those bloody
children, my supposed peers! labeled me as the teacher killer… That’s all in
the past, though. The incident taught me a valuable life lesson: always keep
morbid drawings to yourself! The phase carried on for only a brief while. No
one ever had anything to fear. Cute, innocent drawings, that’s all. Anyone with
an eye for the creative would look upon these with great appreciation.
Currently, there’s a large stack of them in my lounge. But in recent years I
have nearly ceased drawing them altogether.

It’s only since acquiring my
current job that I’ve reintroduced the style into my repertoire. Maybe it’s
Todd Storton making me angry. I’ve drawn a few comics where he is dispatched of
in various comedic fashions. Quite a sense of pride I have derived from these,
being perfectly honest. In one of them he is carrying four water jugs up the
stairs. He slips and falls, and continues tumbling down the steps. The four
water jugs, bouncing along after him, land on his body at the bottom of the
stairs -- crushing his internal organs, causing internal bleeding and eventual
death. I slept well those nights.

Natasha. The cartoon version
of her has taken on a noirish vibe. I depict her wearing a blood red evening
coat and low brimmed hat titled at an oblique angle, covering one eye. She’d be
the broad in crime stories who lures the protagonist into danger. The deadly
temptress. Femme fatale. Once I finish the drawing, I’m left sitting and
staring at the piece for an inordinate amount of time, before finally climbing
into bed. Then I dream, experiencing vivid fantasies involving her. Nothing
sexual. I imagine what sort of femme fatale she’d be. What crime she’d
perpetrate. Who she’d deceive. Sometimes I play the detective Natasha comes to
with a problem. Her ex-husband was shot -- now dangerous, mysterious men are
stalking her. She leaves out the part about her being the murderer, you know,
the one who killed her husband to pocket the last of his fortune.

Stories like those. Just to
pass the time.

The psychiatrists from the
Looney bin diagnosed me as antisocial, emotionally detached, and possibly
mentally unstable. Not too flattering, huh? Although that’s not quite accurate,
not by my calculations. You see, I’m an observer. I don’t mind being amongst
people, but I rarely speak when I am, which gives me the appearance of an
antisocial. But really I enjoy watching and observing. Why should I be forced
to talk? There are enough blabbermouths in the world already. What’s wrong with
sitting quietly and drinking in the merriment of others? And as far as
emotionally detached? Who’s to say what is emotionally engaged or emotionally
unengaged? Pencil pushers with fake degrees. Hah! You earn those after reading
several outdated textbooks, staring at mice sniffing around for cheese, and
blowing your professor. So who is it to say? Certainly not those supercilious
pundits and quacks. Let me tell you maledicent filth-ridden sacks of slime
something! You imbecilic cretins! Mooncalves!

Forgive me… I’m forever
breaking off into those tirades. But you might too if supposed “experts”
classified you as antisocial, emotionally detached, and borderline psychotic.
Not exactly kind, flattering words are they? I would have much preferred kind,
cheerful, friendly.

At one point the doctors
prescribed me a few medications. I’m not sure what they were, but suffice it to
say, I didn’t continue taking them for very long. There were three different
pills I was supposed to take once a day. And sure, my mind cleared. The
negative thoughts went away. But I became a vegetable. Nothing interested me. I
was in a state of the doldrums. Grayscale. Zombie mode. One can’t live in those
conditions for long.

I remember taking the pills
one day and being involved in a car crash roughly three hours later. The light
turned red -- I kept going, it didn’t matter. I wound up T-boning some
skinhead’s mini pickup truck. My mind didn’t register the crash, at all. I sat
in my seat, still pushing the pedal to the floor. The tires spun but naturally
the car didn’t go anywhere because our two vehicles had been mashed together.
Interwoven steel holding me in place, like a little yap dog yelling out
“Somebody better hold me back! I’m warning you!” This bald reprobate came
running over and ripped open my door. He then plucked me from the car, and set
about raining foot stomps down on my body as I lie on the ground, limp, numb. I
couldn’t feel a single one of them. I remember looking up at the blue sky and
thinking how pretty it was.

Two days and three broken ribs
later I decided to swear off the pills for good. I couldn’t go around causing
automobile accidents, which got the crap kicked out of me. It’s just not
something I’m comfortable with. Crap kicking… not really my thing. Once off the
pills, those previous erratic thoughts returned. It was an acceptable
compromise. My original worrisome mindset comforted me like an old friend
wrapping his arm around your shoulders. To have the old status quo back in
place felt good. There were no other adverse effects.

8

Wilmer Cromwell suddenly
walked into the room -- forcing me to quickly X out of my game before he took
notice. This is my normal routine. When he leaves the office I start up a game
of online Go Fish! with a female internet buddy of mine. I say female, but who
knows. I assume it’s a female because of the username “Sexkitten69” and her
constant use of sexual innuendo and flirtatious messages. A rather clichéd
slutty name. And in all likelihood it is some loser living back east in his
parents’ basement posing as a woman online to fulfill whatever deviant desires
he harbors. Someone like Todd Storton. I can imagine that fat jawed moron doing
such a thing. “Oh yeah baby, until the cows come home!”

In any event, I shut down the
game and bring up a spreadsheet or client list. Something with a lot of words
on it to give Mr. Cromwell the impression that I’m hard at work. He passes by
my desk.

“Jeremy,” he says, nodding his
head as if the sight of me knocked a memory loose in that pea brain of his --
then he flashes me the signature smug smile.

I feel like spitting in his
face. But instead I return the gesture, grinning broadly until he scurries into
his office. I wait till he shuts the door halfway, giving me a chance to angle
my monitor the farthest possible angle away from his room. I then scoot my
chair forward to obstruct the view of my screen. This way I can resume playing
Go Fish! until the jiggle of his doorknob catches my attention. A few seconds
later I hear the sound of fingers on a keyboard coming from Wilmer’s office.
Twelve o’clock and alls well…

Once in awhile the phone
rings… I’m forced to pick it up. What a pain. A needless hassle. In Go Fish!
you get a real rhythm going; any distraction throws it off completely. I’m able
to bear these interruptions, I guess. It’s a paycheck. So I pick the phone up
and occasionally jot down the client’s information, depending on whether Wilmer
has a lull in cases or not – either that or if my wrist is tired. Percy doesn’t
normally require me to schedule clients for him. He usually peruses the obituaries
until he finds a suitable victim and then contacts the bereaved. Find a
recently deceased man and you can be almost certain he’s got a grieving widow
at home. Give them a ring and offer your services. None of the elderly women
see that as strange. They don’t know the first thing about law. Then again, I
don’t either. But I’d know better than to trust a lawyer who called me out of
the blue. Slimeballs…

Sexkitten69 takes all of my
eights. She has nearly won the game. I can sense it. I’ve got a disastrous,
mediocre hand. At that point I question whether I should exit out of the game
and later claim internet failure, connection issues.
Sorry, it cut out.
It’s a plausible enough excuse and could save me some face. That way I didn’t
actually lose; it would be a draw or a tie, a redo. You can’t count faulty
internet connections as a victory. It’s in the gamer’s handbook. This time I
decide against faking a broken wire. And as suspected, Sexkitten69 wins the
game a moment later. If we ever meet face to face perhaps she’ll remember this
victory and like me a little more because of it.

There’s a slight chime
emitting from the office wall clock. I look up. 12:45. Lunch time… Wilmer and
his god-awful bowl will soon be reunited. His desk drawer creeps open. I can vividly
picture him extracting the oversized glass container. What’s he having today?
Perhaps some soup or a nice salad? It doesn’t matter because within sixty
seconds I’ll be reduced to a rocking imbecile.

CLINK! CLANK! CLINK!

Sure enough… the horror begins.
I minimize the game of Go Fish, desperate to cover my ears. The weak, pitiful
shell I refer to as my body commences rocking back and forth. Shaking room…
hazy walls… Blurring vision… Today is worse than normal. He’s eating whatever
vile substance is in the bowl with avidity. The clanks are rapid and strident.
Each clink pierces my ear like a gunshot echoing on the inside of a tank. The
noise becomes unbearable.

My feeble attempt to stand is
pointless -- the legs turn to jello as I fall over onto the desk. My eyes open
to discover that the room is spinning, pulsating. Each clink causes the office
to ripple like a puddle of water. Crashing waves. Dizzying swirls.
I’ve got
to get out of here before it kills me.

Summoning all of my strength
I’m able to upright myself and stagger toward the door. My trembling right hand
reaches for the knob. But the shrill clinking instantly shoots into my now
unprotected ear, causing me to falter. Ellington Fairfield is in the hallway.
He sees me sinking to the ground, very near to death as far as I know. The
bumbling dimwit rushes in like a drunken fireman, picks me up and drags me
through the doorway. I motion for him to shut the door behind us, and he does.

The clinking, now muffled,
reduces the intensity of paroxysm. Two doors stand between me and the infernal
sounds. It’s not enough… I hope. My brain no longer has control. It’s me I’m
looking at, but I have no power, a mere spectator in this game of death. The
body crumples to the floor and begins crawling for the elevator in a pitiful
display of instinct. I’m an automaton fighting for his life. Every action is
reflexive, unconscious. I’m watching this helpless fool from somewhere up
above. Ellington picks the carcass up once again and carries it to his office.
He sets the mess down into a chair, and shuts his office door. Finally the
clinking is silenced to a bearable level. I’m unsure whether I can actually
still hear the demon or if I merely imagine the pangs of agony stinging in my
ears.

“You alright, Jack?” Ellington
says in a semi-concerned voice. “You should really see a doctor. That’s twice
now I’ve seen you looking like hell.”

I’m sitting in the chair,
rocking back and forth, covering my ears.

“Sure,” I mumble. “I’ll get to
one as soon as possible.” It’s an empty statement. Not quite a lie, but not the
truth either. It’s a habit of mine. Just say what people want to hear so
they’ll shut their mouths and leave me in peace. The tactic works splendidly
for most of the time. However, later on people expect me to follow through with
whatever it was I agreed to. That’s where trouble starts a brewing. I tell
another appeasing lie and the cycle starts all over.

I’m not positive whether the
effects of the clinking are permanent or temporary. For all I know they’re
causing irreparable damage to my sanity. I wonder if that’s covered under the
healthcare plan. Perhaps I can sue Wilmer. Then… I remember my past run-ins
with shrinks and the negative outcomes. Questioning my sanity in a courtroom is
the last thing I want to do. They’d cram me into a padded cell faster than
Wilmer could clank a bowl.

Mr. Cromwell sees me sitting
in Ellington’s office. He walks over and opens the door. Cromwell has an object
in his hand. It’s long, black, and shiny. Ellington’s back is turned away; he’s
busy fumbling with a few papers. The noise caused by the door catches his
attention -- he spins around, smiling. Ellington sees Cromwell, looks down at
the black object in his hand. Here, you could clearly see the moment of
revelation come into his eyes… just as he dives for cover under his desk and
shouts, “Gun! Gun!”

Wilmer whirls around expecting
to see a lunatic storming the building. There’s no one. He then looks down at
the stapler in his own hand, followed by a lengthy laugh.

“Come here Jermaine, I’ve got
something for you to do,” he says to me. I get up and leave the office, leaving
Ellington to cowering under his desk.

There’s a stack of papers on
Mr. Cromwell’s desk. He pushes them toward me.

“Jamal,” he says, and I can’t
help but wonder… isn’t that a black guy’s name? Not that I’m racist as I’ve
said. However when’s the last time you saw a white guy with the name Jamal?
It’s akin to naming a black guy Jebedian, when he lives in the ghetto.

“This stack of papers,”
Cromwell continues, “is for our new interoffice meetings. The partners got
together and we think it’d be a great idea for the building to have a meeting,
once a month, just to begin with. And then who knows? Maybe once a
week
!”
he says with a sickeningly wide smile. Wilmer pauses to raise yet another large
cup of muscle shake to his lips.
Gulp. Gulp. Slurp. Ahhh…
The back of
his wrist slowly wipes across the wet lips. Eighty grams of protein down the
hatch.

Evidently the papers are
personal profiles of everyone in the building. Why we’d want to consort with
the other nitwits in this place is beyond me. I can hardly stand my own
secluded corner.

“I want you to make nametags
for each employee in the building. These are their names,” Wilmer says tapping
the stack of papers. Just as I suspected… He’s grinning from ear to ear
awaiting my response.

“Sure,” I say with as much
fake enthusiasm as I can muster. My mind is left to wonder… Crafting nametags
feels a bit puerile to me. Immature. Am I back in kindergarten doing arts and
crafts? Maybe it’s more like a school fieldtrip and everyone needs an
identification tag. Whatever it is, I hate it.

“Glad to hear it, Jesus! Oh,
and good job today!” Wilmer exclaims patting me on the back. Then he has the
gall to stand there, smiling of course, as his eyes dart from me to the door
and back again.
Oh… Jesus’ cue to leave.
I nod knowingly and exit the
room, defeated as always.