CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (6 page)

11

Do you ever feel remorse?
Perhaps you’ve done something – something not quite
right.
Do you feel
sorry? I read through the dictionary a bit earlier on. The word I discovered
was compunction. Feelings of shame, of regret for doing the
wrong
thing.

Today I’ve committed a
dastardly deed. Compunction? No… I feel no sympathy for the act. My mind is at
ease, free of guilt. It was a necessary evil and I’d do it again without hesitation.

The office clock shows 12:40.
Mr. Cromwell will soon be reaching down at his desk, pulling out a drawer and
searching for his beloved glass bowl. But he won’t find it. Not today. I’ve
taken drastic measures to ensure that he
will not
find it. I warned you,
didn’t I? You see, earlier this morning during Cromwell’s break, I sneaked into
his office and
acquired
the bowl. That’s how I once heard a delinquent
describe his thievery.
Acquiring.
Did he steal the wallet? No. He
acquired
the wallet. Did he steal a car? No. He
acquired
a car. He
acquired
it right out of the woman’s purse and the man’s garage. Did I steal an
oversized glass bowl from my boss’ desk drawer? No. I
acquired
an
oversized glass bowl that once belonged to my boss.

Put that way, it doesn’t sound
so bad does it? Acquired. I’d like to acquire quite a few more things. But for
now the glass bowl will have to suffice.

There will be no clanking
today. There will be no clinking. Only the wonderful sound of silence.

I hear the drawers being pulled
out – a moment later the sound of their contents being shuffled. Gently at
first. Soon there’s a frantic energy to the noise. Cromwell’s hands are
rummaging through every inch, searching for his prized glass bowl. Keep
looking, you idiot! A sinister smile spreads across my widening mouth. Well
now, with that taken care of, time to reopen the tab on my computer.
Sexkitten69 is online. She has requested a game. Should I accept? Of course.
What better to do.

The game is just getting
underway when I notice a large blur come into view. Wilmer comes barreling out
of his office like a madman. I quickly minimize the Go Fish! game and turn
towards him.

“Where is it?!” he bellows.
“Tell me! Where is it!”

Cromwell is pacing back and
forth like a caged animal at the zoo stalking one of those tasty kids toddling
near the front of the steel bars. But there are no bars here, and he’s looking
right at me.

Percy Sullivan opens his
office door to investigate the commotion. Wilmer’s hands are raised in the air
as if he can’t believe what is taking place. He doesn’t suspect me. Why would
the fool? His mind is more focused on
finding
the bowl than kill the
perpetrator. Cromwell scans the room, like one of those expensive security
cameras panning across the expanse.
Bzzzzzz.
You hear the zooming
function going in and out as he does so.

“What’s going on?” Percy asks,
rubbing his belly.

“My bowl, Jesus Christ! My
bowl!” A vein throbs on Wilmer’s forehead.

Percy Sullivan darts from his
office.

“Your lunch bowl?” He
questions in his fatuous way.

“Of course my lunch bowl! You,
John, have you seen it?!”

I shake my head no, beginning
to feign curiosity. My eyes begin searching the room; only just enough to
appease the big man. The head honcho. The chief. The dictator.

Wilmer continues tossing
objects hither and thither, picking up anything that’s not tethered down (and
even some that is), seeking his precious dish. Little does he know that I, the
innocent looking twit, have stolen the very object of his desire and thrown it
into a trash can out back. Shattered to pieces. Admittedly, the act took me
several tries. The bowl is of a sturdy, solid nature. Not unlike Wilmer
himself. So it required a few good and hard thwacks before witnessing the satisfying
shattering! His frenetic search is futile. Percy offers to help but I know it
will be in vain. This causes me to laugh, as I voice a demure suggestion now
and then. These are met with the devilish stare of Wilmer’s.

The minutes pass by -- our
office is now in a state of disarray. Boxes strewn about. Papers tossed about.
Chairs flung about. Mr. Cromwell is a veritable nutcase. His usually composed,
collected face is now reddened and steaming. Percy Sullivan, that blubberboy,
accidentally steps into the possessed Wilmer’s path and finds himself knocked
brutally to the floor with a thud and a skid. After rolling on the ground for a
minute or two, attempting to upright himself, Percy manages to find his feet as
he scurries off to his office, shutting the door. Cromwell turns his psychotic
eye to me. My shoulders shrug sympathetically. He storms into his office,
yelling all the while. Cursing, swearing, abusing. The noise has attracted an
unwanted visitor. Ellington Fairfield.

Our resident paranoid lawyer
stands in the doorway, peering at the wreckage, looking like a lout.
What’s
going on?
He asks me. Just to have a little fun, I whisper to him, “GET
OUT! HE’S GOT A GUN! RUN!” Ellington’s eyes bulge five times their normal size
(which are already bug-like). The frightened man turn tails and runs down the
hall without waiting for a second opinion. I hear him pounding on the elevator
buttons.
Help! Help! Madman! Help!

Sexkitten69 has messaged me
again. It’s my turn. Another productive day.

Fortuna the Roman goddess of
fortune is on my side today. I’ve won three straight games of Go Fish! and
there’s no sign of slowing down. It would seem that in the absence of that
infernal clanking, my brain is sharper, more alert and perceptive. Sagacious.

The only noise I heard today
at lunchtime was the sound of Mr. Cromwell’s fuming; perhaps even a sob or two
if I’m not mistaken. The periodic pounding of fists on the desk. The kicking of
a chair. The swearing of a madman. These are sounds which I adore. They’re
soothing and much welcome. I’m on top of the world, king of the earth.

Bingo! Sexkitten69 has three
sevens she’s trying to squirrel away. I take them all in one arrogant motion,
winning the game in spectacular fashion. She logs off immediately – and this is
how I know the victory is well earned… There is ecstasy in the room. A bubbling
effervescence. Some magical dust sprinkling down upon my soul. And this is
further evinced by the next act of luck…

Natasha walks by my office
window, casting a furtive eye in my direction. The bliss swells around my body,
uncontrollably, undeniably, resulting in the almost unconscious raising of my
hand – as I watch it perform a near wavelike motion, my lips grinning with
delight. But it wasn’t enough. Natasha averts her gaze and walks right on by.
Perhaps I’m breaking her down. Removing those hostiles barriers. Winning her
over… She’s wearing another white, formfitting blouse. Her hair is flowing
freely today. It sways gently as she hurries off.

This feeling is a strange one.
A strange situation more like it. This Natasha adventure. I no longer have
true, lustful feelings for her. There’s no sexual tension in me yearning for
her body. All I desire is to paint and draw that fabulous figure. It’s just
asking to be depicted, artfully mind you. The utter elegance and majestic
movements of the physique. Perfect… I put my foot on the desk, kicking back in
my chair until I’m looking at the ceiling. I’m Detective Sam Spade waiting for
the beguiling vixen to enter. I’m waiting to be seduced and beguiled. I’m
waiting to be taken advantage of… These are the things that keep me up at
night.

With the clanking gone, my
mind is free to be as it once was. Unhindered. As a result, the fantasies have
returned in stunning abundance. I envision Natasha more intricately in her
roles. She’s swindling a lot of powerful men out of a lot of their dough. She
wants protection and so, naturally, comes to me. The best in the business.
Natasha sits across from me, crossing one leg over the other, and flips her hair
to one side, exposing a graceful neckline. Her face is vulnerable, seductive.
But I see danger in those big beautiful eyes. Those sultry emeralds of menace.
The downfall of many men. I see treachery. She pulls a cigarette out from her
purse. My hand is extended instantly, offering a quick light. Natasha smiles
and puffs suggestively.

I drum the desk with my
fingers looking her over.

“Well?” I ask.

She takes another drag, oh so
slowly, before blowing it out in my direction, followed by the response.

“I’ve upset some pretty bad
men,” she says coolly.

“Yeah? How bad,” I question.

“Bad.”

We stare at each other for a
whole minute. Neither one speaks. Neither one blinks. A few trails of smoke
waft up from the cigarette.

There’s a loud knock at the
door… wait, there
is
a loud knock at the door! Suddenly I am snatched
from the reverie.

12

Ellington Fairfield is hiding
behind a burly security guard. They enter my office, with Ellington trailing
behind, scared to continue. The paranoid man’s shaking finger reaches over the
guard’s shoulder, pointing at Wilmer’s door. Then I remember my comment… “GET
OUT! HE’S GOT A GUN!”

“What’s the matter?” I ask
innocently.

The guard eyes me over. He
doesn’t appear too enthralled. It’s the type of look someone gives when they’ve
heard people cry wolf too many times.

“This man here says your boss
is carrying a gun and plans to kill him,” the guard informs me.

“What? What gave him that
crazy notion?”

“Apparently you did,” responds
the guard.

I laugh nervously. “Oh…?”

Ellington chirps in. “Yes! You
said he had a gun!”

I laugh again, a little more
relaxed this time because I’ve figured a way out of this mess. “No, no, no. I
said ‘
HELP
OUT! HE’S LOST HIS GLASS!’”

The guard rolls his eyes. I
add in one more comment to cement the deal.

“Feel free to search the
office, you’ll find no gun here. Sorry for the misunderstanding Mr. Fairfield.”

Ellington waves it off with an
agitated chuckle, mumbling to himself. The guard asks him if that will be all.
It is. They both leave.

Wilmer nor Percy is even aware
of the incident that I so deftly handled. And they’re lucky I was here too.
Otherwise things might have gotten rather messy… Sexkitten69 sends me another
message. She wants a rematch. Hmm, how many beatings can this girl take in one
day?

I arrive at the office earlier
than normal. Last night was a wash. I’d wanted to draw a couple more Natasha
pieces but the muses abandoned me. I simply could not conceive anything. Not
one suitable idea. And so here I find myself sitting at my desk waiting to
catch a glimpse of Natasha as she walks by. She’s a very punctual woman --
always
showing up on time, and usually a little early to allow room for error. A
practical thing to do if you care enough about your job. I myself have never
been late. But I don’t show up early, just right on time. What’s the point of
being early? I could wait outside or twiddle my thumbs in the street instead,
all being just as effective. It won’t get me anything, other than perhaps one
of Cromwell’s
Hey I’m not actually paying attention but GREAT JOB TODAY!
remarks.

The building is barren aside
from the lop-faced janitor pacing up and down the halls. He’s supposedly
working, but I don’t see it. All I see is a hopeless man wandering through a
hallway without a single ambition in the world. He isn’t even carrying a mop!
This miscreant is being paid to walk the halls and stare at walls. Like a
homeless man. How useless. What an unproductive piece of proletarian garbage. A
vile nuisance to society and a scar on the very face of humanity! I can’t help
but cast mental aspersions and calumnies at this indolent wretch. How dare he
dawdle away the day derogating from the outstanding accomplishments we
employees in this building perform day in and day out!

With the rabid foam beginning
to form in my mouth, it seems I’m on the very brink of an apoplectic explosion
when Natasha comes into view. The useless janitor is instantly forgotten. I
train my eyes on her face, not caring if she sees it or not. I
must
observe her visage for new material. There is an intangible quality in her
features. She possesses the most alluring mannerisms. An intoxicating
temptress. Is she intentionally playing this noirish character? She couldn’t
be. How?

Natasha sidesteps the hideous
janitor before glancing up at me. She’s startled to find me here. Our eyes meet
for a brief moment. Quickly, she looks away. I continue examining her physique.
She’s wearing a feminine executive suit and skirt which perfectly matches those
red-framed stylish glasses setting on her nose. Harlot! She is forever wearing
a skirt! You see, this is the type of woman who knows she has a great body,
with heart-stopping legs, and likes to show them off. And why shouldn’t she?

I suppose it’s the kind of
attire deviant bosses fantasize about when their young secretary is working
late at the office. Though there is nothing sexual here, I can assure you. I
find myself entranced by her features. They’re tailor-made for that of a vixen.
She, the most elusive of women, haunts these halls with her fleeting presence.
Like a lustful apparition.

And just as fast as she had
appeared, she vanished. Out of sight and tucked away in her office one door
down to the right. However, I got what I needed. This dose of inspiration may
even last me the entire month.

Twenty minutes later the
motley morons begin arriving. To a rather dusty environment, I might add, all
in thanks to the lowlife custodian. I find their sad, ill-fated “woe is me
expressions” delighting. I once heard the saying, “Every time a friend
succeeds, I die a little.” That goes double for me. What better than to see
others fail? Especially those working so hard. So you can just imagine my glee
when I observe another’s misfortune. It does wonders for my self-esteem,
skyrockets the confidence. Nothing quite boosts my general level of happiness
so effectively. There’s no greater joy than seeing defeat and despair in your
fellow man. Especially a fall from power. A tumbling from grace. Speaking of…

Wilmer strolls into the
office. I notice he’s carrying an object under his right arm – it’s wrapped in
brown packaging. Unease… A foreboding feeling grips me.

“Morning Jums,” he says and
continues into his office, slightly closing the door.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Of
course…

Percy enters a little later
on. He’s got a client with him. Some old bag with a bad hairdo. The “old woman”
style I call it. They’ve somehow plastered the hair so stiffly that it won’t
need another squirt of hairspray for at least a year. Knowing most of them,
they’ll probably expire before then. Maybe it’s the easy maintenance routine
.
Look Murdel, you’re ancient.
You’ve only got one year left to live. Just
get it plastered. -- What did ya say, dear?
Uh huh… I’m told they frequent
hair salons once a week. Which is more of a social outing than anything. The
treatment
,
realistically, lasts for a week. They don’t wash their hair during this time.
It’s been sprayed stiff as a board and styled exactly how they want the
vulgarity to appear. I guess if you had warped, aged, delusional eyes then you
might find such a disaster to be aesthetically pleasing.

I’m sure Sullivan would prefer
hundred dollar bills sprouted from their heads. He greets me a bit more
amicably than normal. The youthfully challenged woman looks toward Percy with a
surprised expression. As if she can’t believe how kind and gentle the man is.
She says “Good morning, junior,” to me before following after Percy (who now
held her hand in the crook of his arm).

It’s been a long day thus far.
Lots of strenuous Go Fish! It’s a paycheck… My legs are in need of a good
stretching so I hop out of the chair and venture out into the hallway. I walk
over to the stairs where upon I hear the familiar lumbering noises of our
resident water jug man: Todd Storton. He’s toting four jugs up the stairs as a
young office woman trails behind. She would like to pass but the gargantuan
blob of fat which Storton calls a body is preventing her from doing so. He
turns slightly and says what I accurately believe to be an obviously dimwitted
comment (the only kind he ever has). The girl smiles politely. A fake smile.
You can always tell by the cheeks. No lines in the eyes. Once they finally
ascend the stairs -- the woman practically sprints past him. Water jug tubby
stares at her fleeing figure. Storton then looks at me with a sinister smile.

“I almost had her. She was
this
close from giving me her number.”

“Yeah, it looked that way,” I
lie.

“Later on, I can give you a
few of them woman tips, boy. Maybe you can get a girl one day like ol’ Storton
here does.”

Idiot.

“Yeah, you’re really reeling
them in, aren’t you tubby?”

“What?”

He’s sneering at me, as if to
say
I dare you to repeat that, pipsqueak.

“I said you’ll make a fine
hubby, you corpulent cad, you.”

He smiles in agreement.

“Do ya think so?”

I nod, laughing on the inside
at his blatant, pitiful stupidity, so easily swayed…