CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (7 page)

13

The unthinkable has occurred…
It’s nearing lunchtime and I’ve already run out of inspiration! Natasha’s face
consumes my mind. I close my eyes… it’s there. I open my eyes… it’s there. The
portrait of my grandmother setting on the desk morphs into Natasha’s face as I look
at it. That lovely visage begins popping up all over the office, filling the
room. They’re appearing like heavenly angels all around me. Each one is looking
at me with a lustful smile. I can’t help but wonder if I’m going insane.
Another one and another one and another one… Another!

A quotidian sound breaks the
trance, suddenly diverting my mind from the hallucinations and most assuredly,
the very imminent panic attack. Wilmer’s door is slightly ajar. It’s time! The
noise is emanating from his room. No! No! Not today! Although here, the
distinct sound of his desk drawer being pulled open -- a dull scratching caused
by the one uneven side which rubs against the wood. I look at the clock. 12:45.
Lunchtime. Fear and dread fills my chest, running through my body like a jolt
of electricity… But the abrupt shot of panic soon dissipates and I’m calm once
again, comforted by the fact that it was only yesterday when I so expertly
dispatched
of Wilmer’s prized glass bowl. This ensured there’d be no more clanking. What
is there to harm me today? He’s probably brought a sack lunch from home. It’s
reasonable enough to think so. Maybe he picked up fast-food on his way to work.
I don’t know. What I do know is I can be positive the glass bowl is
not
in his desk drawer. Unless the demon item is some sort of revenant.
Reincarnated from the shattered bits, returned to exact its revenge. In that
case I’m dead either way and my mind is at ease once more. Or so I’d like to
believe.

There are no further sounds
coming from his room. A minute passes. The eerie silence unsettles me. Why is
it so quiet? What can he possibly be doing? Another minute passes. Nothing. At
this point I’d do almost anything to hear a noise. The silence is maddening.

A sharp clapping effect breaks
the hush. It’s the well-known sound of Mr. Cromwell’s personal microwave
shutting. A few
beeps
tell me he’s entering in a time -- a moment later
the hum of the machine kicks on, filling this dreaded silence. He’s reheating
his lunch? Yeah, that’s viable. One hundred and twenty seconds go by. The dull
hum ceases, I can surmise that Wilmer has opened the microwave to extract the
contents. My mind remains at ease. There is no need worry. Maintain. Maintain.

The phone on my desk begins
ringing. I reach out to retrieve the receiver. A moment of clarity. An
explosive realization… It’s an epiphany, a vision. I instantly replay an
earlier incident in the day. It’s Wilmer walking into the office, he’s carrying
the foreboding package…
CLANK!

I know that! The disagreeable
noise reverberates in my head, rattling off the sides like a frantic pinball. I
hear the sharp-pitched clink again. It can’t be! Another glass bowl? But how!

CLANK! CLINK! CLANK!

My God… I’m growing weak. I’m
Superman; kryptonite is near, even more powerful than before. The clinks are
much harsher, much more strident in comparison to the old nemesis. Each clank
is now accompanied by a vibrating note which jars my brain incessantly. Like a
chinaman banging away on a gong just behind my head.
CLANK!
My head dips
downward like a turtle attempting to hide within its shell. The room is closing
in on me. Blurred streaks of walls and desks and floors and windows. A swirling
mass of chaos – each
CLANK!
resulting in
another fuzzy image. The
phone continues to ring but I’ve become so disoriented that I can’t locate the
receiver.

A voice calls out from
somewhere.

“Answer? Are you going to
answer that, Jerrard?” It’s Wilmer.

Answer it? I can hardly even
breathe! Cromwell busily banging away on his death drum – hassling me with such
trivial questions! The dirty scoundrel knows the truth! Death is seconds away,
I know, it must be. My window is closing fast. The office door shrinks away
like a camera zooming out in the old Hitchcock films. My body instinctually
crawls over the desk, rolls onto the floor and staggers to the door. I fling it
open dramatically, instantly collapsing into the hallway, still somehow
managing to shut the door behind me with the last bit of dying strength.

The clinks are still audible
through the thin walls, yet nearly tolerable. I’m still in terrible shape. It’s
only just begun. Crawl boy, crawl! Keep moving… Out of time… Too late…

While I nodded, nearly dying,
suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my
tender side.
‘Tis some pest,
I mumbled,
tapping on my tender side… it
must be this and nothing more.
At some point I must have covered my ears
and began rocking back and forth, curled up, lying on the ground pathetically.
The tapping comes again. I don’t open my eyes. I can’t. It might be the living
clink. The horror finally coming to take me! The clank lives! Taking a mortal
form to finish its dark deed… A hand shakes me yet again, only much rougher
this time. I’m forced to open my eyes, to inspect, to take sight of the
aggressor. The face I see is shocking. It’s… it’s
incredible.

“Are you alright?” the person
asks.

My head bobs in a motion not
suggestive of a yes or a no, only random movements.

“What happened?” the voice
demands.

“Clinking!” I manage to gasp.
The sound is still within earshot, though highly muffled.

The face, Natasha’s face,
looks down at my weakened body with complete and utter bewilderment. The tramp!
She has no clue what is going on or just how near to death I truly was. Perhaps
still am.

“What?” she says.

Right. I can’t make a
favorable impression on her when I’m mentally sound. Now that I’m curled into
the fetal position, babbling incoherently, my chances have been reduced
drastically. Or so I thought.

“Clanking!” I spew. “The
clanking! Get me out of here!”

She hears the distant sound to
which I’m referring -- her face contorts in odd fashions. I know what she’s
thinking. That little noise has immobilized you? Are you a goddamn maniac?
Well, to be honest maybe I am. But right now I’m trying to survive and she’s my
only hope.

“Take me away from here,” I
behest urgently.

I’m a little man, very light,
around one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. Natasha most likely weighs one
hundred twenty to one hundred thirty pounds. She’s got an athletic physique. A
hard body; muscled without being masculine in the least. And as such she easily
scoops me up off the floor and assists me into the break room. The last clank
is silenced as the door shuts with a bang.

There I am in the break room,
sitting across from the beautiful Natasha. She looks irritated and not the
least bit concerned. Her arms are folded across her chest. She has elected to
remain standing instead of taking a chair. Obviously she won’t be staying long.
One leg is stiff and the other is slightly relaxed, which makes one side of her
hips rise giving the appearance of intense vexation. Her lips are pressed
firmly together. Looking over her entire body and noting the position of every
feature I can tell she is rather angry. Perhaps annoyed is a more accurate
description. Unhappy at any rate.

“Well?” she finally says.

Huh? I’m at a loss. What does
she expect from me?

“Thanks…?” I say somewhat
unsurely.

My answer does not appease
her. Natasha unfolds those toned arms as she places them on her hips, akimbo
style. Not a friendly posture either.

“What happened to you?”

Can I tell her the truth?
Would she believe me? Would anyone? An arrogant man eating his lunch out of a
large glass bowl drove me insane? It doesn’t sound like something a sane man
would say. I can just imagine how the Looney bin doctors would comment. They’d
want to lock me up. And I’ve had my share of padded cells for a lifetime.

“Well, you see…” I begin.
“There was a, uh…”

“A clank? You said a clank.”

“Right, a clank. There was a
clank. My, uh, pencil rolled off the desk and fell onto the floor. I, uh, bent
down and, uh, picked it up. Well, I tried to anyway. Apparently I bumped,
smashed more like it, hit really hard, my head --- uh, against the desk and it
caused a clanking noise. It didn’t feel that painful at first but I must have
been knocked nearly unconscious and that’s why I stumbled into the hallway.”
Whew, this whopper of a lie left me breathless, wheezing for air.

Natasha drops her head
incredulously. Then she shrugs her shoulder and heads for the door. It’s at
this very moment I notice a disconcerting observation -- one with critical
import. An unsettling realization… I have received no inspiration from our
encounter. Seeing, no, being
touched
by the beautiful and wondrous
Natasha? And I feel nothing! My mind is utterly consumed by the fading sounds
of spoon against glass.

“Whatever. As long as you’re
alright. Are you?”

“Sure. Thanks for helping me
out.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says
before reiterating her point. “Really,
don’t
mention it.”

I hold up a hand peacefully to
show I’ve gotten the message. The door shuts and she’s gone. Its loud clunk
smashing against the frame brings my mind back to awareness.

Goddamnit… Wilmer’s got
another bowl!

Chagrin:
mental uneasiness caused by disappointment or humiliation.

14

So… the big man thinks he can
push me around huh? Show ol’
J-man
what’s what? I got rid of his bowl
and he has the temerity to go out and buy another? And not simply just any
other oversized glass bowl, but one that generates an even more irksome clank.

I sit here in my chair looking
through his slightly opened door, peering in, observing the dastardly
replacement setting atop his desk beside a few muscle shakes. He’s clicking
away on his computer with a full belly. The bastard. Did I go through all of
that effort to be ridiculed? How dare he do this to me. It’s the
final
straw…
I feel like walking straight into his office, unzipping my pants and pissing
right into that glass cursed object.
Drink up!
Then I’d dump it out over
his head, watching the liquid dampen his filthy shiny perfect hair! And toss
the bowl through the window when I was done. That’s what I’d like to do.

An irate ice-cream man hatches
a plot to exact revenge on bothersome soccer moms. They had taken measures to
ban him from selling treats to children at the soccer, baseball, and football
games. Why? Because he was an outspoken religious man, a Muslim extremist, and
he wasn’t shy about it either. In fact, he advertised it on his truck. Not just
crosses and such. But gruesome images depicting the crusades, the inquisition,
and other lurid past historical events in protest of western religions. The
children referred to him as the Jihadist Snowcone.

The insular, narrow-minded
soccer moms spoke to the city council. Their efforts proved quite successful,
which resulted in banning him from being within three hundred feet of the field
on game days. Does this ice-cream man sit and stew? No. He develops an
ingenious plan.

One week later, he had
repainted his truck, removed of all religious propaganda. A clever disguise.
There were only images of goodies and treats on the vehicle like the old
classical ice-cream trucks. He drives up to the field, gets out and climbs onto
the roof with a megaphone – the Jihadist Snowcone professes he’s turned a new
leaf. He’s no longer an extremist! In fact he’s a convert! A proselyte! He’s a
born-again Christian! To celebrate, he’s giving out free ice-cream to one and
all! The mothers give each other a knowing look, quite smug at having won yet
another neighborhood battle.

The children, their parents,
the coaches, the grandparents, and the spectators all rush to the truck
desirous of their favorite treat. The man makes sure everyone receives exactly
what they want. There’s plenty for all! Almost… He runs out of the treats,
regrettably informing the crowd that he must go resupply. Although, he
neglected to tell them that he’d laced every single treat in the truck with
poison. It started with the children, then the elderly, then the adults. An
intense ever escalating aching of the gut. Slow, agonizing moans and groans
ensued. Some vomited. Some fell to the ground. Thirty three humans died that
week from the poisoning. The children no longer call him the Snowy Jihadist. A
new moniker, Tainted Creamsicle, is how they remember him. A few kids even
created a little rhyme. A story of caution for all those running toward the
cheery sounds coming forth from your friendly neighborhood ice cream man. The
eccentrically bizarre ice-cream purveyor fled the state, never to be seen
again. Some believe he escaped to Europe, perhaps to Latveria – where he still
peddles the cold treats. He’s currently number seven on the FBI’s MOST WANTED
LIST.

Did he prove his point? I’m
not sure there was a point to prove. He merely grew tired of persecution and
exacted revenge. Was he wrong? What drove him to action? Being banned from
selling his goods due to his beliefs. That’s what did it. I personally have no
interest in such political garbage. All I care about is his somewhat comical
execution method which was employed. To think… an ice-cream man goes berserk
and kills off over thirty people. You’d almost expect to see the side panel of
his truck come flying open, followed by a shouting of “Allah alla ak-bar-uh” or
whatever it is they screech, and a loud BOOM – not this mundane, womanly method
of poisoning. You know those Muslims.

Explode the innocent is what I
say. Go out with a boom for God’s sake.

What’s more is that he’s
living freely somewhere, without persecution. The perfect crime? Not by my
standards. It was far too messy and to top it off, the killer is easily
identified. The perfect murderer avoids all suspicion, or at the very least
leaves no evidence to convict him. People might know, they might suspect, they
might nod and point, but he or she will never be caught – much less convicted.
The perfect murder is a work of art. A true masterpiece in every sense of the
word, just as the Mona Lisa or Michelangelo’s David is.

Tonight proved to be very
unfruitful. Devoid of any and all productivity or passion. Despite the night
scene appearing beautiful and serene. A few of the rugged stars somehow broke
through the interfering city lights, glorifying the sky with their presence. A
warm wind blew through the town. I stood in the midst of a large gust, my hands
held high in the air, with eyes closed.

The canvas in my studio room
remained barren of Natasha’s face. And to think that earlier this morning I’d
been filled with so many great ideas. Imbued with such excitement, such gusto.
But the hideous revealing of Wilmer Cromwell’s new eating glass deprived me of
insight. And that is putting the situation lightly. It has robbed me of all
joy. Sucked the life-force from my world. Removed the color from my TV, so to
speak.

On my canvas is painted one
object and one object alone. An ugly, oversized clear glass bowl.

I did not dream of Natasha in
her noirish setting. The single dominating thought was and still is Wilmer
Cromwell’s infernal clanking. His unbearable clinking. I’m positive the night
was hushed and silent, but I heard, and heard vividly, the sound of odious
clinking pounding in my ears like gunshots. My mind raced. My eyes glued open.
I’d read a murder novel earlier in the night, but even that failed to frighten
me. I imagined no burglars creeping through my darkened halls or despicable
thieves sliding against the haunted walls. The clanking preoccupied my
thoughts. There was nothing else. Only that terrible, strident, deathly
clinking.