CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (8 page)

BOOK: CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw
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15

 

I arrived late to work today
for the first time ever -- just to make up for being early yesterday. Why not?
This way it balances out. Nothing has changed. Everything is the same. Percy
continues to beguile the dimwitted woman who I’d seen wandering around here
mindlessly yesterday. At one point the ol’ bag asked me if I was her
granddaughter, Juniper. At least it’s a J… She’s clueless, ignorant, and in all
probability, senile. And for a brief moment I wish her to be taken for
everything she’s got. Down to the last penny. It’s time to show her the error
of such oblivious ways. A certain poetic ending. Although true poetic justice
would be Percy receiving his comeuppance, his rightful punishment. But, that’s
not going to be happen. When are these rapscallions ever made accountable for
their deeds? I couldn’t care less. When has anything ever been fair? The legal
system is simply a means to fleece the people. Fairness is afforded only to
those with a bank account large enough to purchase the whore that is justice
for a night. The world is filled with immoral citizens willing to deceive, to
manipulate, to beguile others to their advantage. There’s not a righteous man
on the face of this earth. Only the self-righteous.

Men like Percy Sullivan will
come and go – with no one mourning their passing. People like the old woman,
suckers, will be born and die none the wiser. This is the way the world works.
Cruel. Uncaring. Efficient. The wolf and the sheep.

I try to do my part; though I
fear the trifling existence which I own, this meager life, this insignificant
survival of mine is so unworthy of notice by definition alone that I’d almost
be better off removing myself, permanently. However, even as little as I live
for, I’ve never seriously entertained the option. I feel it would be better to
go out with a few thrills. Grab a girl’s boobs. Rob a bank, take a prominent
man hostage, run an adult film industry. Something like that.

 

Wilmer Cromwell is in his
office typing furiously at the keyboard. I’m not sure what he’s always working
on. Whenever I enter the office he is sure to quickly minimize the screen and
flash me a sickeningly arrogant smirk. Somewhat similar to my routine when he
emerges from his quarters, only I never flash an arrogant smile. It’s more of a
weak,
sorry to bother you what can I do for you
kind of smile.

Yesterday’s bowl incident is
fresh in my mind. There’s absolutely no way I can endure another day of
clanking. I’ve already decided to eat out for lunch until I can come up with a
suitable plan to destroy that execrable bowl. That abominable dish.

Until then I’ll sit here at
the desk answering tedious phone calls and playing games of Go Fish! with the
marvelous Sexkitten69. Maybe look for Storton to make a few of himself. Spy on
Natasha as she bends over to retrieve a dropped pencil. For now, GO FISH! And
ah, what’s this? The online company has released a new version of the game.
They now include actual fish on the cards instead of numbers. So I’ll be asking
ol’ Sexkitten69 if she has any barracuda instead of eights. This could be
amusing. A cute divertissement. She sends me a game request. I’m inclined to
accept.

We’ve tried other games over
the course of our battling, but none of them suited the specific needs required
for us. Chess necessitates too much thought and Sexkitten69 despises the
hierarchy system of checkers. Neither of us has any skill in Texas Hold ‘Em.
Once we played at an online site and lost $130 a piece in the span of thirty
minutes. I had to fudge on the company books to cover that little mistake… That
was the end of our betting games. No, it seems Go Fish! is simplistic enough to
allow a competitive rivalry and yet brainless enough to hold our attention.
There is very little talent involved. The only requirement is basic
memorization and a tad bit of foresight. A modicum of mental movement.

That reminds me of another
story. A few weeks back I challenged Storton to a game. I figured he’d be an
easy mark, him being the retarded oaf and all that. I sat him down with a
smile. Eager to wipe the floor up with that pig. What actually happened? He
beat me in two minutes flat… then had the gall to insult the game.
My game
.
He called it “stupid and dumb.” As well as, “too easy or just had a dumb opponent,”
referring to me of course. How that imbecilic twit won I’ll never know. Some
days I’m convinced he’s played the game an incalculable number of times. That
he’s a superlative player and has spent his mundane, meaningless little life
perfecting this skill. The man is masterful… Such a disgraceful dirtbag of
brobdingnagian proportion! I’ve spent years playing the game! He plays it one
measly time and beats me? So quickly at that!? It’s absurd to think about…

But enough of such trash.

Speaking of the doofus, here
he is now. He’s got the four water jugs as always. However, I might have some
use for him today. Storton is proficient in buffoolery. I’ve got a question
that needs answering. Ones which require a certain stupidity to fulfill.

“Storton!” I shout.

He looks around unsure where
the voice came from. I yell again, causing the duncepot to slowly turn until
his unintelligent, revolting face is pointed in my direction. My hand waves him
into the room. Storton trudges in, sets the jugs down and takes a seat.

“What is it Jaquelle?” he asks
smugly. “You pipsqueak, pencil pushing, uhh—pipsqueak!”

By the tone of his voice I can
surmise he’s just, moments ago, unsuccessfully hit on one of the beautiful
office girls. This brute was born without the ability to comprehend facial
expressions or body language, let alone spoken sarcasm and outright lies. His
hat is pushed high up on his forehead, angled upwards, how a little kid might
wear one. In fact that’s what he looks like. A grotesque looking overgrown
baby. A manchild. I see the damp sweat spots on his shirt -- it appears that he
may have wet himself.

“Storton,” I begin, “I need to
ask you a question.”

He nods.

“But… it must be kept in the
strictest
confidence. Do you understand?” I deliver the question in such a manner as a
mother might say to a dense child.

He nods again. “Yes, I
understand shrimp.” Good, Igor.

“Storton, this involves
disrespect and honor. As well as questions regarding human decency, right and
wrong, moral and immoral, rectitude and impropriety.”

Storton looks perplexed, so I
attempt to remove the verbiage, cutting straight to the meat and potatoes.

“What I’m about to ask you is
deadly. Deadly. Deadly.” I repeat the word deadly like a broken record. His
expression changes to that of a somber countenance. My plan is working. He’s
been prepped and primed… now the question can be popped.

“What do you do when some one
disgraces you? Goes out of their way to humiliate you? Stabs you in the back?
Slaps you in the face? For instance, say, oh I don’t know… Say a boss
disregards his employee’s wishes and flaunts it in their face. What would
you
do?”

Storton answers with such
abruptness I’m rendered speechless.

“I’d kill him,” he says, his
face a statue. “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

I gulp and attempt to regain
my composure. Is this fool crazy? He’d
kill
them? Have I been consorting
with a lunatic all this time and been unaware of it?

“You-you’d-you’d k-k-k-k-ill
them?” I manage to stutter.

He dips his head down and eyes
me from under that massive forehead. The tension is palpable. A bizarre smirk
crawls over his face. Storton leans in close, menacingly. I fully expect him to
ram a knife through my chest…

“Nah,” he says with a hearty
laugh, throwing his head back. “I wouldn’t kill ‘em. Hah-hah. I’d punch ‘em
right in the nose is what I’d do. A square punch with one of these babies.”
Storton raises a pair of gargantuan, meaty fists, eyeing them admiringly.

Strangely I don’t feel the
relief I expected from his confession. There is an emptiness hovering in my
chest. As if a fellow minded friend has suddenly betrayed me. Why had he lied?
Was it simply a joke? Or did the answer contain much sinister undertones?

“Punch ‘em in the nose? That’s
all, huh?” I inquire just to break the silence.

“Yeah, either that or throw
eggs at his car.”

Right. Ask a simpleton and
you’ll get a simpleton’s answer. I’m beginning to prod Storton’s mind a bit
further when a noise catches my attention. It’s the familiar sound of Mr.
Cromwell’s desk drawer sliding open. I look at the clock. 12:43. Damn.

“Storton we’ve got to get out
of here,” I shout while exiting the current game of Go Fish! and giving
Sexkitten69 no explanation. My legs carry me around the edge of my desk, over
to the door we go. The sheer anticipation of hearing metal on glass causes my
right leg to buckle, even before the sound has begun. The first piercing clink
suddenly emits from Wilmer’s office just as I dash from the room. Storton got
the impression that I wanted him to follow me, and so, he’s hot on my tail.
We’re flying down the stairs at a breakneck pace. The whole foundation is
shaking under his ponderous weight. God knows what the other workers are
thinking. This massive, lumbering brute chasing after a tiny, meek fellow
through the halls and down the stairs.

The clinking reaches my ears…
or so I think. Perhaps it’s only in my head. Though I swear it’s there… Yes, it
must be! I leap from the final step and dash toward the front door. Sunlight is
visible through the glass. Without slowing a single pace I charge straight into
the door -- only to be repelled backwards. Caromed as it were. My body is
splayed out on the floor, my vision blurring. A grogginess coming on. The
clinking grows louder and louder. It’s Cromwell, I know it! He’s chasing after
me down the stairs, banging the spoon against that damn bowl. Like a crazed
tribesman hammering his drums of war.
Now I’ve got you, my pretty! CLANK!
CLINK! CLANK!
I feel the vibrations of his feet. Back you bastard! Back!

Suddenly a booming voice
breaks the tumultuous clinks.

“Runt?” Storton asks as he
steps off the stairs.

I motion weakly for the door,
shouting the best I can.

“The door, Storton! Get me out
the door!”

He races over with earnest
concern – uprighting me with a single arm. We’re off and running again. This
time I pull on the door instead of pushing. It opens. I’m sprinting into the
street without cognizance of my surroundings. I feel asphalt beneath my feet,
causing an abrupt stop. The blaring of a car horn snaps me back to reality.
There I am standing in the middle of traffic like an illiterate bum. The irate
drivers exhibit vulgar gestures. A sturdy hand grips my arm, yanking me clear
of the danger.

“What the hell is going on?
Someone trying to kill you?” he yells.

There it is again.
Kill.
That word keeps popping up.

 

16

 

How could anyone enjoy this?
Food being sprayed everywhere, spit flying in every direction, inane jabbering…
I didn’t feel like having lunch with filthy Todd Storton. I did, however. It
wasn’t out of gratitude for saving my life. It was out of selfishness, a need
to survive. Honest. For at any second during this outing, I might have relapsed
back into the state of a delusional blockhead (right there on his intellectual
level) and, though I hate to admit this point, needed his assistance. That’s
all. In essence I used him. A brainless stooge.

Where we ate is not important.
What we talked about is not important. The only important thing is where I am.
Back in my house collecting what sense of sanity I can scrape together. I
called in to work a little while earlier and told them I’d taken ill, being
unable to return for a few days in all likelihood.

A necessary stratagem.
Because… hearing the sound of even one more clink will kill me. I know it. All
these months there’s been a meter filling up in my head. Each clank adds a
little more to it. The red zone is approaching. The fatal zone. It’s come down
to either me or the bowl. And I mustn’t lose. I won’t lose.

There will be no drawing
tonight, no reveries, no star gazing. I’ve consigned all worldly matters to the
nether regions of my thoughts. The one omnipotent question on my mind… how to
rid myself of that reprehensible glass.

I’ve already tried once and
failed. Simply removing the bowl is not enough. Something more must be done.
But what? I can’t offer to take Wilmer out to lunch every day, can I? Of course
not. Not only is it a bit odd, in a
woah too close, pal
kind of way, but
it would break my bank as well. What to do… What to do… What to do…

Quit my job? No… Who would
hire me? Transfer my desk? No, the echoes will reach me. Get rid of… no, too
wild. Something new? Yes! New!

Bingo. I’ve got it! A
replacement! How rudimentary a solution it is! So conspicuous a fix it boggles
the mind. I’ll simply replace that infernal oversized
GLASS
bowl!

Ingenious, boy! But let us be
circumspect here. Think it through. We may only get one chance at this…
Remember Wilmer is fairly persnickety and the bowl specifics will be very
important. The alternate can’t be made of anything resembling glass whatsoever.
I’d be right back where I started! Wood? No, too old fashioned. Plastic. Yes,
plastic, that’s convenient and modern. Although plastic bowls wear down after a
time. Although it should last a sufficiently satisfactory length of time. And
if it works out favorably I’d be glad to purchase another one for Wilmer at the
appointed time.

 

Such a magnificent place.
Superstores really are a wonder, especially these spacious, luxurious, palatial
ones. They’ve got everything under the sun within their walls. You walk in from
the dreary outside wilderness and find yourself captivated by the innumerable
items before you. The store opens up into an expanse that rivals even that of
the great prairies. The roof might as well be a mile high. It’s endless.

Another great facet of the
one-stop-shop supermarket is all the sundry characters wandering in and out. I
imagine they’d be great inspiration for a novelist or writer of any kind. Such
diverse weirdoes. Putrid ones, grotesque ones, dumb ones, ugly ones, beautiful
ones, intelligent ones, fat ones, skinny ones, old ones, young ones, married
ones, single ones, short ones, tall ones, average ones, and a myriad of other
ones.

Suffice it to say that there
is a wonder of action and exhilaration in these places. Any antisocial or
Agoraphobics (fear of crowds) better steer clear. As I enter the store I’m
greeted by a jolly old man. He’s got a twinkle in his eye, a bald head, and is
rather short and fat. I imagine he’s the employee they dress up as Santa Claus
during the Christmas season. Another malformed employee shoves a cart in my
direction. I wave my hand to signify I won’t be needing one. But the little
twit is persistent. He rams the cart at me again, harshly -- it nearly knocks
me over. This malicious worm is really out to get me! I notice he’s snarling
somewhat as we battle over the cart. Is he truly frothing at the mouth? My God!
His lazy eyes are pointed in opposite directions, neither one being aimed at
me, so I am not entirely sure exactly what he is so intently glaring at.

I’m on one side of the cart;
he’s on the other trying to pin me against the wall. This goon is fairly large,
easily capable of overpowering me. I’m on the losing end of our strife. My feet
are dug into the floor. Yet the smooth surface causes them to slide along,
offering little resistance. I shout for assistance over and over.
Help!
Maniac! Help!
A managerial looking fellow runs over.

“No Todd, no!” he shouts,
desperately attempting to pry the idiot’s hand loose from the cart.
Todd?
So all dopes are named Todd… This is little comfort to me! With my innards
being smooshed together. The intestines tangling, rib cage collapsing, the life
draining. It has become a life or death struggle. Here another employee rushes
over to me, politely inquiring if I’m alright.
Oh ye!, Of course I am,
G-D-it!

It’s at this point I notice
the cart pusher is not right in the head. In fact he’s one of those retards.
Evidently this store offers jobs to the mentally handicapped. There’s nothing
wrong with that and I’m all for it. But… They cannot be malicious, militant
goons! For God’s sake he’s crushing me!

“Steve, you idiot! Over here!”
the manager screams, prompting the airheaded employee asking me dreadfully
important questions, to stumble over toward the tard. Steve and the manager
somehow manage to tear the halfwit’s hands free of the handle. I feel the
instant rush of relief as my ribcage slowly pushes outward – free of the
obstruction.

Although a bit rattled after
the incident, I am resolved to continue on into the store, to complete the mission.
The manager runs toward me, once again asking dumb questions about my safety.
Fabricated concern. I’m forced to shoo away the botheration several times. It’s
easy enough to guess what his angle is. He doesn’t want me suing the store. I’m
no serial litigant and I’ve no desire to take up suit against this store. Even
though I know from working around lawyers all day that this would be an easy
case. A simple assault charge resulting in a quick few million in my pocket.
But currently, money doesn’t particularly interest me. In fact if you asked me
what my ambition in life was, I couldn’t tell you. Most days my sole reason for
getting out of bed is to see what kind of freaks I’ll encounter.

Today I’m focused. I’m on a
quest of unparalleled importance. I’m here to purchase a bowl for the
self-important dunderhead, Mr. Cromwell.

And thank god! I’ve come to
the right place (barring the attempt on my life…) It’s amazing! The aisles are
overflowing with glasses and bowls. Countless shelves hold innumerable varieties
of eating dishes. Why there are so many I can only guess. I remember a few
summers ago I ventured off to my local supermarket in search of a quality cup.
Nothing! Only festive rubbish. Low quality at that. Not like this place… But
this is spectacular! Wonderful! Brilliant! It’s good for me as I must select
the perfect bowl, lest Wilmer refuse the gift. They appear to be organized by
type. Glass, plastic, wood, ceramic, steel, and paper. I’ve already ruled out
glass, ceramic, and steel. They’d prove far too noisy and might be even worse
than what Wilmer already has.

Wood? Nobody eats out of a
wooden bowl, except maybe hill people or the Amish. A few green earther,
hipster types perhaps. Those are out of here. Paper? Won’t last long enough. No
go. Which leaves me with plastic. A perfect choice. It’s durable, microwavable,
easy to clean, and most importantly… quiet! Nothing but soft
dinks
or
dunks
emitting from the material.

I set out looking for a hard
plastic bowl. One that will last for a good while, being sturdy enough to
satisfy Wilmer’s many bizarre uses. It must have a good robust feel, yet not be
too heavy. You’d be surprised by how many plastic bowls are weighted improperly
and don’t help facilitate eating one little bit. Others are flimsy and melt
down after one trip to the microwave. Then there is color to think about. What
would Wilmer most enjoy? I figure purples, pinks, and blues are out. Nothing
too eccentric or feminine. A nice clear opaque bowl would be best. A neutral
no
one will dislike this
styled dish.

Another problem facing me is
the shape. Wilmer has always utilized an overly large bowl. Some kind of size
queen, is he. Which means I’ll have to find a plastic bowl of similar size and
shape. Just your basic half circle design, nothing fancy. I don’t require any
ornate side squashed or spout handled style like so many of the “effeminate”
male households use.

Don’t think I’m not a thorough
planner either. Nothing can be further from the truth. In fact… I’ve even
brought a spoon with me to the store. This will serve as my tester. Leave
nothing to chance.

An employee heads in my
direction. She’s an overweight grandmotherly woman with a slightly misshapen
head. Of course she has the “old woman” style hair. It’s fairly short, curly,
and plastered stiff.

“Can I help you find
anything?” she asks with inquisitive eyes.

I ponder the question before
answering with sharp and clear words.

“Why yes, yes you can. I’m
looking for a bowl about yay big,” I hold my hands out to show the size. “Also,
it cannot make any noise or very little noise when this spoon clinks against
it.” I retrieve the spoon from my pocket, dramatically thrusting it into the
air. The woman’s eyes glue to the object, like I’ve just presented a priceless
artifact.

“Hmm, okay. I’m sure we can
find something for you sweetie.” She looks at me with squinty eyes and a sweet,
dear smile. Can I trust such a vile creature? This little grandmother waddles
over to the rows of plastic dishes, a slight hunch protruding from her upper
back. She begins pointing them out. She grabs one off the shelf and offers it
to me. I don’t dare take it from her hands -- but instead, simply tap on the
rim with my spoon. A dull thud resonates. Hmm…Definitely not the sharp,
high-pitched sound of glass. This particular bowl would be very suitable, but…
is it the best? I can’t run the risk of having Wilmer reject my gift.

My lips pull to one side of
the mouth with hesitation.

“Mmhmm,” grandmother says. She
nods her head and sets the bowl down. The woman then picks up another, holding
it toward me. I tap on it. Another dull thud emits. The sound is tolerable. But
again, is this the best choice? Surely there are better bowls available. The
woman replaces it on the shelf and we move down the row.

“Oh my God!” she exclaims,
covering her rosy cheeks with soft, tiny hands.

I look where she’s looking --
we both freeze. Neither of us can move. We’re spellbound, entranced, mesmerized.

“It’s…” I cannot even finish
the sentence.

“It’s…” she says, still
holding her cheeks.

My hand, wielding the spoon,
reaches out ever so slowly… it unconsciously taps the on the brim. There’s
barely a sound. The color is clear opaque, the plastic is sturdy, and on its
label is written the word: MICROWAVABLE.

“It’s perfect!” we both
whisper, still in amazement.

She reaches out to retrieve
the bowl with absolute reverence and the utmost of care. I grab her wrist to
say, “May I?” The woman nods understandingly, and slinks to the rear. The room
begins to disappear, everything is vanishing. There are no background noises.
It’s just me and the bowl. I extend my hands to pick up this treasured gem. The
weight is flawlessly balanced. It truly is the greatest work of plastic
craftsmanship that I have
ever
encountered. Wilmer Cromwell will be
unable, by virtue alone, to refuse this fine of a dish.

I’m running to find the
nearest cashier line. But here I notice an obstruction. One which I caught
sight of some moments ago off in the distance. Here he comes again… An odd
looking character equipped with a hook nose, caveman brow, and the beady eyes
of a rat. What a putrid appearance. But wait! What in god’s name is he doing!
He’s coming toward me now, isn’t he! He is! Christ!

The goof stands before, a wide
smile on his face. Uh oh…

“Finding everything all right,
sir?” the voice cuts through the air as I turn to leave. What does he want? Why
has he been following me!
Everything all right, sir?
My mouth is
beginning to shake a bit. The top lip is quivering slightly.

“Umm, what?” I ask the freak.

I look around the store for a
moment to see how the other people are acting. No one seems to notice this
brute attacking me. I’m being brutally violated here! In a last ditched effort,
my head snaps backward before it nods weakly in the affirmative. My eyes are
shut momentarily, but when I open them I see my hands and arms have become
T-rex like… They’re at chest level, shaking feebly.

“…Yes,” I somehow mumble.

This gesture coupled with that
tiny word seems to do the trick, magically. The greasy haired animal smiles,
nods, then departs. This is the third time I’ve spotted him. He asked me the
same question some time ago. Accosted me really, endlessly. What am I doing
here? I find myself so befuddled by the encounter… Well, I’ve got a plastic
bowl in my hands. That’s right! Cromwell’s gift! The one he surely cannot
refuse. Maintain ol’ boy, just find a register. A few aisles over and you’ll be
home free… Trek on ol’ boy.

BOOK: CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw
6.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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