CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (9 page)

What the hell! That idiot!
He’s coming back! Christ! Somebody should help me, why does he persist so
aggressively! Can’t they see what is going on? Don’t they know? The world is so
G-D apathetic these days… And here I am mixed up in this plight. This same
maniac is coming at me—with, what the—a smirk on his face of all things! A
menacing glare. There’s a name tag on his red shirt: Todd.

Another one! Dear god!

I scan the immediate vicinity,
planning my escape route. Holy! But as I turn back, there’s no longer a
Todd
written on the tag. It now says RETRIBUTION and the man it’s attached to is
smiling broadly. I bet he’s got a gun. One of Wilmer’s henchmen… No, probably a
knife. He’s been sent here to gut me right at this spot, to spread my entrails
out in the store.

“Finding everything all right,
sir?” he questions.

Am I going crazy? This is the
twelfth time or so it seems that he’s asked me the same question in as many
minutes. Is he crazy! Who cares, Cromwell! You won’t get me this time! Time for
me to leave, now! Think boy, think…

I glance in the opposite
direction and say, “Actually I think I saw someone grab a bowl and run out the
backdoor just now. Is that possible?”

“Wait,” he says, sticking out
a hand at belly level, “some one just took a bowl and
ran out?
”

“Yes,” I restate. “Right out
the backdoor.”

“Was he wearing a red shirt?”

All the employees are in red
uniforms. So is this imposter.

“No. He had a black hooded
sweatshirt on with some sort of gang writing along the back.”

The henchman pauses for a
minute. I guess Wilmer didn’t instruct him well enough… I sense the wheels of
thought spinning in his mind. I’m losing him. He’s got to be convinced. I must
remove all doubt!

“It was a black guy!” I shout,
almost wheezing with exasperation. Sweat dripping from my sideburns.

“Oh crimmity!” screams the
duncepot. He takes off like a madman sprinting toward the backdoor, yelling for
assistance. Something about a code 13. Two other workers follow after him.
Everyone in the store glues their eyes on the ensuing scene as I make my way to
the nearest register. Take that Cromwell!

There’s a pretty girl standing
behind the register. She has beautiful blue eyes accentuated by an angelic
face.

“Hello,” she says, “find
everything all right today, sir?”

Good god! Another one!

That night I slept well. Heck,
better than ever. Dreams of Wilmer accepting the bowl titillated my thoughts. I
imagined his face as he saw the dish for the first time. I envisioned him
sitting in his office eating… silently!

17

A friend of mine back in high
school thought he’d committed the perfect crime. Not a murder, only a crime. He
was a simpleton. I only remained friends with him to make myself feel better.
The most rudimentary of ideas confused him to no end. Although the boy
possessed an ambitious and fearless personality, those traits were combined
with an unsurpassed ignorance and stupidity – he was destined for failure.

Still, he executed the crime
to the best of his abilities, which is to say, not very well. You see, my
friend had a bitter rivalry with the teacher’s pet. A preppy looking kid with
blond hair and blue eyes, reminiscent of a little Hitler youth. This nitwit
believed himself to be God’s gift to man, or at least the teacher’s.

His loathsome, effusive
compliments lavished upon the instructor are still fresh in my mind. Imagine a
little dork equipped with a high-pitched voice saying these lines:

“You look lovely today, Ms.
Blackwell.”

“That’s a very funny story,
Ms. Blackwell.”

“You’re so smart, Ms.
Blackwell.”

Yadda, yadda, yadda. His name
was Buckner White. Never “Buck” or “Bucky.” He’d only respond to Buckner. My
friend, we’ll call him Roger Mills for now, decided to pull one over on ol’
Buckner.

Here’s what Roger did. It took
him all of four days to plan this
perfect crime
. His goal was to frame
Buckner for a nefarious deed. An expulsion worthy offense. Tarnish the
reputation of that little creep.

On the Thursday before Spring
Break, the school received a dangerous bomb threat. Somebody had left a note on
Ms. Blackwell’s desk threatening to blow her up along with the rest of the
faculty if she didn’t marry the love struck, soon to be bomber. And who had
written the note? Why Buckner White of course. At least that’s whose name was
signed down at the bottom (in rather poor hand writing…).

Roger Mills had made one major
flaw. He’d used an old assignment paper of his to write the threat on. He wrote
it on the blank backside. However, all one had to do was turn the paper over
and see his name written on the front. That alone didn’t mean anything. It’s
easy enough to steal someone’s paper, isn’t it? But the writing on the front,
Roger’s writing, matched the bomber’s handwriting on the back, perfectly. The
same scribbled chicken scratch. School officials announced it to be a hoax
fairly quickly and Roger was soon apprehended. He denied any involvement of
course, but the evidence proved damning.

After speaking with his father
for a brief period of time Roger confessed to his crime. They sent him off to
the school for “bad kids.” You know the school I’m talking about. The school
all the “good” kids whisper dark secrets of, but no one has ever been to.
Except maybe one kid who tells these fantastic tales about the “other side.”
The savage beatings that take place and brutal muggings that occur right in the
hallways. The teachers have no control over the incorrigible students -- chaos
is rampant.

Anyway, that is where Roger
Mills ended up and it was the last I ever saw of him. Perhaps those dark
whispered secrets were true… There wasn’t much I learned from Roger. I didn’t
receive much benefit from ever having known the dolt. Although I did learn to
plan your crimes a bit more thoroughly. Truth be told, some one that idiotic
shouldn’t be perpetrating crimes at all. They’re bound to be caught. Which is
precisely is what happens to most criminals. I believe it’s because the
majority of them are as unintelligent and simple as Roger Mills. Just imagine a
fool like Todd Storton trying to pull off a decent crime. No chance! He’d probably
film himself doing it and leave the camera behind along with his license and
note of admission... Addlepate!

I feel it to be an auspicious
morning. The weatherman says we’ll have clear skies today, with not a chance of
showers. Normally they’re not accurate but when something reinforces my
beliefs, then I’m inclined to believe in it more. Last night I washed Wilmer’s
new bowl four times using four different kinds of soap. There’s isn’t a tinge
of residue left; I’ve made sure of it. The bowl is spotless. A king would
gladly dine, consuming the finest of meals, night after night from this
fabulous dish. Wilmer simply cannot refuse such a piece of craftsmanship.

On my way to work I hit all
the traffic lights with impeccable timing. One great, long smooth sea of green
-- flowing cars without a single hang up. There wasn’t an opportunity for some
miscreant window washer to harass me today. I’ve the seen the one I launched
onto the sidewalk, but only once since the incident. His leg had been fastened
in a makeshift cast or splint of some kind. A few jagged canes duct taped to
the leg, keeping his bones in place; at least I assume that was its purpose.
And today, on this most promising of days, I see him again… Hobbling by the
side of the rode… As I drove by I made sure to look the other way and shield my
face with the hand nearest to the window. Don’t think that I’m scared of the
loser, but I’d rather not let him see me coming by this way. He might try to
pull something.

The office held a propitious
air, a lingering feeling of good fortune. Maybe I was imaging things or worse
yet, creating them. I need all the help I can get. If Wilmer doesn’t accept
this bowl, if he should decline to use it, I don’t know what I’ll do. To be
honest I’ve not given that problem much thought. Positive thinking works
wonders. All negative beliefs have been eliminated from my mind. I’m one
optimistic sap. The world is a bowl of frosting and Wilmer Cromwell is my cake
to spread it on.

“Wilmer!” I shout out loud.

“What? Yeah?” he says from
inside his office.

It’s at this point I realize
that I’ve begun verbalizing my internal thoughts and his name just happened to
pop out. The plastic bowl is elegantly wrapped, sitting in my desk drawer. But
now is not the time to deliver. I can’t approach him under these circumstances.
Not after an outburst.

“Umm, I just wanted to make
sure you remembered your 3:00 appointment with Mrs. Fitch.”

“Yes, of course,” Wilmer
responds. “You reminded me about that appointment thirty minutes ago. Good work
today, by the way!”

He’s right. I just needed
something, anything to respond with -- it happened to be one of those rare
moments his appointment book was open on my computer. I return to staring at my
screen, contemplating when the best time to present the bowl would be. It’s got
to happen before lunch. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to withstand
another day of clanking. And I’ve already grown tired of eating out. Why should
I be forced to dine elsewhere because of some inconsiderate wretch? There’s no
plausible excuse for it. Consideration is a virtue in this world. Wilmer
Cruelwell
obviously lacks any semblance of the trait.

A few hours still remain until
lunchtime comes about. Which means I’ve got time to plan and plot. Every detail
must be meticulously orchestrated, as if I’m preparing to commit the perfect
murder. That’s what this is like. A perfect murder.

The building’s token black
lawyer has been scarce these past few days ever since the last episode – the
one with the gun scare. Although it does not surprise me when I see Ellington
Fairfield’s head peer into my office. He’s looking flustered as always, as if a
hitman is hot on his trail. He waves me over with a motion of his head. I look
back to make sure Wilmer isn’t watching and then walk to Ellington. Like a
child sneaking out of class… His meaty paw grabs me by the shoulder and pulls
me into the hallway. He peeks over my shoulder, scanning the office. I guess
the coast is clear, because he begins talking in a whispered yet intense voice.

“Jackson we need to talk.”
Ellington peeks over my shoulder again.

“Sure,” I say as apathetically
as always.

He sucks in a big breath of
air and stares straight into my eyes. No, right through them.

“It’s about Wilmer… I think
he’s plotting to kill me.”

“Oh?” I’m more amused than
usual. I don’t even think about persuading him otherwise. I like where this is
going.

“Yes. I heard him talking on
the phone the other day when you stepped out to lunch.”

Stepped out? I sprinted out of
the building like a mean drunk.

“What did he say?”

“Well, it wasn’t out and out.
Nothing blatant.”

“Of course,” I say
reassuringly, while struggling to stifle a laugh. Ellington is always prone to
grasping at straws. I’m sure this will be no different.

He looks over my shoulder
again. The coast is still clear.

“He was talking about ‘getting
rid of the roach problem.’” Ellington tilts his head down and eyes me with an
expression that says
and you know what THAT means!

“Jilton, I know he’s always
thought of me as a roach. Me and
my
kind in fact. All of us. The black
folk I’m talking bout.”

I’m perfectly well aware of
the fact that Mr. Cromwell recently discovered a roach problem in his home.
Though this little fact will remain our dirty secret. Ellington can go right on
thinking of whatever little conspiracy he’s got in mind. They’re always good
for a laugh.

“That is odd,” I say with a
somber tone. “What else did he say?”

Ellington peers over my head.
The room is remains empty.

“Well, he said something about
‘gassing them’ and wanting to ‘squash the little bastards.’”

“Wait a minute Mr. Fairfield…
How did you hear all of this? Wasn’t Wilmer in his office?”

“Yes, yes he was. But I snuck
into the room and hid underneath your desk.”

“Fantastic idea,” I reply with
convincing excitement. He nods his head in agreement. One side of me is
wondering how many times Ellington has concealed himself somewhere in the room
and eavesdropped on Wilmer. Or how many times he’s followed him around town and
furtively observed his movements. I’ve always questioned Ellington’s sanity but
now I’m questioning his ability to function with even a hint of ration. He’s
turning out to be a real nut, just like everyone else in this G-D building.

“There’s more, I’m afraid. I
hid under your desk, right? Well Wilmer comes out of the office and I sit there
motionless. Not moving a muscle, you know? Wilmer leaves the office and I crawl
out from underneath the desk and scurry into his office. I didn’t know how long
he’d be gone so I had to act fast, you know?”

“What did you do?”

“…I picked up his phone and
star sixty-nined his ass,” Ellington informs me with an elated grin. He can’t
hold back the latent excitement.

“And you know what Joaner? A
man picks up on the other line and says, I kid you not, he says ‘Roach
exterminator.’”

Ellington remains grinning
from ear to ear. He’s finally uncovered Wilmer’s evil ploy. Of course!

“I’m guessing they call us
black people the roaches. Don’t you get it Josiah? It’s some kind of militant
racist group set on ridding the world of black people!” The crazed man before
me breaks out into disbelieving, maniacal laughter. He’s stricken with a
prolonged laughing fit. His hands are placed against the office window on
either side of my head, effectively trapping me between him and the glass. His
upper body and head are bent over, hanging in front of my chest as he cackles.
The noise is growing louder and louder. His uncontrollable laughter becomes an
unsettling torture. I pray to God or Allah, whoever, for someone to get this
maniac away from me.

Just at that moment the door
to my right opens. It’s Natasha in a scarlet red blouse. Her hair is letdown,
running over those sensuous shoulders. I look toward her and then back to the
laughing fool pinning me against the window. I can only imagine what she’s
thinking. Her face molds into a truly disgusted expression and she quickly
slams her door shut.

The noise might alert Wilmer.
I’ve got to escape. My only chance is to go limp and sink to the floor.

It works! I’m on the floor
crawling away on my hands and knees. Ellington is still pressed against the
glass, laughing like a lunatic. I’ve read of numerous cases where people have
died from laughing. In fact the Greek stoic
Chrysippus
died of a laughing fit after he’d let his donkey drink wine and
then observed the pack animal attempting to eat figs.

At this point my only concern
is Ellington’s health. He must be stopped before the mad cackling takes his
life. I upright myself and charge forward. My fist slams into Ellington’s gut
-- shockingly the wind is knocked from him. The blow has such a potent impact
that even I am surprised by the strike. His laughter ceases, immediately
replaced by wheezing gasps. Ten seconds later he’s regained his breath. He
bumbles backwards and leans against the wall. His entire demeanor has changed
from that of a maniac to that of a disoriented, dazed man.

“Justin,” he wheezes, “thank
you…” Then Ellington slinks down the hall until he reaches his office door and
enters.

I glance at my digital wrist
watch. It reads 12:10. Zero hour approaches. I’ve got one momentous task to
complete. It’s go time!