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

by Draven Madpen

  What is there for me to fear? The meek man without a motive. Nothing! Consequently, I have decided to integrate the glass bowl into the murder after all. They will become connected; one cannot exist without the other. As it started with a glass bowl, it shall end with one as well. Meet your doom, Cromwell!

  Now, as to the means… I can’t very well pick up the bowl during his lunch hour and bash him about the head with it! No, don’t be crazy! Remember, physical violence of a hand-to-hand variety is out of the question. Regrettably, there will be no bludgeoning Wilmer Cromwell to death with the bowl, despite how deeply satisfying the action might be. But the notion does not leave my brain. The alluring sense of power… sneaking into his bedroom one night with the glass dish raised high over my head. Wilmer lying there, sleeping peacefully in his luxurious bed, slightly snoring. The bowl feels alive in my hands. A beam of moonlight glistens off its side. I bring the dish down with skull splitting force. One resounding CRACK! later would bring about the instant, glorious death of Wilmer Cromwell. Yet rather perversely, my thirst for revenge cannot be sated with one mere blow. No! My hands rain down another and another, perhaps until my arms could no longer lift the glass dish. Then, and only then, would I stop and reflect on the atrocity I’d just committed. No… not an atrocity. A pleasantry.

  Sadly, such a scenario is not an option.

  Another variation involves a silenced pistol. Wilmer likes to dine in his home quite frequently. He’s got a nice big kitchen window overlooking a marvelous view of the city. He sits there with a large glass bowl, looking, staring, observing. Naturally, earlier in the day I would have sneaked into his house and hid myself. The one critical element… My timing needs to be perfect. If I attack too late and the clinking has started, I will become immobilized. Not an ideal assassination commencement. I’d listen to hear him sit down and scoot his chair up close to the table. Just as the nitwit took up the spoon to begin eating, I’d walk out from behind the curtain and in doing so, obstruct his view of the city. His face contorts into a confused expression. I raise the pistol – he lowers the spoon against the bowl, letting off a dull clank. That little sound refreshes all the hatred I feel for the man – but Cromwell notices the effect it has on me – he hits the glass again with more force. He’s grinning with delight, rising from his chair, hitting and smacking. But I have come too far! Now is the time! CLANK! BANG! The trigger is pulled. A small red hole appears in Mr. Cromwell’s forehead as he falls over face first into the overly large glass bowl. Victory!

  Again, it is a pleasurable thought, but not exactly an applicable one. Gun play seems so gangsterish, so cowardly, so evocative of thuggish ruffians. A low form of removing a person. A hoodlum’s method. Wilmer deserves better than a shot to the head. Not only that, but the acquisition of a gun is a tricky thing. Especially if one wants to do it secretly. We’ve got so many goddamn gun laws that you can’t even buy a squirt gun without having to register it. I don’t even want to bother with fake IDs, stealing identities, black-market or any such trash. Keep it simple. Let’s circumvent those routes entirely, instead going with something much more felicitous. Something much more congruous and appropriate for the deed at hand.

  Poison. I’m talking about good ol’ poison. The tried and true method of assassination. Lace the bowl. Line the spoon. Taint the food. Such simple tasks for such momentous results. The master plan.

  25

  According to Ellington’s notes, Mr. Cromwell is busy working up a sweat down at the gym on 41st and 9th street. Twenty minutes on the elliptical machine, thirty minutes of free weights, ten minutes of stretching followed by a quick ten laps in the pool. Quite a sound routine if I do say so myself. Wilmer is rather toned and sinewy. He’s not tremendously muscled, but I can tell his musculature is of a dense and firm quality. He occasionally mentions having an interest in strongman competitions. However, Wilmer voiced his opinion on the matter – saying he doesn’t feel it’s correct for a lawyer to be three hundred plus pounds of pure beefcake. The way he goes on and on about them… I always felt it to be somewhat condescending when Cromwell spoke of strongmen competitors with such enthusiasm. Remember, he’s saying this to a man who weighs less than one hundred and forty pounds, and not to mention, weaker than a 2nd grade school girl. I don’t need to hear about such and such from wherever, hoisting 400 pounds overhead with one arm… I suppose the dimwit needs something to obsess over.

  Speaking of, Wilmer and I never really discuss our private affairs with one another. A very secretive man, he is. I know very little about his personal life other than the fact that he isn’t married and doesn’t have any children. Now that I think of it, I’ve never seen Wilmer out with a woman or heard him talking amorously to one on the phone. I can’t say that he doesn’t, only that I’ve never witnessed the act. And I’m not shadowing his every move like Ellington “Stalker” Fairfield. Perhaps he likes to maintain a professional appearance.

  Either way, I’m all the happier! But what if… what if he had a wife and kids? To me, this murder would be no more difficult. I wouldn’t feel any compunction whatsoever. I guess that’s the moral nihilist in me. To me humans are insignificant and inconsequential. Nothing we do here makes a difference. Whether you attain eminence in life or remain a plebian guttersnipe, the lowest of the low, is just a worldly position. In the end we all wind up in a shallow grave to spend eternity in oblivion. The black darkness of infinitude…

  But enough of those dreary existentialist thoughts. I’d much rather focus on sending my boss to that black darkness! If all goes according to schedule Wilmer will be dead within three days, if not sooner. I’m open to the possibility of a slight delay, only for truly exigent matters of course. Go with haste! Nerves are getting the better of me. No, not in a bad way, either. Quite the opposite, indeed. I’m antsy. Revved up to do the deed. Let me at ‘em, Mugsy! Somebody hold me back!

  And in other jovial gossip – today is a grand one! I’ve finally done it! The brain has swished and swirled the ideas around long enough, only recently spitting out the prized piece of information. I am speaking of… The means of elimination has been settled! Poison. Mr. Cromwell will taste sweet, sweet toxins. Shall it be a long drawn-out, torturous process? Or a fast acting peaceful poison? I’m leaning towards a fast acting, torturous poison. One that will inflict an inordinate amount of pain and agony, yet not take overly long to finish him off. I’m not so cruel. Perhaps slightly sadistic, but not cruel. And I’m relatively impatient. I can’t sit around all night waiting for him to die. Let me get a few good chuckles in and be on my way. Such a memory will surely suffice. For now I am quite ecstatic having the decision finalized. No more worrying over how the deed will be done, only getting there. Which brings me to my next point…

  Now, as they say in real estate – location, location, locations! Where shall I commit the exploit? At his home? Down at the office? While I would love nothing more than to see him joke on that needlessly elongated, hefty spoon, right in his office, I am not set on the position. A poetic, picturesque location is not my main priority; although it would add to the sweetness. I must be farsighted and clever, not stupid and clumsy. The main and essential criteria for choosing the correct spot hinges upon my means of framing Lionel Ducard. A man I currently know very little about (my biggest worry, actually). Which area might best facilitate this crucial component of my plan? The work office seems a bit tricky. There’s the problem of luring Lionel to the office so employees can place him at the scene among, other equally troublesome points. Wilmer most likely isn’t using the bowl at any other place, except for his home. Limited, indeed! But also simple and well… there it is boys. Home or the office? Easy choice… In that case it is perforce that I kill Wilmer in his own home. How quaint. Matter settled.

  My, my, my this murder is really coming together and in good time, too. Like I said, I am far better equipped to formulate such a marvelous plan, and so quickly, due to my bountiful reading of crime stories. Not only will it be crafted summar
ily, but the plot will be unblemished and untraceable. Perfect. Faultless. It’s like I’ve got this extreme advantage on the competition. They won’t know what hit them, especially that rotten Wilmer Cromwell and his infernal banging. Such a nuisance the man is. Bang! Bang! Bang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

  I was just thinking happy thoughts. Joyful musings, really. The wonderful thing about poison is you don’t actually have to be at the murder scene while your target is expiring. I could go there hours, days, even weeks beforehand and plant the fatal delicacy wherever I chose to -- never returning. My victim would ingest the noxious substance when the time was right, dying soon after. All police detectives know this fact. Which is precisely why I must take extra care in exonerating myself of any blame. You see, with a gunshot the murderer must be at the scene. He has to hold the gun and shoot his victim. Someone is shot and if you can prove that you were across town at the time, then you’re off scot-free. Aside from hitmen and hired guns of course. But that’s an entirely different situation.

  My greatest defense in this particular crime is lack of motive. What reasons do I have to kill Wilmer Cromwell? I’m asking these questions from a detective’s standpoint, naturally. When a flatfoot sees me, he’ll wonder, “Why would geek-boy over there want to kill his boss?” I’m paid well enough; have never had any tiffs with Wilmer; and I’ve never once spoken ill of him. To the world I’m a reticent, reserved, spineless little worm. Could I commit a murder? No more than a turtle could fly.

  These are extremely important points to address. I’ve got to throw them off my scent from the get go. I don’t want to be a suspect. No sir. Nowhere near the magnifying glass! Who knows if I can handle the pressure of a buzz cut, no neck brute grilling me with endless questions under a hot lamp.

  I believe the only person who I’ve mentioned the clanking to is Natasha. And perhaps Ellington when he saved me from the hellish onslaught. Though I’m sure they considered it incoherent babbling from a peculiar little man. I should be safe on that front. But what if… What if they remember and start talking to investigators? A slip of the tongue for instance… It’s possible, isn’t it? A random flashback. One word misspoken? Hmm, is it better to kill them as well? Simply preclude any possibility by nipping it in the bud? Yes, maybe. Just add a few more dashes of poison to their meals… No, it can’t be. Suspicion might be aroused if the body count starts piling up around me -- I’ll be in real trouble. Or would I? No one knows I’m connected to either Ellington or Natasha. Maybe Lionel Ducard was spotted by both of those miscreants, and, being the lowlife criminal he is, was forced to kill them? Is it possible? Sure it’s possible but highly implausible. Let’s scratch that line of thought for now. I’m confident that neither of them will connect me to the murder of Wilmer Cromwell. No one can.

  Now, a quick recap is at hand. The method: poison. The location: Wilmer’s home. Good, good, but now…? How will I administer the lethal dose and frame Lionel Ducard? The two essential elements. The critical components…

  26

  An eminent mayor begins seeing some hot-blooded mistress for several months. It is a passionate, heated fling which continues on with no strings attached. However, over the course of those few months spent together in secrecy, something had spawned within the pair. Deeper feelings were hatched and what started as a lascivious kick became a bond of true love. Of course there was only one problem. The man already had a wife. And due to his position as a city elected official, and the fact that it was an election year, a bitter divorce might be frowned upon by the citizens. And there is yet another facet to the love imbroglio which added a whole nother problem. The mistress was also married.

  What are two love struck birds to do? Simple! The mayor develops a plan. He promises his mistress that he will divorce his wife after the election, leaving himself free to marry her. Upon hearing of this wonderful news, the mistress found herself so overwhelmed with joy that she divorced her husband the very next day. She did this to avoid suspicion later on – it might seem a bit awkward if they both divorced at the same point in time – like a clever little scheme was hatched or something… She and the mayor continue seeing each other all through the duration of the election campaign. Their spouses and ex-spouses are none the wiser.

  Lo’ and behold! The boastful mayor is reelected by a landslide. One could barely call it an election – more of a one sided thrashing. His mistress, naturally, eagerly awaited him to divorce his wife and fulfill their promise of love. But the deceitful politician reneged on that part of the deal (how unusual, right?). It seems he had lost interest in the woman. Understandably, she became furious. After all, she’d kicked her own husband to the curb and fully expected to be Mrs. Mayor. She pleaded and begged, begged and pleaded, but all to no avail. The mayor would not budge.

  So what does a vindictive, heartbroken, irate woman do? She goes to her local pawn shop and buys a .44 magnum. The woman then travels to the mayor’s house, knocks on his front door. A jolly man, her ex-paramour, answers the door and is greeted by a bullet right between the eyes. She blows smoke from the barrel like any good and decent coldblooded killer in the action movies. The body slinks downward, falling to his knees, where the mayor remained for a moment before tipping over forward.

  The crime was not well thought out -- she hadn’t formulated a plan to exculpate herself from charges. Obviously the woman was convicted of murder, sentenced to an extended prison stay. The story is neither a perfect murder nor a particularly well done crime. I merely relay it here for entertainment purposes. What is the saying? “Hell hath no fury like that of a woman scorned.” After reading so many cases of female killers I’m inclined to believe it.

  While pouring over my abundant crime literature collection I couldn’t help but read a few juicy tales. One specific story really chilled my bones. That night I was unable to sleep as a result. I kept imagining a bald headed, bearded lumberjack luring me into the woods and chopping me up into tiny bits. Yes, I know I live in the city where there aren’t any woodland areas for miles. But tell that to my racing heart and shaking hands.

  The story did succeed in diverting my mind from the exciting task at hand. Mainly that of killing Wilmer Cromwell. The days fly by as I feel myself growing impatient. My hands itch to off the nitwit. Normally, my bedroom curtains are closed to prevent me from seeing any would-be lurkers creeping outside my window. But last night, as I lay awake in bed, the moon appeared so radiant and so wondrous that I couldn’t bring myself to shut it out. Either that or the fear of a crazed lumberjack kept me from leaving the bed.

  I’ve always wondered though, at what age do children learn they can’t hide under the covers? When you’re young and snuggled in your bed, and a noise frightens you, you crawl under your blankets and hope nothing happens. You feel safe under that thin layer of cloth. But we adults know simply hiding in plain sight isn’t going to prevent harm. So, at what age do we realize hiding is not enough? That simply wishing will not suffice? We must take action!

  I know I’ve never learned, even to this day. Actually, I have learned it, but I don’t respond accordingly. Fear grips me, restrains my limbs. I’m terrified, petrified and unable to move. The cold night air and horrifying sounds terrorize my mind. The warm covers are my only protection. Any maniac could rush into my room without warning to end my life. I know how I should act but I am unable to do so. I can’t help but panic, wondering if I locked the doors, if I checked the windows… These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. And yet, I’m smiling.

  27

  It is a new, bright sunny day. There is nothing but exhilaration and enthusiasm in my heart. And yes, there is a justified reason for my good cheer. For it is today that I implement a crucial crux of the plot.

  The building is quiet. I don’t hear the normal din, and it’s probably because I’m early today -- for no particular reason at all. A bout of insomnia is keeping me awake. I decided that sitting at the office would be better than sitting at home. Perhaps I’ll catch a glimpse of
Natasha as she walks by. And what do you know… my wishful thinking is answered in the affirmative, almost instantly.

  For her she comes… The ever radiant Natasha sauntering her way down the hall. She’s wearing a blood red blouse and black skirt. Her hair is pulled back into a bun and her spectacles are thick, black rimmed pieces today. I guess she figured a red blouse and red glasses were a bit too much. It’s an astonishing attire. Breathtaking. Stunning. I love the way her legs are revealed each time one moves forward.

  She looks in my office, performing a double take upon spotting me. Her sensuous head turns with a pained expression. Natasha’s skin is a flawlessly tanned, creamy texture. Immaculate. Here she executes a strange gesture. One that I don’t quite understand initially. She is opening her mouth and then closing it with her right thumb in a rapid fashion. Quite peculiar. The chomping sounds… I haven’t the slightest inkling what it signifies. But seconds later the meaning is all too clear…

  I become conscious of the fact that my mouth is agape! How embarrassing. Perhaps I should have added jaw-dropping to the list of adjectives describing her appearance. Natasha’s head shakes from side to side as she walks to her office. Another strike against me.

  Mr. Cromwell arrives a tad bit earlier than normal today. He greets me with that disgusting smile. “Hello,” he says, rushing off into his office. Not even a J name? Pompous ass. The door shuts slightly. Minutes afterward I hear the pecking of fingers on keyboard keys. Wilmer’s up to his usual sneaky, enigmatic business. Every day the man sits in there typing away for a terribly lengthy period of time. Just what is he up to? I’m tempted to jump out of my chair and barge in with such speed to prevent him from having time to minimize the windows, to catch him in the act before he can react! But I resist the urge. Doing anything out of the ordinary might alert suspicion. These last few days are critical. I must maintain my characteristic behavior, lest I become an object of scrutiny.