I look around the room searching for a tool to pry the door open with. It doesn’t really matter if the lock looks like it’s been tampered with or not. Because Lionel is supposed to have stolen these drugs, so perhaps a little tinkering is good. That gives the impression of a man who didn’t care if anyone noticed the break-in. The mindset of a shoddy con.
Ah-hah! At last, the very tool for the task. A fine tipped scalpel. I snatch it up, getting right to work on the device.
Hmm… My fingers must be a little sweaty… Tinkering and tinkering…Still not there yet, huh… Confound it! This lock picking is much tougher than I imagined. The scalpel is of little use in my untrained hands, even though I continue to poke and prod at the lock for over three minutes. It’s very frustrating work. The blood in my body begins to boil. I must constantly, and consciously, fight off the urge to smash in the glass. Give way you son of a bitch! In fact, my fist might have given it a sturdy thwack once or twice already. I’m stabbing the scalpel at the hole as if trying to gut a fresh kill. The grating sound of the blade scratching across the surface. Die! Die! Die!
“What are you doing!” a voice behind me suddenly shouts.
Goddamn! I’ve been had. Caught. The jig is up! Confound it! Of all the debacles that I could commit… My murder plan is foiled before it’s even begun! You opprobrious fool! Scatterbrained ignoramus! But wait… I can get out of this morass. I’ve got the wit – AND my face is concealed. Think, boy!
“Oh, I was just fixing this lock,” I say casually without turning around to confront my inquisitor.
“What?” the voice barks harshly.
I dip my head toward the floor and spin around making a beeline for the door. The man questioning me is visible out of the corner of my eye. He’s wearing the stereotypical doctor’s uniform. I can tell he’s quite overweight.
“Mother left the oven on,” I say while walking briskly past him.
“Huh?” I hear the man reply as I imagine the ensuing head scratching brought on by his confusion. See ya later, stupid!
A few steps around the corner I break off into the fastest walk I can muster. Scan, boy, scan! Where was that blasted room… I think, err, I’m hoping that this path is headed straight for the janitor’s closet where I stashed my clothes. Hell, I don’t care anymore! Just lock me up! Kill me! Clank me to death! Arrg! The mission is a wash… A complete wash! What can I do now? The murder is set to take place tomorrow. Can I allow this misfortune to delay the plan? What is my recourse? I’ve developed no contingency plan! Foolish! You cocky son of a bitch!
No one pays attention to me as I enter the closet and slip on my street clothes. And they pay even less attention to me as I depart from the room, proceeding to exit the hospital. My mind is focused on formulating an emergency backup plan. And wouldn’t you know it? Ol’ Mr. Crime himself does it again… I’ve not even had time to walk ten feet out of the hospital doors and yet, I’ve already got one... It involves a rather large oaf with a small brain and revolting tendencies.
NEGLECTED RATIONACTION -- 29
“Storton! Just the man I wanted to see.” My tone is welcoming, as is my posture, and this seems to alarm the idiot.
“Hey…Joey,” Todd Storton replies hesitantly. He’s hauling four water jugs along as I usher him into my office.
“Everything going well, fathead?” Storton smiles at my insult. The invective has lowered his guard once again. A brilliant move.
“Just doin’ my job, shrimp.”
I believe Storton has only one insult for me and it revolves around my size. Shrimp, squirt, midget, munchkin, pipsqueak, shrimp.
“Good, good. Hey, I need to ask a little favor from you.”
“Me? Why would I help you out dwarf man?”
“Come now Storton, call it a favor among friends.”
He raises his chin arrogantly. It reminds me of Wilmer Cromwell.
“Call it nothing.”
I sigh and stare at the cold floor.
“Alright, alright Storton. I didn’t want it to come to this, but since you said no…” I pause once again, waiting for him to react. A few seconds go by before he responds – just as predicted.
“Come to what?”
“If you do this for me…”
“Yeah? If I do it?”
He’s getting impatient and overly curious. Just the way I want him.
“I’ll arrange for you to get five minutes in the break room with Georgia.”
His eyes brighten. A smile spreads across that disfigured face.
“Georgia? Really? Sexual?”
“Now, now, now Storton. That’s up to you. All I can promise is five minutes with her in the break room.” He’s vacillating a little, still unsure of whether to say yes or no. So I decide to tip the scales in my favor.
“Plenty of time for you to work your inimitable charm on her…” His smile broadens. Storton has no charm (even less idea what the word I used means, either – it was yesterday’s word of the day, after all) and this Georgia woman won’t give him the time of day. She’ll probably scream for security the moment he enters the room.
“Okay, buddy, I’ll do it! Uh… What is it I’m gonna half to do?”
Now I’ve got a smile on my face.
“Well, it’s really actually very simple. I’d do it myself but time constraints have precluded me from doing so. My mother, she’s very sick you know. If she doesn’t get her prescription pills immediately I fear her heart will give out. But the problem is, is that the pharmacy has lost her paperwork and it will take days before they can fill out another prescription for her.”
“What do you want me to do?” Storton interrupts. I can tell Georgia is the only thing on his mind. He doesn’t care what I’ve got to say. Only that he’ll do anything I ask. And that’s good enough for me.
“Well, you must head to the hospital. Razor Ridge Hospital, and procure her prescription from one of their medicine cabinets.”
“Pro-cue-ur? Pro who? What does that mean?”
“Acquire.” I recall the young man who referred to everything he stole as acquiring it.
“You must acquire, get hold of the proper prescription.”
“Isn’t that kind of like, uh, stealing?” He scratches his head unintelligently, reminiscent of a simian.
“Only in the liberalist sense of the word. G-D-it, Storton! My mother’s life is at stake here! Jesus Christ! Not only that, but your precious encounter with Georgia depends on it. If you don’t want that…”
“No, no! Wait! I’ll do it. Comon, give me a chance. Tell me what I need to get and where.”
“Okay, okay,” I say pointing a finger at him. “But this is serious Storton, you hear me? Serious.” He nods.
“Good. You go to the hospital and take the drugs. That’s it.”
“How do I know which ones to take?”
“Good point, fathead. No worries, though.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a sheet of folded paper. “I took this hospital layout and mapped out your path in pencil. See this arrow?”
“Uh-huh,” he grunts
“Good, that’s you, stupid. You start here. The name of the drug is written at the bottom of the page. All you’ve got to do is find the cabinet, locate the correct bottle of drugs by matching these little letters here to the ones on the label, then, then you just pocket—err, acquire it.”
“The workers won’t care if I just walk in and steal it?”
My face contorts into a pained expression.
“Not steal, Storton! Procure. And no, of course not. However, you must wear one of the doctor uniforms. The surgeon outfit. Scrubs.”
“Where do I get one of them at?”
I reach under my desk and extract an XXXL suit before sliding it across the desk. His fat, meaty hand extends toward the clothing.
“The bottle will have a green frowny face on it.”
“Doesn’t that mean it’s got poison?”
A chuckle comes out of my mouth.
“Of c
ourse not, idiot. It means it tastes bad so moms won’t buy it if their brats are persnickety.”
“Oh, right… That’s a good idea, ain’t it?”
I ignore his comment and continue on with the explanation of the mission. This way there’s less chance of him getting sidetracked. Such a simpleton must be prone to forgetting.
“Also, you may have to pick the lock. Or break it.”
“What lock?”
“The lock on the cabinet case.”
“How do I pick a lock?”
Oh boy… Time to simplify the plan.
“Okay, Storton. You just break the glass. But do it quietly. It’s not very thick and won’t require much force. Tap it until it breaks, no more. TAP TAP! Got it?” I mime the soft tapping on my desk. “That hard, no more.”
He nods, stuffing the hospital map into his pocket. The brute stands and begins to leave. As he’s halfway out the door I say to him, “Remember, I need the drugs as soon as possible.”
He nods again, armed with an ear to ear grin on his face, and undoubtedly leaves with thoughts of Georgia on the brain. I lean back in my chair, kicking up both feet onto the paperwork.
All is going according to plan. There have been a few snags along the way, true, but I dealt with problems swiftly and deftly. My only real concern is leaving the poison up to Storton… God willing the idiot steals the correct one. Procures I mean. Oh lord, this may have been a fatal mistake! How could I trust such a buffoon! Can he even read?! Shameful… Oh well, let’s assume the best for now. The next step is for me to find some jittery junky slinging mickeys on the side of the road.
Sexkitten69 shoots me a message. My mind is far too preoccupied to deal with her inanities. Go Fish! can wait. I’m organizing a murder here.
“Yo, bub,” I nod my head at the badly dressed stoner standing on the darkened street corner. My intent is to assimilate some of the characteristics of my last taxi driver, which is why I say bub.
“What’s kickin’ homey?” The dealer says to me.
I walk up and position myself beside him, but never once do I look him in the face. We’re staring off in opposite directions almost shoulder to shoulder.
“Yeah, buster, I’m needing a mickey. You got that shit?”
“A mickey?” he says to me, somewhat befuddled.
“Yeah, bub, a mickey. You know what I’m talking about or do I gotta wallop you one until you remember? A drug I can plop into some schmucks drink so he takes a long nap, you got any?”
He looks around nervously before answering.
“Well, I got some things that’d do the job. It ain’t called no mickey or whatever the hell you said. I can tell you, bro,” he leans in close and smiles, “from experience that this shit will put a guy right out. Like a light. Flip. Out.”
“Alright, alright, gimme some of that, buster.”
“That’s $75 bucks.”
“$75 bucks? Are you kidding me? I could buy a pharmacy for that exorbitant price!”
“Exorbitant? What the hell is you smokin’? That’s a good price, anywhere.”
I turn and stare into his eyes for the first time.
“Hey, you look like nice enough a dog. I let you have it for $50, no less, deal?”
“Deal, buster.” I reach into my pocket to retrieve the loaded wallet. I peel a few bills off the wad and hand them to the pusher. He gives me a few pills in return. I hope to God that it’s what I asked for. He could be screwing me over -- I’d never even know it. What experience do I have with narcotics of any kind? But alas… Circumstance forces me to be content with these overpriced mickeys as I head to my next destination. In truth, I’m just glad he didn’t try to stick me with a –
“Ahhhh!!” a shriek of anger.
I spin around just in time to see an enraged hobo charging toward me. Froth and foam are dripping from his mouth like a rabid animal. Dear lord! He’s got his arm raised in the air with what looks to be a disease-ridden syringe, coming right for my throat!
“Sucka what!” the dealer says, as the overpriced salesman suddenly performs a wild kung fu maneuver. His right foot flies into the air, striking the bum squarely in the jaw. This move crumples the homeless man to the ground, where upon the syringe rolls out of his hand. Here I see the bent tip, coated with all manner of filth. Narrowly saved…
I copied Lionel Ducard’s address down from the case report at Wilmer’s office. It’s almost time for dear ol’ Mr. Ducard to attend his place of employment. His apartment is in walking distance from here. I arrive at his house minutes later, just as he’s leaving. The wannabe sleuth in me says I should follow him, which is exactly what I do. The sweat already running down my hairline. I feel the nerves in my chest.
Lionel Ducard walks to a bar by the name of TJ’s Hearty Swill and Grill. He enters. It’s best that I wait out here for a bit and let the con get himself situated. A little sauced up. This is always the best condition to work in. Bosses love it.
The bar looks fairly high class by slum standards. Many of the patrons are toothless, emitting foul and unpleasant odors. The women are some of the most unattractive females (using the term loosely) I’ve ever seen. Half of them are anorexic, flat-chested stick figures in short skirts with bony butts -- the other half are saggy fat women with hygiene problems dressed in clothing of puke-inducing scantiness. Both groups set about flirting and seducing the equally repugnant men. Lionel Ducard is one such man. He’s drinking up the attention.
The con sits at the bar with one of these fat women groping him in the vilest manner imaginable. The smell is nauseating. I sit a stool down from the pair and order a beer. The overweight bartender with greasy hair slides me a tall glass. I hand him a $10 bill not expecting any change back, then stare into the mug. It looks like there’s a large loogie floating on the surface. I can’t be sure he didn’t just snag this beer from one of the many motley customers in this rundown trash bin. One thing is certain, and that is I will not be drinking from this contaminated cup.
A few minutes go by before the pudgy woman wearing ten pounds of makeup hops off Lionel’s lap and saunters toward the restroom. He must be a tough man to tolerate her girth for so long. I decide it’s time to make my move.
“Hey, buster.” Lionel turns around and stares at me. I notice he’s rather, well, extremely ugly in person. His mug shots certainly did him a lot of favors…
“I’ve had my fill. Do you want this?” I point at the beer. He nods his head after a few seconds of deliberation. My hand slides it along the bar top in his direction. Ducard swigs it down in under three seconds, loogie and all. I’m forced to swallow the vomit in my mouth.
“Nice place,” I say in a gruff voice. Or what I try to pass off as one.
“Yeah it is.” Lionel answers.
“You come here often?” I ask.
“You hittin’ on me, queer?” Lionel shoots. I’m taken aback but know that if I show fear I’ll be in real trouble.
“Nah, buster, and talk like that’ll get you punched in the mouth.”
“Is that so, small fry?” Mr. Ducard jumps off the stool with a woosh. The man approaches me in a hostile manner, chest stuck out, hands already balled into fists.
“Hold on, hold on, bub. I’m just making conversation. I gave ya a beer, let’s just be cool and shoot the breeze, huh?”
He stares me down before grunting, then takes a seat.
“Yeah,” he says, “I come here every day before work.”
“I can see why,” I respond.
Our conversation is cut short by the fat woman returning from the bathroom. Lionel says he’s busy before turning away callously. Jerk. The woman has toilet paper stuck to her shoe. A larger piece is firmly attached at the back of her miniskirt. I get up to leave feeling satisfied having gotten the information I needed. And a little souvenir of Lionel’s…
My hope is, hours earlier, Storton infiltrated the hospital and purloined my poison. That is, if everything went well. Knowing him he probably stumbled to the wro
ng hospital, bumbled into the ER and was thrown out by security while attempting to lock pick the vending machine. I was a fool to trust him. Now my entire plan is a wash. A disaster. A no go. He’s ruined it for me. Wilmer’s going to kill me. That settles it. Clink, clank, I’m a dead man! I might as well go pick out my plot in the cemetery. Well, on the bright side, if he is caught I can always claim him to be retarded. In that case nothing he says will be valid.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
What the--! Where is that coming from. My digital wall clock reads 1:35am.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
There it is again. If I’m not mistaken the noise is coming from my neighbor’s abode. Party going on or something? I climb out of bed to have peek through the nearby window slates. There’s a person standing outside my neighbor’s door. They’re still banging away, fairly adamantly. It must be something quite important. No answer. Tiny, muffled sounds become audible to me even through the walls. The person is yelling something out. I can hear the word, “OPEN!” being said numerous times.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Who the hell is going to be pounding on doors at this hour? I see my neighbor’s side window open a small portion. The person leans toward the aperture -- here I assume words are being exchanged. Suddenly the figure gives a wave of the hand and spins around. Wrong house, I guess. Well, that settles that. No more noise! Now it’s back to bed for me.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
That sound again! But this time I am slightly more alerted… as the sounds are coming from somewhere much, much closer. Like right at—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
My front door!
Did the junky follow me home? Or a few of his friends? Jesus Christ… I’m in trouble now. He probably saw my wad of cash and came to collect the rest. Free money from that little tyke, they thought. I knew it was a mistake to show off. It was a wad of ones anyway! Be reasonable!
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 15