The sound of a trashcan lid falling comes from the back of my house. Agh! Have they surrounded my home, blocking off all the exits? I’m a dead man. An absolute finished cadaver. My life is ending just like I thought it would, going out at the hands of some plebian reprobate! My final moments on earth, lived out as a minor victim in a crime novel. Someone who can be dispatched of to show how rough and tough the antagonists are. A throwaway character. That’s all I am, all I’ve ever been.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Alright, I’m coming! My heart is racing. Finally something to be excited by! I can’t be certain but I think a line of pee is dripping down my leg. Strangely, a sense of duty grips me. I feel compelled to approach the door and meet my end with dignity and composure. Like a stoic.
I creep down the hallway. It’s pitch black outside. All I can decipher is the silhouette of a large shape on my doorstep. Well, I’ve had a bad run, why not finish it!
“You won’t take me alive, ya ruffians!” I shout, suddenly ripping the door open… and fall to the floor, cowering into a ball.
“What the? Julius? What are you doing?” The voice has a familiar imbecilic tone to it. I look up to confirm my suspicion. Todd Storton. He’s still wearing surgeon attire.
“Storton? How did you find my house? And what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I followed you home one day.”
I try to remain composed but I’m certain my expression changed to that of a disgusted countenance. He followed me home one day? Jesus Christ… How many stalkers work in my building?
“Umm, ok… What are you doing here?”
“I brought these,” he says, then holds his hand out. “For your mother, you know. You said they were important so I ran right over.”
Right over? Hasn’t it been hours? Oh, who cares!
That beautiful moron! He’s done it! It’s the poison! I snatch the bottle from his hand, simultaneously slamming the door in his face. The green frowny face is clearly visible on the container.
“Don’t forget about Georgia!” Storton yells from outside.
“Right, right, a deal’s a deal! Storton!” I scream and wait to hear his footsteps disappear.
So, ol’ Todd Storton came through for me. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. God, I just hope he didn’t bumble about. Let’s pray fatgut only alerted half the hospital staff of his actions.
That leaves just one more lackey to complete his task before all systems are a go. How lovely when a plan comes together… Wilmer Cromwell your demise is near! Muhuhaha! Maniacal cackling bursts from every pore of my body. The laughter is effusive, endless.
What a grand adventure this is. I’m sad to see it coming to a close. For now, I’ll finish out the night by drawing several cartoons of Wilmer dying a horrible, miserable death.
30
Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “I say a murder is abstract. You pull the trigger and after that you do not understand anything that happens.” Do I believe his sentiment? Is it true? The hour of reckoning is nearing and I will soon test Mr. Sartre’s assertion.
The infernal sound of clanking has not entered my ears for a lengthy period of time. Or so it feels. Though I’ve not forgotten for one second the iniquitous man and his complete disregard for my safety. He’s forced me to dine out for lunch, reschedule my life around his eating routine, and seriously damaged my mental stability. Wilmer will pay for his sins. I will have my retribution… and soon. At times, specifically during the night, I will awake in a cold sweat – the clanking ringing in my ears. CLANK! CLINK! CLANK! Over and over! Even when I sit up, clutching the blankets, the noises do not stop. I hear the debilitating sounds growing loud and louder. A never ending nightmare brought on by the evil Cromwell…
Wilmer Cromwell moseys into the office with a pretentious smile on his face. He’s holding a muscle shake mug as he walks by and pats me on the shoulder with a “Good morning and keep up the good work, Jolsen.”
“Thanks, Mr. C,” is all I can manage, but I say it in such a friendly tone that I’m ashamed of myself. Wilmer enters his office; the door shuts slightly. I hear him rearranging a few items, then almost immediately the quiet tapping of keyboard keys becomes audible. What a fool! Always pecking away… Just what is he up to? After I dispatch of the rogue, that is the first order of business. Find out what he’s been up to on that computer.
For now I’ve got some time to kill. Tick tock, Crommy. Time is almost up! I message Sexkitten69 for a game. She accepts almost immediately. C’mon, girl! Can’t you act a little less desperate. I, myself, couldn’t care one way or the other. It doesn’t matter who wins or loses. I’m just waiting for Ellington Fairfield to show up so I can beguile the delusional nut more thoroughly. The man has one very important objective to complete in order for my plot to proceed.
My indifference seems to be paying dividends. I’ve already stolen several cards from Sexkitten69, still able to keep her from stealing a single one of mine. Acquiring, I mean. Just as I make a move to retrieve the winning cards, Ellington Fairfield comes into view. He rushes into his office and closes the door in a hurry. I look over my shoulder; listen for the tapping of keys coming from Wilmer’s room, then sneak out the door and over to Ellington’s office. But oh boy, what should happen on this journey?
Natasha crosses my path in the hallway. We meet face to face for a split second -- she intentionally neglects to notice me. Her eyes pass over my body without a sign of emotion in them. I’m starting to think this perfect woman is really quite a cold hag. But then I catch a glimpse of her butt and legs as she walks past. They’re flawless. Once more she captures my heart. How can I hate such perfection?
“Ellington,” I shout in a whisper before opening his door.
By the time I enter he’s already drenched in a cold sweat. Papers are scattered on the floor. He looks like hell -- I tell him so. His shirt is half tucked in. That tangled mat of hair on top of his head sickens me. So dirty looking, so messy. The man is frazzled.
“Jasper, what is it! Is he coming for me now?”
“No,” I reply, though Ellington doesn’t seem comforted.
“They’ve been following me everywhere I go. I went to the market and they were there. I went to the bank and they were there. I went to the gas station and they were there. Three of them! Three different guys following me!”
Only three? I’m surprised Mr. Fairfield doesn’t think an army of white supremacists is hunting him down.
“That’s not surprising to hear. I told you, Fairfield, these guys are serious. I’m here because the time for action is at hand. You must act tonight.”
Ellington whimpers. His lower lip trembles.
“What have I got to do?”
I pull the mickey pills out from my pocket, holding them high in the air. He stares intently. And just when I see the fear overtaking his eyes, a quick flick of my wrist sends them flying in his direction.
“You put these in the man’s drink and when he gets knocked out, you hide his body in the dumpster out back.”
“Out back where?”
“He’ll be at a bar tonight. You might have to smash the pills, I’m not sure if they’re dissolvable or not.” Sheesh, that might be helpful information actually! Although Ducard did suck down a loogie without pause…
He nods at me, staring at the pills in his shaking hand.
“The bar is called TJ’s Hearty Swill and Grill. Be there around 7pm. And you’d probably better double up the dosage to make sure he stays asleep. Otherwise he’ll inform his partners and… well, they’ll most likely kill you. Wilmer has ordered them to do so.”
“Jesus Christ!” Ellington slaps his forehead and leans back in the chair with a groan. “Christ! This is getting to be some heavy shit. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you looking out for me, Jerome.”
“Think nothing of it, Fairfield. The man is about 5’9, bald headed, goatee, looks like a con and acts like it. He’ll most likely be wearing a janitor’s suit to thro
w you off. Wait for him to look away or go to the bathroom, then drop the pills in. When he falls asleep you wander over to him and tell the bartender your friend must have had a little too much. Then carry him out back and stash his body in the dumpster. Be sure to close the lid nice and tight. Got it?”
“TJ’s Hearty Swill and Grill, 7pm, bald head, janitor’s suit, pills in the glass, too much to drink, throw the body in a dumpster. Yeah, I got it.”
“Yeah, you got it. Be careful Fairfield, your life depends on it.”
“Jesus Christ…” he says as I exit the office, feeling like a mob boss. Now let’s hope he doesn’t wonder what a black man would be doing in a supposedly white supremacist bar, dragging an unconscious white man out back.
Today… ah yes, today, today I watch Wilmer Cromwell with sadistic attention, knowing that it is his last here on earth. He’s wearing a very well tailored suit as always and his hair is overly refined as usual. I peer through the opening in his doorway. Wilmer is sitting at his chair with that arrogant smile plastered on the smug face. The one he has even when no one else is watching. How bizarre. He’s worse than the man who laughed… For a second I wonder what his ambitions are. What are his life goals? All will be snuffed out… A moment later I couldn’t care less what they are or how meaningful they might be. Cromwell is a weed. You don’t threaten my life and live to tell about it, bub!
The quiet tapping of his fingers on the keyboard is rather soothing, comforting. I’ve grown used to hearing that interminable noise each day like the dull ticking of a clock. But I won’t miss it. I’ll learn to live without it. My greatest strength is probably adaptability. Stick me into any situation, no matter how foreign, and I’ll accustom to the scenario in no time flat. True, it may not be a very agreeable adaptation but it is adaptation nonetheless. For instance, take this Cromwell ordeal. I adjusted to my position here at Cromwell and Sullivan rather well. And once the circumstance became unbearable I developed a plan to remedy the problem. Hence my current plight. Adaptable.
I’ve dawdled away the morning hours doing nothing of importance. Which happens to be my normal routine it would seem, but for some reason I’m more cognizant of the fact today. Still, it’s a paycheck. Somebody has got to do suffer through this.
These past few days have dragged on and on…. like months, and yet they’ve gone by in an instant. A strange almost inexplicable feeling I suppose. The infernal clanking has not left my memory but I’m having trouble consciously recalling the sound. An idea occurs to me. A devious, deviant, dangerous thought… I feel as if I should stay in for lunch today and listen to that odious clinking one final time. If not just for a tad bit more motivation to foment the deep hatred residing in my soul.
Yeah! That’s just what I’ll do. Lunch will be dine in today! I hope Wilmer came prepared, because I won’t be holding back. Give me your best shot, big man. You worthless overseer, head honcho, rat faced executive, bumbling boss! Enjoy your last clean meals! Tomorrow you’ll be gurgling your own vomit moments before falling over dead! You fiendish fop! You narcissistic fiend! I’ve been subjected to your oppressive, inhuman, insufferable ways for far too long you indolent moron! Rot in hell!
“What’s going on, Jessup? Is everything all right?”
Damnit. I’ve done it again. I really should monitor my internal thoughts more closely. It dawns on me that I’ve shouted the phrase, “Rot in hell!” at the top of my lungs while staring directly at Wilmer’s door. And now the fool wants to question me about the outburst. So intrusive the duncepot is.
“Sure, Mr. Cromwell. Everything is fine. I just got upset at the computer… been running slow today.”
“Oh… I know how you feel, Jorge, but please keep your voice down. I sometimes squeeze this rubber ball here when the stress level shoots up.”
He called me Jorge? Whore-hay? At least it starts with a J…
A red rubber ball abruptly comes shooting out through the opening. It lands about two feet from my desk as Wilmer says, “Here, take it for awhile.”
I pick up the object and stare perplexedly at the grime encrusted, slightly moist item. This squishy, magic red ball is his secret?
“Uhh, thanks Mr. Cromwell,” is all I can reply.
He expects me to squeeze this germ infested bouncy ball? What a nutcase. Only psychotics and postal workers squeeze these little bagatelles. You can rest assured knowing it must have been a real idiot whoever invented the stress ball. I assume it was either invented by a stay at home lesbian mother or a fat executive man with thick glasses and a ludicrously bad mustache. Can’t people control their stress in more civil ways? Squeezing a ball is so prehistoric. You’d imagine a caveman smashing rocks against an embankment when he was frustrated. We’re civilized now. Squeezing this dirty, filthy ball is out of the question. Have some self-control, man!
I set it on the corner of my desk. My mind then set about envisioning Wilmer lying on the floor seconds from death. He’s clutching feebly at his throat, writhing in agony. I walk out from behind a bookshelf. He can hear my footsteps approaching. Suddenly I am there, standing over his body. Wilmer’s eyes glance up at me. I see in them, what can only be described as, the most pathetic presence. A futile life being rubbed out and the realization that he’d accomplished nothing of a value and never would. Pitiful. I cackle at him. One of his hands reaches up toward my leg, but I step back before he can take hold. Ideally I’d have some Saturday morning cartoon villain speech written up for the moment. Sadly, I’ve never been good at impromptu wit. That’s why my life is meticulously planned right down to the minutest detail.
Today is Thursday. Which means Wilmer will be fitting in an evening workout at the gym on 41st and 9th street. Obviously that means his house will be empty during this time. A perfect opportunity for someone, let’s say a con recently released from prison holding a grudge against the man who put him there, breaking into Mr. Cromwell’s home and poisoning his food. If only someone had kept tabs on the hoodlum… Wilmer Cromwell might still be alive come Saturday. But I have a sneaking suspicion that he’ll expire a bit before the appointed time.
Ellington walks by my office window again. He appears nervous, although a bit calmer than before. We exchange conspirational nods to one another, nothing more. Maintain the ruse. My clock reads 12:40. Only minutes away from showtime. I hear Wilmer’s desk drawer being pulled open. He’s taking out the overly large glass bowl in preparation for his salubrious lunch. The thought of his clanking makes me cringe but I resolve to stay and experience the immobilizing, high-pitched, strident noise one last time. A final send off, if you will. Wilmer’s death wail.
The first clank reaches my ears with an unfathomably forceful, penetrating power. The ringing reverberates in my skull like a crazed pinball. I’m surprised by its viciousness. I attempt to stand, making my way to the door. But a second and a third clank follows suit. My legs turn to jello. I’m buckling, dear god! I’m buckling! More clinking continues as the room begins to blur. There’s now a constant throbbing in my head -- like it’s going to explode. BAM! BAM! CLINK! CLANK! My heart is racing; I fear a heart attack is imminent. His spoon continues banging against the sides of the bowl with increasing rapidity. Every second or two brings with it another clank or clink. As if Wilmer knows, as if he has planned this moment. A last ditched effort to off me before I am able to off him. Crafty son of a -- He clanks away like an obtuse high school marching band. Beating on the glass-like drum. I can almost sense the bowl cracking each time the spoon strikes another painful blow. Wilmer laughs… he cackles… he giggles… Ridiculing me on my death bed, this floor of disgrace… At this point I realize I’ve made a fatal mistake. There isn’t time to escape the infernal racket. Blundering blockhead! Overwhelmed by the onslaught of clanks, I wince and convulse with each new clink. I will meet my demise here and now, never getting to dispatch of Wilmer Cromwell, never getting to exact my revenge…
Blackness envelops my vision. Darkness befalls the world…
31
Pfft. Pshht. Pow. Smack.
Something is slapping at my face. It feels warm and moist. My eyes slowly open, yet the room remains distorted. A brief moment later my disorientation steadily fades. I finally see where I am. I’m looking at a mugger holding a gun on me, reaching for my wallet. Wait… That can’t be right. And it isn’t. I’m actually looking at Ellington Fairfield’s excruciatingly ugly face. Why is every one I know so hideous?
“You okay? What happened?” he prods me with a finger in the shoulder. The thing feels like a baseball bat.
“It was…” I half purposefully pause here.
“Yes? What happened! Tell me Joaquin!”
“Wilmer, Wilmer Cromwell,” I squeak out dramatically, just waiting for the wheels of thought to turn in Ellington’s brain. His face blanches, or at least goes as white as a black man’s face can go.
“He came for you, didn’t he!” Ellington grabs me roughly by the collar with both hands, reeling me in toward his face. The inhuman strength he possesses turns me into a ragdoll. Somehow my weak neck isn’t broken, though I’m not sure I didn’t acquire whiplash.
“Yes, yes… But not Wilmer… One of his men came. I know too much… Ellington!” I roll my eyes into the back of my head, saying no more, going silent.
“What?! Yes what!” Ellington shakes my limp body like a retard’s play toy. It’s because of this that I think it best to answer fast before he breaks me in two. And I was going to have such fun!
“You must go through with the plan tonight. I’m too weak to do anything; I’ll be on bed rest until tomorrow for sure.” I finally realize we’re in Ellington’s office. That much was to be expected.
“Alright, you stay strong so we can bring that racist dirtbag to justice!” Ellington assists me up to a chair, and finally, thankfully, releases his hands. My chest aches where his knuckles had been pressed into the skin. It’s probably going to bruise -- but I have bigger fish to fry. And cockalorums to kill!
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 16