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

by Draven Madpen

  My feet make a dull clopping noise on the pavement. The surrounding houses have but a few lights turned on. Their curtains are drawn; however, I can still peer inside and see the outline of bodies. I’m no voyeur but I do have an interest in people watching. Two particular windows catch my eye. The first is of an overweight man with a potbelly. He’s sitting in what I presume to be a rundown, rotten, bug infested couch. The leg rest has been popped out and his stinky feet are extended on it. This is your typical moron. Some idiot who’s barely living. It’s more like dying. It’s obvious by the quick flashes emitting from a corner of the room that this twit is busy watching some insipid television show. It passes the time until he resumes scrubbing toilets the following day.

  The next person of interest is slightly more appealing. Judging by the setup I’d say it’s a woman’s bedroom. My theory is given even more credence by the silhouette of a young woman stripping clothes from her body. She’s peeling off her pants, bending over slowly and removing them from her ankles. Next comes the shirt. Wow! Those large lovely lumps outlined against the curtains… There’s no way in hell this show has gone unnoticed, it seems far too routine, far too practiced… I’m sure a neighborhood pervert is busy watching the woman along with me right at this moment; it’s probably his nightly activity in fact. Secreted away in some nearby bushes with a pair of binoculars or video camera in hand. Actually… This is bad news for me. It means a witness could be spotting me at any second. Even catching me on film! I can only hope he’s so infatuated by the undressing woman that my presence escapes his attention. Why shouldn’t it? I’m a nobody doing nothing.

  Women have a way of diverting men’s attention. And a few women are very adept at using seduction to get what they want. That’s what I’ve learned from reading crime novels. Never trust a gorgeous woman unless… well, not unless anything. Just don’t trust them.

  By the time I glance up again I’ve almost overshot the house. Damn the sexy woman! Wilmer’s home is dark aside from a porch light and a few inner illuminations, which I assume have been left on to ward off burglars. Maybe he keeps the system on a timer. That’s one trick cagey homeowners employ. They think by leaving a few lights on, perhaps even a radio or television, they’ll deter hoodlums from entering. It’ll make them suspect someone is home. How pathetic.

  To make sure he’s truly gone, I creep up to the garage. The side door has a glass fixture in the middle of it, through this I’m able to peer inside the room. Sure enough, his car is gone. And unless it’s down at the shop I can safely assume Wilmer Cromwell is at the gym getting in a nice, sweaty workout. My hand grabs for the pill bottle in my pocket. Pawing at the item. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but I’ve been compulsively fiddling with the bottle during this entire excursion. And on this note, allow me to elucidate a part of my plan. A very ingenious idea, if I may be so bold. The means of execution? We all know: this poison. But how? Ah-hah! The answer is simple… I’ve ground the pills up into a fine powder – this will go right into the one substance Wilmer consumes on a near hourly basis… muscle mix! Chug down those proteins, big man! With a side of toxin! Now, let’s get to the reckoning…

  As I stare at the garage door, I’m struck by a puzzling conundrum. Something so very simple, so trivial, that I feel ashamed to have forgotten to address it. …How am I supposed to get in! The door is locked. Confound it! Hold steady, ol’ boy. No need to panic. Think on your feet. Be impromptu for once! This problem is only momentary. Positive thoughts. Get your head right. Think positive. Now… How would I open the door? Wait! That doesn’t matter. Who cares! It’s how Lionel Ducard would enter the house that matters. It’s him committing the murder after all, isn’t it?

  Now… how would a lowlife, raunchy con break into a house? Pick the lock? Not in my skill set. Kick in the door? I’m too weak. Smash the window! Yes -- Of course. There’s got to be a rock around here somewhere. And luckily Wilmer has a splendid little pathway lined with the perfect window sized smashing stones. I select a lovely one. Time to hoist this guy overhead. But just before I send the stone sailing through the garage door window I freeze. Something tells me this isn’t right. It’s stupid. And here’s why. Mr. Cromwell will be returning home tonight and a smashed window is liable to raise suspicions. Yet at this juncture it’s my only option.

  The idea is solid enough, most assuredly. However, I must alter the plan of attack. In a typical home, what room is most likely to go unchecked before bed? I’m suspecting either a spare bedroom, lounge room, or office space. Wilmer’s house has all of these. He’s told me so… numerous times. What a condescending little fool. Die! Die! Die! That will come soon enough… For now, entering the home is my main chore. I notice he has a well maintained yard as I walk to the rear of the house in search of a spare bedroom (taking precaution to lurk in the shadows, as to avoid detection by neighbors). The night is terribly dark but I can see the outline of a few flowerbeds and lawn gnomes, or some type of ornament. They’re rather feminine looking in style. What kind of man would keep such trash in his yard? It should be barren and rugged. Then again Wilmer probably thinks it makes him appear refined and artistic. What a mooncalf.

  A few of his inside lights are on. But I figure any space with a light shining is a primary room of Wilmer’s. Most people wouldn’t bother going into a room they don’t use to flip on a light just to ward off burglars. It’s simply too out of the way. They’d have to be very paranoid, to a psychotic degree. I myself turn on every light in my home before leaving. Safety first, for myself. I’ll have to risk choosing a window, probably the farthest away from the other lighted rooms. The only danger there is that I might hit the bathroom window, and Wilmer is sure to use the lavatory before retiring to bed. Nothing like coming home and finding your bathroom window smashed in…

  You can generally tell a bathroom window from others by its size. They’re smaller and slightly less conspicuous. Just big enough to allow in some light and let a lot of smells out. The far left window is illuminated. That’s his bedroom judging by common layouts. And spare bedrooms are rarely placed next to the main sleeping chamber. Which means my options have been narrowed down to either window on the far right. One of the rooms must be his office and the other is the spare bedroom. I keep the rock pressed tightly up against my body with one hand as I reach into my pocket with the other to make sure the pills haven’t fallen out. Good, still have them.

  Now it’s time to use a little muscle and hope the neighbors don’t get too suspicious. It’s alright if they hear a bit of the crash. Just not enough to warrant a police call. When investigators come by in a few days to ask questions, which they most definitely will, I want them to report hearing a clash. That gives credence to the story. I’d rather not have them leaping over the fences with flashlight and shotgun in hand just yet though!

  The rock is raised high over my head. Even though the stone is fairly small and light, my arms begin to waver from its heft. Do it! I thrust the stone forward with all of my might. It smacks against the window… and bounces off. G-D-it.

  My lower back cringes slightly as I elevate the stone above my head once more. This time I employ the use of my legs and really snap at the hips to generate tremendous amounts of force (something Wilmer mentioned to me long ago – how to create torque for power output). The rock flies from my hand, hitting the window with a boisterous clatter -- shattering to bits. Pieces of glass fly back at me with a few bouncing off my face. I’m thankful none caught me in the eye. However, the noise was a bit more intense, sonorous, than I anticipated. To such a degree I’m left really hoping no one calls the cops. Perhaps it was a falling pot or someone dropped a dish?

  Now I find myself confronting yet another obstacle. A few shards of god-awful, jagged, dagger-like pieces of glass remain at the base of the frame. How am I supposed to climb through that? It’d cut me up like a turkey on the Thanks Giving table. I look around and spot the only object light enough for me to lift. This will do nicely to clear away the glass w
ith. A plastic lawn gnome wearing a red pointed hat. Yet another cliché belonging to Wilmer. How unoriginal.

  It’s tedious work, but easy going. A few seconds later I’ve knocked out the death shards allowing myself to scurry inside freely. I feel for the pills once again. Still have them. Before climbing in through the window I wipe down the rock and gnome with a handkerchief. Let’s be safe about it. No prints to prove I was here. G-D-it…

  Here this point reminds me I’ve already made a folly. I should have put my gloves on much earlier. Drat! Better late than never I suppose. I bought a pair specifically for this little murder. A nice black leather pair. The typical kind you see a murderer wearing in a crime movie. I imagine the camera zooming in on my hands as I pull them over my slender fingers. Now pan to the left as I hoist myself onto the window sill before gracefully dropping down into the room… Although -- that’s not exactly what happened. I did hoist myself onto the sill. This was done by placing my hands on the frame and then propelling myself forward with a shove from the legs. Unfortunately. they gave out on me halfway into the jump and my gut landed directly on the sill, nearly knocking the wind from me. After that, my head tipped forward, causing me to fall inside with my feet kicking up and over my noggin -- resulting in me landing flat on my back with a dull thump. It hurt like hell. But at least I’m inside the abode. No complaints.

  The room is completely dark. I’m already a bit discombobulated from the tussle with the window.

  Cling. Cluuung.

  What the hell?! Some one is in the house!?

  I can’t believe it. The sound comes from off in another room – the one directly in front of me. My only escape. Stay calm, boy… Think here! Feel around, scope out the area.

  A dim outline of a low-lying rectangular shaped object comes into view. I reach forward, swatting at it. The object is soft and covered in a blanket. A bed, of course. This must be the spare bedroom. Good. It’s smooth sailing from here on out. Just make my way into the kitchen, find the protein powder, and dump the poison in. Then sit back and reap the rewards of this most fructifying act. Wait, you idiot. What are you saying! Some one is in the house! Investigate!

  Rallying together what little courage I can muster, I forge onward, inching my way to the doorframe. A light shines from the adjacent room – where I presume the person must be scampering about. Intermittent sounds of running water and dull clungs and clings coming from the same direction. Dishes?

  Finally, I am near the doorway, preparing to make my initial peek. Take a breath and go… just do it! And I do – jerking one eye into the light, allowing myself to take sight of the nefarious evildoer.

  34

  I found it to be an altogether peculiar sight… Looking at this rather well muscled man (appearing to be of Asian descent) wearing an overly tight, short sleeved shirt and bizarrely revealing pants (colored purple and black in a half and half fashion). Skintight muscle wear. The ballooned biceps and pectorals clearly on display. His neck and legs seem rather small in comparison to the rest of his physique. He must be one of those bench press and curl monkeys you see at the gyms. A beach muscle boneheaded beefcake! In fact that’s just what he looks like. I recall Wilmer showing me a few pictures of bodybuilders from the 90s. Real cartoonish. And yet, this is exactly how the Asian fellow dressed. A better question might be: what the hell is he doing in Wilmer’s house at this time of night? But, I’m not one to pry. It doesn’t concern me, not in the least. None of Wilmer’s private affairs do. My only worry is how to get the heck out of here with this numskull in my way! And perhaps more importantly, how to plant the poison…

  He’s busy rummaging around the kitchen area, coming and disappearing from sight again and again. It looks like he might have been doing some dishes. A good thing for me, as the sound of breaking glass was unnoticed by the Asian. I hope he refrains from venturing in here. That’d be quite an ugly scene… With that amount of musculature he’d probably drop me quickly if a scuffle took place. Unless I can jam some of this poison into his mouth. Yeah, now there’s an idea! Just put some in my hand and go straight for his lips -- Hell! What are the odds of that happening. He’ll probably jam something down my throat before I even got the cap unscrewed. Rip my arm off and beat me to death with my own appendage. Better play it safe.

  The man is prancing about – quite light on his feet actually. Perhaps he’s a dancer of some sort. There he goes flitting to and fro with a joyous smile on his face. Now, this is not racist comment in the least, believe me, but because of the dim lighting I can’t see whether his eyes are closed in reverie or left open as he continues twirling. Judging by the bouncing, lively quality of his movements, I’d assume they are being held shut most of the time. He’s humming a tune to himself. Yadda dee da, yadda deee daaaa. Something along those lines. It takes every ounce of my strength to refrain from yelling, “Get out you duncepot! Sashay your ridiculous beefcake body out of this house and let me kill Wilmer for Christ’s sake!”

  How am I supposed to complete this all important mission of mine with a dullard trying to play evening fairy goddess, muddling up the works! And then I hear it. The dancing stops as a finger draws to his lips and he says aloud, “It’s back there in the bathroom, yes that’s where it is! I’ll take a quick shower too.”

  The twit continues yapping, something about loving that, me using the same soap scents. And with this, the man of Asian descent takes off bounding toward a back room and out of sight. Thank god! What a stroke of luck! No more delaying. Wilmer will be returning soon. Be brave! Be bold! It’s time to make my move.

  Without so much as a second thought, I race from the shadows, straight into the kitchen. The overhead lights fall on me as I go. I’m sure anyone looking in from the outside has spotted my silhouette behind the curtains. Probably that peeping tom in the bushes… Oh well. They’ll assume it is the Asian fellow. That’s a good excuse, isn’t it? My eyes dart from cabinet to cabinet. Where does Cromwell keep his muscle shakes, damnit! And wouldn’t you know it, before I can make any progress at all I am met with a grave, unnerving interruption. There’s a noise coming from the backroom. Footfalls approaching. The confounded Asian man is returning! Good grief! Where to hide!

  There’s no time to retreat back to the shadowed room I had secreted myself in moments ago. The feet grow closer and closer. A demure pitter patter of oiled skin on hardwood flooring. Ahh, the center kitchen island! It’ll have to do.

  I throw myself to the floor at the base of this island on the far side, facing away from where the Asian man will be approaching from. The pounding of my racing heart, finding its way up to my ears, is only intensified in sound by the labored, bated breath escaping from my lungs – despite my best efforts to hold back the gasps. Sporadically I hear a thunderous booming of the organ followed by a quiet slapping of the Asian man’s feet. BOOM! Slap. BOOM! Plap. Again and again. I have no alternative plan in mind. So much for thinking on the go. What am I to say if he catches me? Here to clean the floors? No, it won’t do. A friend staying for the weekend? Yeah, I just got into town. That might work. I thought he was a burglar so I hid down here on the floor. But even if the story fools this goon, he’s sure to tell Wilmer later on. Despite his stupidity I’m positive the ol’ boy would be a bit suspicious hearing a friend of his was spending the weekend without his knowledge! Needless to say… my entire plot would be in shambles.

  Plap. Slap. Plap. Slap.

  The feet approach to my right – estimating from the sound, not more than 3 steps away from rounding the island and stepping right on top of me! I’m clutching at my heart with both hands, attempting to lessen the infernal pounding. Quiet down! Suddenly the slap-plaps stop. He must have heard the sound of my heart or sensed my fear like some of those wild, rabid dogs can do. Who knows what powers these Asians have! My face is certainly purple by now. I haven’t taken a single breath in, not even once -- for the last 10 hours it feels.

  Plap.

  Another step… “Oh, that’s right,” I hear
his higher pitched voice begin emanating, only feet above my head, “I can handle that afterward.”

  Thwack!

  Something lands on the countertop above me. Our Asian friend probably dropped an object. I hope to the high lord almighty it doesn’t come sliding off onto me, causing us to meet face to face. There is a tense moment where time stands still. But thankfully, it doesn’t, and he doesn’t… The sounds of Plap, Slap heading off into the distance inform me the twit leaving.

  Whew… Good thing the buffoon didn’t come any closer. I might have had to use desperate measures. Like screaming for help and running for the front door before he could rip me in half, or worse… Now back to work.

  A shower of some kind kicks on in the background. Mmm, good. You go rinse yourself off, big boy! And stop bothering me with your overinflated, muscle-bound, mildly handsome, minority lummox of a physique! Hold on a second here. Recompose yourself. Focus on the task. Remember why you’re here. Muscle shakes. Yes, that’s right, muscle shakes. Check around. Look in that cabinet. No… Suddenly there is a clicking in my mind. Thwack! I recall. What did this Asian dandy drop? Over there on the counter. Let us have a look -- I’m inspecting the object. It appears to be some sort of necklace. There are rather large oval shaped beads connected together, what I think is a purple color in this lighting. The entire necklace feels quite rigid. Nothing I would wear. Totally ridiculous! But who am I to judge his taste in fashion? I never wear any such things. In fact, I hate anyone who does. Incredibly distasteful. Especially one of this variety. How conceited you must be to even consider draping such a gaudy object around your neck or anywhere else! Oh well, back to the search.