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

by Draven Madpen

  Now let me see here…

  Where would a fitness nut keep his protein powder? Somewhere accessible, that’s for sure. These health nuts want to be able to ram a spoonful of that crap down their throats at a moment’s notice. And here I see, thankfully, the kitchen curtains are pulled shut. There should be little chance of me being seen from the outside, as long as I stay flush against the cabinetry. Oh my, I notice Wilmer has very nice wooden cabinets and steel countertops. They’re quite befitting of a wealthy man I suppose. Not only that but I can sense the arrogance wafting out from them. The condescension of an “all-important” man. Yeah, Wilmer? Well choke this down.

  I swing open the cabinet nearest the fridge. No luck… Look in the cupboard there. No… Look in the corner drawer. No… Good lord what is this! I open the pretentious doors located above the dishwasher… to discover what? That’s right, a cupboard full of my nightmare dishware!

  Clean, sparkling, and ready to clank and clink glassware. I feel myself weakening at the mere sight of these demons. The memory of Wilmer’s treachery sweeping over my body like a bolt of lighting thrown down by Zeus himself. No! Dwindling strength… Waning vision… It can’t end this way. Stay afloat, fight off the devil! The all too familiar clanking begins resonating within my cranium. An overpowering sensation. Each clang accompanied by the mental image of his dastardly spoon whacking against the glass. They’re jumping out at me! The bowls are on the attack! Wilmer’s henchmen finally here to bring about my death! Ahh… I can’t think straight. My body is vibrating with such intense violence, keeping perfect rhythm, staying in time with every clank, every lowering of the spoon. I feel my knees buckling. The descending of my feeble, worthless body. Defeated. Clang! Clank! Blackness… Blackness… all consuming blackness...

  35

  There I am falling through darkness, tumbling through eternity, resigned to meet my end until – quite unexpectedly – WAM! -- my head makes a forceful contact with the countertop. This startling collision is enough to snap me back to my senses. Aside from the stinging pain at the back of my skull, I have come out unscathed. But the distant clanking still plagues me. Remove the treachery from sight! Now! Throw those bowls back into the foul depths from which they came!

  I am forced to slam the cabinet doors shut with a horrendously clamorous bang; a final effort to save myself from utter annihilation. The bitter hatred rages on inside. I have the distinct urge to smash every single one of these items lurking behind the woodwork to bits. Break his will, break his spirit. But as much as I would love vandalizing his prized possessions, I know I can’t. Too much racket. Too much agony. Not enough time. And in this very instant I register something of grave importance. The shower noise from the back room has a new, freer sound. As if the person inside the stream has stepped out. Then I think back, remembering how hard I closed the doors. Too hard! Too loud! Fool!

  Plap. Slap.

  Jesus Christ! He’s coming back to investigate! Here I am, once again, hurling myself to the floor at the base of Wilmer’s kitchen island. Such a needless interruption caused by my own stupidity (really caused by Wilmer and his bowls, if anyone is to be blamed). Plap. The footsteps come to a halt. The Asian goof is scanning the room with his eyes, I know it. He’s peering through the dimly lit kitchen for any sign of danger. Maybe he thinks it came from another area? I’m sure his heart is pumping with fright. Home invasions are rather scary, aren’t they? Even if it is only a little weasel cowering on the floor… Look on, boy, look on. You won’t find any, surely not. What is there to spot? I’ve done nothing. The interminable seconds tick by. Suddenly -- Plap. Slap. He agrees, and off he goes. The shower once again taking on the familiar full body tone. For the love of god, please leave me alone or I’ll have you deported!

  Now…What did Mr. Cromwell say that one day? Under the what? Ah yes, that’s right! I open the cupboard above the microwave. Jackpot! My eyes are greeted by the sight of at least ten different smiling tins and containers of muscle powders. The stuff bodybuilders, strongmen, and athletes like to drink. What is Wilmer always saying about these products? Ah yes, he says you’ll also find many out of shape, fat, slovenly slobs chugging this stuff down like it’s a milkshake. Cup after cup. These people aren’t fit. Look at them. They’ve got sorry physiques. Half of them are skinny twigs and the other half are chubby bozos. Neither of them needs this powder. What they need is a healthy diet and sound workout routine. But no, to them this muscle powder is a miracle drug. One which hasn’t yielded favorable results for them in over five years. But they don’t care. They are delusional consumers looking for an easy way out. Oh well, it keeps the companies in business. Oh well, indeed.

  There are three times as many supplement pill bottles – each of these immaculately organized. That is one thing I will have to say, Wilmer certainly keeps a tight house. It’s as if a well paid foreign cleaning lady lives here. Everything is just so. Arranged and organized like he’s going to be interviewed on TV. I hear the sound of a sliding glass door coming from the bathroom. Pause, listen for a second. A moment later there is a rummaging noise in the same room, followed by the sliding of the glass door again. Back to scrubbing I suppose. Back to poisoning I go! The only concern on my mind is which of these delicately organized powders will I taint? Ockham’s Razor. A theory which states the simplest answer is usually the right one. And so I choose the one nearest me, sticking right out there in front like a beacon in the night with its bright yellow label and black lid. It’s almost magical. That queasy, uneasy feeling has returned. Butterflies. The culmination of all my hard work and diligent planning is finally within my grasp!

  A part of me wants to take my time in unscrewing the top. Let me savor the moment. Relish in the excitement, thoroughly implanting the memory in my brain. Observe as I tip the poison bottle over, watching the contents pour out like fine grains of sand shifting inside an hourglass. Seeing the colors blend together so perfectly, so innocuously. The other part of me hears the shower running in the background and fears it will soon come to an end -- resulting in an altogether unpleasant scenario. Taking all this into account, I quickly extend a gloved hand, grabbing hold of the muscle shake, rapidly unscrewing the lid and next reaching into my pocket for the poison bottle, where immediately afterward I begin tipping – goddamnit! My hands must have become quite sweaty in all the excitement, slipping even through the gloves. God forbid it was caused by nervous jitters. I should be steady as a surgeon! Yet I look down to see trembling fingers… The muscle shake container slips from my hand, falling over sideways on the counter. A good portion of its contents spread out over the surface. Confound it! Why me! Stay calm… Quickly, I set the poison down before holding the shake container against the edge of the counter and scrape the powder back inside. Good thing Wilmer’s house is so spotless. There wasn’t any dirt to be mixed back in. What I need is a few deep breaths. Calm the mind. Prepare myself for this next ordeal.

  With those out of the way I find myself free to continue on. The muscle shake is in my hand, the poison container held fast in my fingers (using what mental powers I still retain in these circumstances to steady the digits). The toxic sand begins pouring out in all its beautiful glory. And then I notice another stroke of luck. The poison powder is nearly identical in color to the muscle powder! As I stare so excitedly on at my own righteous bidding, I sense a strange feeling within me. A bizarre, yet undeniable notion. I can withhold the urge no longer – a maniacal, never before heard laughter bursts out of me. I feel like a madman as I stand there watching the powder slide out, cackling uncontrollably. Perhaps the Asian man will hear my obscene sounds. Maybe even a few of the neighbors. I don’t care. Let them listen to my cackles! Join in!

  With nearly half of the dangerous substance emptied into the shake, I pause for a moment, deciding to allow myself a small instant of joy to remember this occasion. But just as I do this, my heart stops. My eyes widen at the very thought. A noise catches my attention. Why would such a thing have me so alarmed? Wel
l… I’ll tell you, this noise was not coming from the bathroom. This one came from the front door. The jingling of keys followed by an inserting of one into the lock!

  36

  There’s no time to stop now! I haven’t any recourse to take! I dump the remaining powder in as fast as I can. My fingers are moving like lightning, screwing on the lid, jamming the muscle shake back into the cupboard and sliding the poison container safely into my pocket. We can’t forget that now, can we? I’m amazed how well I function under the pressure. Only sheer fate is preventing me from being caught. They’ve got me surrounded on all sides. The back bathroom and the front door. Yet I remain collected, ready to perform like a seasoned master. Just to be sure I’ve left no trace of the mess, I blow hurriedly across the counter, hoping to disperse any remnants of the deed. And after executing a quick eye scan to spot any other important missed objects -- the last thing I want is the police finding my driver’s license setting on Wilmer’s countertop! -- I turn to flee -- glancing at the front door right as the knob begins to spin. Judging by the black outline of the person I can see through the door’s frosted glass windowpane, it is without a doubt my employer, Wilmer Cromwell. Returning home after a nice workout at the gym, most assuredly. Stay healthy ol’ boy! Just as Fairfield had informed me. Too bad the dimwit didn’t bother to tell me about the Asian man! There’s only one spot for me to go. There’s no other choice…

  I take off scrambling toward the darkened room across the hall, the spare bedroom, not caring if I should be seen or not. My footsteps fall heavy on the floor, although slightly muffled by the ambient shower noise. A beam of light shoots over the floor in an angular slit as the front door opens – the ray catching the lower part of my leg just as Wilmer enters. I round the final framework praying I’ve gone unnoticed, ducking into the shadows. His slow footsteps begin the dramatic walk as he moves inside. I fear Cromwell already suspects me of the sinister act. He knows I’m here… I can sense it!

  He reaches the kitchen area, tossing a bag of some kind on the counter. I’m trying desperately to hold my breath – all the while wishing to suck in every ounce of air possible, the stress and exertion from the last sprint having sapped every bit of my strength. Has he spotted me? He must have!

  That’s when I hear him say, “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  What the?! Have I forgotten something? Did I leave the poison behind! A quick patting on my pocket reveals this thought to be false. Then what?! Here I notice the shower has stopped. For how long, who knows. There’s no point in me sticking around this place now. What is the old phrase? “Get out while the gettin’s good.” The dirty deed has been done. Time to skedaddle, I say. And with this reassuring thought I begin the arduous, risky process of lowering myself out the very same window through which I climbed in earlier. Well, climbed probably isn’t the most accurate of terms. I just hope this time around I can go about the task a little more quietly.

  The room is dark. Shards of broken glass scrape and shift beneath my shoes. A dull crunching or cracking as I land on the odd piece or two. Every tiny sound sending shockwaves through my body. Please don’t hear this Wilmer! Or you Asian fellow! I’m not sure how good their hearing is either. Superhuman level? Maybe he’s like a dog and his ears have already perked up. He’s sniffing his way into the room, hot on my scent trail. Wilmer’s right behind him with a frying pan or some other equally humiliatingly feminine object… waiting to bludgeon me to a bloody mess. I can’t even bring myself to look back now. Let me be caught and killed already! I knew I wasn’t cut out for this kind of nonsense! Murder!? What was I thinking! Who the hell goes around murdering people without getting caught? Only on TV… I was a duncepot to attempt this. Just please Asian man, make it quick. Snap my neck like a true kung fu master in one of those foreign action films. Don’t, no please don’t, please refrain pummel me with a few dozen kicks and punches to every inch of my soft body. Make it one swift ending motion. Rid me of all this stress and trauma. I don’t care anymore!

  And then I hear it. Muffled voices coming from the kitchen. Wilmer and this other oriental fellow conversing. A kind of greeting from the general tone I assume You fool! Snap out of it! Seize the moment! Here I take my chance, darting for the window, spinning myself around and shooting my body through the opening feet first. Somehow (miraculously, really) I manage to do this without any sort of trouble. It’s one in a million, but thank heavens! It is my lucky night, after all. As my legs take hold of the outer wall, I grip the inside of the window sill with both hands but – just before lowering down I catch a glimpse of Wilmer and the Asian miscreant standing there in the kitchen. All I can see are their obscured silhouettes. Nothing but dark, shadowy spaces aside from the kitchen area behind them. I see them lean in close toward one another. And I don’t care to see any more. My fingers break free of the woodwork as I land softly on the ground (fell on my butt and rolled over backwards a few times, narrowly missing a run in with the gnome’s pointed hat…). But I’ve done it! I have done it! Wilmer is a dead man!

  Sadly, the joy is short-lived… For then it hits me… Lionel Ducard. A critical component, if I do say so myself. What a lamebrain I was to forget this portion. An absolute rank amateur, a true abecedarian, a neophyte of the first degree! He must be framed for my actions. How again? The watch, of course. It’s tucked snuggly away in my pocket, still secured in the plastic bag. I’m not sure how I’ll make this work now, but the uncertainty does not stop me from savoring the moment as I pull it out, remove the device from the bag, and hold it triumphantly in my hand. More hushed laughter ensues. I find myself in a fit of mania; one I am unable to rid myself of. I imagine the scene, fantasizing wildly, it feels like I’m watching a movie or reading a crime novel about some lowly criminal. This isn’t me here at all at Wilmer Cromwell’s home. It’s someone else entirely. A run of the mill con out for a night of revenge.

  But…Where shall I place the watch? I can’t very well mosey back inside, tap Wilmer on the shoulder and ask him if I can take a tour of the house real fast, allowing me to toss it down somewhere! Think, man, think! And I do. Ah-hah! I see it, of course… the window! It’s the most logical location. The upstanding Mr. Ducard simply snagged his watch on the broken window or caught it on a shard of glass as he escaped, whereupon it slipped off his wrist without him knowing. Exactly. How ingenious. You see, I’m able to think on my feet -- slightly. All these years of reading crime novels and watching scary night time detective tales has its perks; such as these devious impromptu murder scene alterations. Once again I envision the lowly criminal in my mind. He’s crouching on the inside of the window, preparing to make his get away. I’ve got the watch in hand. Lionel is lowering himself down when his left grip weakens, resulting in a rapid fall where the watch is ripped from his wrist and falls onto the carpet of the darkened bedroom. Where to drop it…

  The best spot is probably directly at the base of the window. Yeah, that’s good. Now how to get up there… Hassles! Hassles! Hassles!

  I do my best to jump ever so quietly up to the aperture. Hopping about like an uncouth child… How embarrassing! After the third try or so I manage to bound just high enough, allowing me to toss the watch in (although the metal did graze along the woodwork, narrowly falling back to the ground). It lands softly on the carpet with a clunk. Thank god! Easy peasy! Too easy!

  Now all is taken care of. Excellent. Job well done, ol’ boy.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. BANG!

  The noise comes from the front of Cromwell’s home. Some one at the door? I suppose so. No need to stick around and find out. Wilmer’s, or the Asian man’s footsteps, move in the direction of the front door. Time for me to get lost! I take one final look back at the house as another round of uncontainable cackling bubbles up from my gut and bursts forth from my mouth. On the way back to my abode, I pause in front of the undressing woman’s window to peer inside for a second.

  Nothing. Drat!

  I guess you can’t win them all.
r />   37

  I find late at night after an adventurous day, one always sleeps soundly. A kind of tranquility falls over the body… Which is why I found this strange…

  My peaceful slumber was disturbed when I inexplicably found myself awakened in the early morning hours, still dark outside, and I drenched in a cold sweat. Sitting upright in bed, listening intently. A dull vibration. A soft pounding on the walls, growing ever stronger. A shaking of the floor. And there it is – haunting me… The all too familiar sound of my strident nemesis -- the nefarious clanks echoing throughout the room. Could it be? CLINK! CLANK! Each clashing noise timed in rhythm with the quivering house. As if my head were stuck inside an old church bell and the maniacal villain down below is tugging fiercely on the rope – jumping up and pulling down with all his might and weight. The bone rattling tenor is being visited upon my body in waves of ear shattering clinks and clanks – leave me to crawl along the bed. So loud, so harsh the noise has deafened my ears. I look around to investigate but still I cannot determine where the effect is coming from.

  Suddenly a tremendous clank fills the air as I struggle to upright myself. I’ve never felt one holding such power, such force; it is completely overwhelming. My innards are sloshed about, vibrating intensely, crushing my organs, cracking my bones… With my vision beginning to blur and my strength fast evaporating, I sense death is approaching quite rapidly. A moment or two is all I have left. The mysterious clanking consumes the room like a sinking ship filling with dark and salty water. The walls moving in the shadows, swaying and booming, tremble and pulsating.