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

by Draven Madpen

  But wait… Hold tight men… Now is not the moment for sloppiness. Let’s be sure to use the utmost care and caution as I sneak into his room. No one will see me. Heck, even if they do, I’m just retrieving a file or two. Typical duties expected of my lowly position.

  Unlit dark corners, the lingering presence of a ghost? Spooky, isn’t it? The office is foreboding, ominous. A dead man’s possessions always feel empty. Haunting. Luckily, this feeling is an ephemeral wickedness. A mere transitory trepidation… Soon, a sensation of sheer ecstasy grips me. I walk to the window and draw up the shades. A cascade of sunlight rushes in, illuminating the room -- countless tiny dust particles floating amidst the golden rays. All those germs and airborne bacteria going into my lungs… Cromwell’s chair, ah yes, the beloved object. Hmm, the seat is markedly plusher than mine. Perhaps how it ought to be. Very managerial. It even has extra padding on the armrests. I take my time lowering into the throne; the cushions mold perfectly to my body as I finish the plop. Ahh… Now this is living!

  After a few of the obligatory 360 spin-arounds, I find myself face to face with his computer. We lock eyes in a potent stare, a battle of wills. I’ve got you now! The shiny power button calls my name (finally something utters the correct one aloud). I push the round object, causing the machine to roar with life; fans spinning loudly, wildly, various lights coming on, accompanied by muffled whirring sounds. An awesome experience. G-D-it! As the monitor sparks into existence I become aware of a problem. A terrible predicament… For there on the screen, a menacing blue glow with a box located in the center, prompting me for a password, denying one and all another step. Hmm… Use those quick wits, boy. Think on your feet – just how you learned. What would ol’ Wilmer Cromwell use for a password?

  Wilmer Cromwell. Nope, that’s a no go. Lawyer? Nope. Modus operandi. Nope. Juniper lilies. Of course not. Drat! This is such a futile act and I know it. There’s no way I’m going to guess his password… Unless… No, it can’t be… Or could it!

  Wilmer was always mentioning strongman competitions to me. The muscle shakes and workout routines. The competitors and legends. One name kept recurring over and over. Some champion strongman who’d won more competitions than anyone in the history of the sport. But what was his name… A Polish guy, was it? Pujinkowski? Pujinowski?

  These little fingers of mine press the keys ever so daintily, hoping, wishing, praying for yet another stroke of luck. I hope my reserve pot of the stuff hasn’t run out just yet! Several tries are denied. But I am uncertain of the spelling. Those foreigners like to toss in random letters here and there. Some vain attempt to appear different and unique. I must keep on, experiment with the spellings… Puji? Pudgi? Yes, there was a d. Pudzian – that’s it! Dariusz Poodginowskee.

  Now it’s simply a matter of a little fortune. Let this be the fateful word: P-o-o-d-g-i-n-o-w-s-k-e-e.

  Bleep. Success!

  I’m in! I’ve done it! Thank God for burly Poodginowskee! Another 360 twirl in the chair for celebration. Ugh… Dizzy. The sickness is bubbling in my head. Ok, ok, no more of that…

  The computer loads, dramatically the colors appear, shifting into Wilmer’s desktop. Oh, good god. What the---Who the? His unsettling background image is the first thing I see. It’s a picture… a picture of three shirtless strongmen posing in the shallow end of a pool. Their muscles are gleaming under the sunlight, each tiny water droplet glistening as it runs along their bodies. Wilmer has always been into the strongman crowd… But this is pushing boundaries. Kind of homoerotic looking stuff.

  I’ll let it slide for now. He’s a muscle builder guy. The image probably motivates him to hit the gym and keep chugging down these nasty muscle shakes. Look where that gets ya! How comical, the idea of Wilmer slurping his morning mix of death… Let’s progress, shall we. Normally, the first thing one does when snooping on some one else’s computer is check the internet history. That way you can tell their points of interest. Are they into baseball? MMA? Cars? Gardening? Porn? Whatever. However, I want to savor this moment, no rushing the sweetness. I executed this elaborate plan (all under heavy time constraints); I deserve a little relaxation now. As a result I won’t dive directly into the history. Allow the suspense to build. The desktop should keep me busy for a moment or two. He’s got a few icons set on here. One is labeled My Computer. A staple on most every computer. Lower down there are a number of folders. The first is named Bahamas. I click it. All of the files are images, so I view them by thumbnails.

  What the?

  Each and every one of them is repulsive! Tons and tons, pages and pages of the nasty material. All pictures of well muscled men posing or lifting weights in what appears to be some type of strength competition. There are at least one hundred and thirty files. Sheesh, Wilmer is really dedicated to this strongman crap.

  The next folder is titled Homme fort. That’s French for strongman. Again, it’s all picture files. I view these by thumbnails as well. Again, all strongman photos! Countless pics of beefcakes hoisting iron or flexing… some in very provocative poses. Yuck! That’s enough of this. Wilmer can look at whatever creepy photos he wants, but I’ve had all I can stomach.

  Being deprived of my true desire, to reveal his precious internet history, is agony. But this kind of self-induced torture builds a strong character. You learn to handle depravities with composure and a level head. Although, given the slight upset stomach caused by the spinning chair, coupled with the bodybuilder bombardment, I’d wager to say I’ve had enough of this game. It’s time to peer at those mysterious files for the first time! Illuminating Wilmer’s deepest, darkest secrets! Muhahaha!

  Well, that may be a bit overdoing it, but suffice it to say, I’m excited.

  My hand drags the cursor across the mouse pad; the index finger gingerly double clicks on the internet browser. Yes! Reveal your lies! I see the loading bar slide along the top. Almost there… come on little guy…

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  What the heck is that?

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  Confound it! Someone is at the office door. They’re banging loudly, calling out, seeing if anyone is here. Do I respond? Or do I allow them to think the office is vacant, instead waiting for them to leave? Well technically, this is still an office. I’m still an employee. Business is still in session. Nobody has seen me leave; then again I doubt whether they’d pay attention or not even if I did. In the end, prudence dictates that I answer the call. Your history will have to wait… for now Cromwell!

  There’s a middle-aged woman standing in the dimly lit waiting room. Her face is quizzical at first, though it quickly changes to a kinder expression when she seems me enter the area. The office is fairly dark, which she no doubt finds unusual. Anyone would. However the low-key, reserved ambience may better fit with the mourning man character I am portraying. She will understand.

  “Hello?” the woman says.

  “Good afternoon, m’am. What can I do for you?”

  This lady looks like she could be the dispensable woman in a hardboiled fiction novel. The somewhat affluent hag with an overbearing demeanor just asking to be offed. It occurs to me that she is likely a client of Wilmer’s. She’s much too young to be one of Percy’s. I may have seen a similar looking portrait in one of the stories, actually.

  “Yes, perhaps you could assist me. I’m here to see Wilmer Cromwell.”

  “Oh… M’am, I’m sorry, but Wilmer has died.”

  “WHAT! You’re kidding!”

  “Afraid not, toots.” Did I just say toots? Oh boy... “Excuse me. It is true. Wilmer’s body was discovered this morning… They’re saying he was murdered.”

  “Good heavens! Dear God! How?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I guess my appointment is canceled,” the woman says. Here she finds herself a bit shocked by the words. An unintended joke – done in poor taste.

  “It would appear so.” I wait for the woman to gather her senses.

  “Then I guess… I’ll
be going…?”

  I nod my head solemnly. She turns slowly, hesitating for the tiniest of moments before exiting.

  Good Lord! Get lost! Beat it! Enough distractions for today! Leave me to my work!

  At last my patience has run out. I am resolved, dead-set, determined to discover just what Wilmer has been concealing all this time. Come hell or high water I will find out! I vow to let no interruption cause me to deviate from the course. It’s back to the computer. Back to the truth.

  Once again I find myself ensconced in Wilmer’s plush chair, the cushions conforming to my tiny figure. The internet browser is still up and it’s time to reveal the contents of his history! An overpowering sensation stirs within me. The entire room feels magnificent as a euphoric emotion surges through my body. With no further delay, nothing to stop me, my finger presses down the mouse… The history sites flood across the screen’s left side. They’re sorted by last visited.

  Oh…

  What I see is appalling. It’s more than that… It’s ghastly! An utter abomination. I’m horrified, sickened, and nauseated by the unveiling. No wonder Wilmer tried so desperately to ensure this would never see the light of day. This perhaps being even worse than the clanking… I’m sliding back in the chair, scrambling to be free of this wretchedness – when, thank god, there’s another knock coming from the door. This time I can’t wait to flee Wilmer’s room. A part of me wishes I had never entered in the first place…

  A familiar voice is whispering an unfamiliar name. But I know just which clodpate it’s referring to and the goon who is saying it.

  “Jude! Jassem!” Ellington’s voice is a whispered shout.

  “There you are!” he exclaims too excitedly.

  “Yes, here I am Fairfield. What can I do for you?”

  Ellington shuffles farther into the room as we meet at the center.

  “Is it true? Is it true what they’re saying?”

  “That depends… What are they saying?”

  “Wilmer Cromwell is dead!”

  I stare intensely at him. His eyes are ablaze, his gestures near manic.

  “Yes, Fairfield, it is true. Wilmer is dead.”

  Ellington pumps his fist into the air. He stifles a shout just as it leaves his mouth. The man is relieved beyond all measure of human emotion.

  “Look at this! I read it but couldn’t believe it!” Ellington juts a piece of paper toward me. By the looks of the sheet, he’s printed a news article off the internet. The headline reads… oh my god! They’ve already released this? Local litigator found dead – two more corpses discovered nearby. Wait, two more discovered?! Who else!

  “Fairfield what is this? Two mo—“

  “I bet his own ruffians took him out after all his botcheries!” he cackles.

  Still maintaining a serious façade I reach out and grab Ellington by the collar almost instinctively. The next thing I know I’ve got Ellington pulled right up to my face. My voice is a harsh, threatening tone.

  “Fairfield! Did you handle the deed last night?”

  He makes no attempt to free himself. He hardly seems perturbed at all. In fact he’s laughing at me. He’s laughing at me right in my face. I see his mouth opening wide, so wide I’m able to count every one of his gold, decaying teeth. Didn’t dentist do away with that years ago? Maybe he’s a reject of the rap fad and thought they were stylish.

  “Johnny! Don’t worry about it,” he says between guffaws. “I handled it just like you said. Not a single hitch! The hitman is probably coming to right about now, haha! But guess what I did! Haha!”

  My grip loosens, allowing Ellington to upright himself, still laughing.

  “Fairfield…” I say, but he’s hardly listening. “Fairfield… What did you do?” The headline detailing two more bodies has my interest piqued.

  “Well you see Jericho. I mean, I did what ya asked. I peppered the hitman’s drink just like you wanted. And he went right to sleep, you know?”

  “I don’t know, but you can tell me!” I say bitterly.

  “Yeah, I will. He goes to sleep and I did like you said, I drug him out into the back alley. And I was about to toss him into the dumpster, like you wanted. But I don’t know what came over me.”

  He pauses.

  “What did come over you, Ellington?”

  “I, uh, well,” he’s stuttering, buying time. “I didn’t like all the racist shit they were, him and Cromwell you know, were doing. Something came over me. Just a hatred I guess, you know? Anyway, so I guess I sort of… kind of… well basically I started pummeling him as he was unconscious. I beat his head around a bit. And just, well I don’t know why, something came over me…”

  “Yes, what else?” I demand.

  “Well I did some like uh… you know, what they do to men in prison, that kind of thing.”

  “What do you mean like they do in prisons?”

  “You know, the deviant stuff.”

  “What the fu—“ I’m stunned by his admission. I don’t even know where to begin. It’s an unredeemable conversation… “And then?”

  “Well not much. I tossed him into the dumpster and went home. Nobody saw me, I’m sure of that.”

  “Okay, you didn’t kill him did you?”

  “No of course not! He was still breathing and whatnot. I didn’t hurt him that badly.”

  I think it’s better to move on… at least he did his end of the job. I can count myself lucky, luckier than Ducard at any rate. Ellington’s massive hands have held onto me before, I know the strength in them. The thought causes me to shudder.

  “Now Ellington,” I say, extending a hand outward, “did you notice anything peculiar about Mr. Cromwell?”

  “Peculiar? Haha! Like what? The man was a racist scumbag out for my blood! Isn’t that peculiar enough?”

  “No, no. I mean… Peculiar. In a social sense, perhaps?”

  “Social peculiarities, huh? Hmm, not that I noticed. Aside from consorting with white supremacists!” Ellington chuckles and chuckles and chuckles.

  How could this fool not know? Wasn’t he stalking Wilmer for Christ’s sake! Well, he didn’t even seem to know about the Asian man. Perhaps he’s not the first rate snooper I assumed. There’s nothing more I can gain from Ellington at this point. Somehow between the chuckles, I manage to tell him to keep quiet, to say nothing about our doings to anyone, ever. He agrees through the intermittent laughs, shortly thereafter leaves the office, still in hysterics. Ellington must have heard quite a good joke.

  39

  Several days have passed since the murder of Wilmer Cromwell. I haven’t been accosted by the pesky detective since the first encounter. You might say that means I’m off the suspect list. A real bonus – even though I knew as much would happen. My plan was flawless, after all.

  Percy Sullivan returned immediately when news of the death reached him. He magnanimously gave me the rest of the week off. So here I sit at home, snuggled in my comfy chair, reading the evening paper. I’ve been waiting all week for this moment. The release of Cromwell’s murder details. Police reports came out this afternoon. And the headline delights me immensely. It reads: LIONEL DUCARD SUSPECTED OF MURDER-SUICIDE OF EMINENT LAWYER WILMER CROMWELL AND LOVER.

  Lover? What? This part throws me for a loop. I do a double take on the paper. Yet, there it is in black and white. I’m in for a real doozey with this article… I wonder what other fantasy the blundering police have come up with – if they think Ducard killed Wilmer AND a lover, hah. Wait… murder-suicide? Ducard is dead?! Did Ellington really give him that big of a thrashing? He’s dead?! The fool! Jesus christ, my life is over. This whole thing is going to come apart at the seams. Ellington will spill the beans. He’s far too weak and stupid to hold his tongue. G-D-it! I’m a duncepot! I’ll be in prison within the hour… Well, at least I can read this article in the meantime. Let’s see what I’ll be accused of.

  The first portion of the text refers to Lionel Ducard, mentioning his past convictions and rather recent rel
ease date. Enrolled in the help-a-con program… blah blah. Who cares, when do I come in! Here they mention Ducard’s past involvement with Wilmer. Their brief court in case those years ago when Cromwell helped put him behind bars. Eyewitnesses place Lionel Ducard at a local bar on the night in question, heavily intoxicated and appearing as belligerent as always. Well, this sounds promising so far.

  Woah, what’s this? Apparently Ducard was jumped outside the bar and given a hefty beatdown (I guess they don’t know this is Ellington’s doing), with elements of sodomy suspected! It is believed a known member of the gay rights activist group was involved in the assault. Here the police are at a loss for both the reason and the following events. What they know is a slightly bloodstained, typed paper with information regarding Mr. Cromwell’s whereabouts and schedule was found on the body of Mr. Ducard. The article asserts the assaulters mistakenly dropped this during the savage beating of Mr. Ducard – at which point, after waking, Lionel discovered the paper and recognizing the name, tracked down Wilmer at his house some time during the night.

  This is where it gets really crazy. Evidently Wilmer was home with a secret lover of his, a Mr. Wong. Wong! The Asian man! It’s beginning to all make sense now… I recall hearing the knock on Cromwell’s door as I was leaving. Police mention a rear window being smashed in as the point of entry. His watch had been found lying nearby! What a stroke of luck! They did find it! But that doesn’t explain how every one died… Let’s keep on reading… Ducard supposedly broke in the back window and surprised Wilmer and his lover. At this moment a scuffle broke out in the home, spreading across several rooms, leaving a trail of gore and debris. Ducard gains the upper hand – he dispatches of Mr. Wong with a kitchen knife. Wilmer apparently put up a bit more struggle, as evidenced by the defensive wounds, but sadly, he too was overtaken by the madman – falling victim to his own blade.

  Well, that’s two down. Now how did Ducard bite the dust?

  It is suspected while in his intoxicated, rage filled, and now thirsty state, that Ducard rummaged through the fridge and cupboards hoping to find another beverage to sate his thirst. A double homicide would leave you a bit parched I suppose. He stumbled across the muscle shake containers – and most likely being attracted by the brightly designed labels, decided to mix himself up a batch. This was his downfall. As it is believed Mr. Ducard drank roughly one gallon of water along with heaps and heaps of the substance. He most likely suffered from an unfortunate allergic reaction from the powdered shakes. Hah! Yeah, that’s rich. An allergic reaction! This is pure speculation on the part of the police, but roughly 99.9% confirmed. However, due to budget cuts no toxicology report can be issued. Thank god for government! Mr. Ducard’s body was found crumpled on the floor of Mr. Cromwell’s kitchen – the bodies of the two other men only feet beside him.