CLANK:
A Book of Madness
Written by
Draven Madpen
As usual, this book is in all likelihood copyrighted by Draven Madpen -- by some U.S. law currently unknown to me. Don’t steal! Stealing is bad! But on the bright side, this wonderful novel is presented without any of that nasty DRM software. You know, the bad stuff that doesn’t allow you to view the story which YOU paid for on any of the various available platforms! So by all means… enjoy reading this tale on whatever device you see fit.
Additionally, it is incumbent upon me to state that this is a work of fiction. While many of the wonderful, titillating, and entertaining scenarios and incidents are based on human reality – none of these fictional characters, places, or things are a representation of any real-life counterparts.
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And here I must state that this story would not have been possible... without my dear, sweet, faithful dog – for those countless nights where the beautiful beast warmed my feet beneath the computer desk.
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What You Will Find Within This Terrible Tome
Clank: A book of Madness
Mailing List
The Dreaded Dedication
This story could not have been written, let alone imagined (given the absurd nature of its contents…) without the boundless inspiration stemming from a rather colorful character in -- Lord Wurthengton himself!
And here, once again I must thank the loovlay Miss Spud for suffering through my endless ramblings in the sordid attempt to finalize this story! In the event that you should find any of this material to be of an objectionable sort, it is her who the blame should be cast upon – However, if you thoroughly enjoy the story (as I believe you will), then, quite naturally, I will be taking all the credit.
A Brief Note
In this story I have drawn from the private reservoir of my own personal psychological unravelings. Although the events transpiring within this novel may seem outlandish, farfetched, or ridiculous… I can assure you they are happening the world over this very moment. A quiet storm brews within the mind. An unseen demon lurking behind kind eyes and friendly greetings. Without further adieu, with not one more fabricated piece of praise or laudation, withholding even the tiniest single congratulatory remark, giving it no more preface or hype, removed from all pretense, allowing no egotistical stallings of showmanship, and certainly no overinflated, longwinded introductory passages… I now present to you the tale of CLANK.
CLANK: A Book of Madness
CHAPTER LIST
ENTER MILKSOP – CHAPTER 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
HARDBOILED ESCAPIST -- 19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
NEGLECTED RATIONACTION -- 29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
AFTERMATH
ENTER MILKSOP – CHAPTER 1
I work at a high-end law firm agency located six floors up inside one of those modern buildings. No, I’m not a lawyer. In fact I barely even know the basics of our judiciary system. They have a title for my job. It’s got something to do with a lawyer’s assistant or secretary. The latter sounds a bit too feminine for my liking and so I always introduce myself as a lawyer’s assistant.
Though to be perfectly honest, that sounds a bit low on the ol’ workplace totem pole as well, doesn’t it? Probably because it is. I’m a lackey. A peon. A cowhand or is it a ranch hand? A drudge. A doormat. An underling. A bottom feeder. That’s what I am. You politically correct buffoons can refer to me as a “subordinate.” My name is not important. Nobody ever remembers it. Today they’re calling me Jim. Earlier in the morning my boss called me Jason. His associate called me Jarvis (that was a new one). At least they’re consistent with the J’s.
Unfortunately, my name doesn’t start with a J. There’s not even a J in it.
Let me tell you a bit more about my personality. Men don’t look at me and think, “Wow, I’d love to be that guy. He’s got a great life!” They look at me and think, “Why hasn’t that guy hurled himself off a bridge yet?”
Sure, I might have an above average vocabulary. But who cares? That’s only because I’m the kind of loser who reads the dictionary for enjoyment. You know that guy your friends used to point at and say, “He’s so boring he probably reads the dictionary for fun?” Well I’m that guy. So you can stick your supercilious comments and cavalier animadversions up your gluteus maximus. You feculent opprobrious simps!
Excuse the outburst… You see, I have many shortcomings and throwing around some big words makes me feel important. Sesquipedalian. That means using overly long words. It gives me a sense of power. Like I’ve got one up on the world. So if at anytime I should break into a vicious tirade and berate you with unwarranted obloquies, just know I’m a bitter and broken man trying to be a big shot. Laugh at me if you want. It seems to be the common reaction. Speaking of that, do you know what Todd Storton, the water cooler man, did to me last week?
Storton is a big, potbellied brute with a lantern jaw and caveman-like eye placement. His job is to go around refilling our water coolers. The big five gallon jugs that weigh about forty-five pounds a piece. Anyway, this idiot carries four at a time wherever he goes. One under each arm and one in each hand. And it’s not so much that the weight is terribly immense, but they’re awkward objects and a man of my stature has trouble hoisting even one onto the water cooler. So you can just imagine how fat man Storton flaunts it in my face.
The fool fancies himself a bit of a ladies man. If he sees a pretty office girl in the building he’ll take the stairs instead of the elevator. Great going, Storton! Hah! As if the girls are at all impressed by your flabby, grotesque figure lumbering up the steps hauling four jugs at a time with your unsightly buttcrack showing and the pungent stench wafting out into the air. Normally, I’d never tell this to him. It would do no good. The dunderhead isn’t worth my time.
He just goes on with his business giving me the I’m so much better than you look. Here’s the awful incident which happened last week.
Ol’ portly Storton comes hulking into my boss’ office carrying the four jugs as usual. His pants were hanging lower than their customary level, revealing some very unflattering equipment of his. I tried to look away but it was just one of those things. The kind of freakish vulgarity you’re unable to tear your gaze from. Those unintelligent, bulgy eyes of his stared directly at me as I watched him enter. The malodorous smell filtered in immediately. I always have trouble drinking the water -- each time I take a sip, my mind invariably envisions Storton… and that repulsive body.
Just picture a large,
perspiring, hairy man rubbing his pudgy belly all over the water jug as he places it atop the cooler. I can only guess how much of his drippings manage to find their way down into the water tank. Occasionally I find myself throwing up, just inside my mouth as I drink, but only when the images become too overwhelming.
Ah, but I digress. Here is my recounting of the sordid tale.
Todd Storton enters the office and sees me seeing him, he pauses. He stands there holding the four jugs. His fetid index finger begins picking at his nose as if he’s taunting me. Trying to illustrate how effortless the jugs are too him. Hey! I can pick my nose and carry these! Naturally I was very impressed by this elegant display of virility…
Storton sets the jugs down and points quizzically at a chair. I unwillingly nod and he sits down in it. The steel legs begin to bow under his immense tonnage. In the process, his mustard stained shirt has ridden up, exposing the massive rolls of fat underneath. A pleasant sight. That abhorrent visual coupled with the unbearable stench, leaves me gagging. Storton removes his company provided hat and wipes his brow. I notice his balding head; all the more fitting of the lummox-like appearance he so desperately cultivates.
The beautiful, young secretary from down the hall walks by my doorway. Storton and I both turn our heads to follow her angelic figure. We’re watching her through the glass window with the shades drawn, overlooking the hall. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly into a bun. The body was attired in a formfitting blue blouse and matching skirt; revealing a pair of well toned, well tanned, and smooth looking legs. I can only say looking, as I have never felt them myself. But I assume… She wore red-rimmed stylish spectacles that day.
I believe her name is Natasha. Although I can’t be too sure. I’ve never had the audacity to ask. I assume the name Natasha belongs to her because that’s what her boss is always saying. “Natasha schedule this, Natasha order these, Natasha, Natasha, Natasha.” There’s always the off chance he’s referring to someone else. For now I’ll call her Natasha.
Storton looks at me with a lustful expression and nods his head in the direction of her. I sneer at his stupidity and say, “Storton, that woman will never have the slightest interest in you.”
He jolts upright, scowling. “Oh yeah?” he says, “What about you, pipsqueak? She’d pick me over you any day of the week.”
I take note of the drool forming at the corners of his oversized mouth.
“Tubgut, look at yourself. You’re obese, benighted, odious, and repellent.”
I made sure to toss in a few big words to assert my intellectual dominance over him. The self-help tapes have really been paying off.
“You haven’t a modicum of appeal in your entire being. And yes, I’ll give you a minute to go look those terms up. Need to know how to spell them too?” My head nodded in a pleased manner, having just put the ogre in his place. But no, ol’ Storton wasn’t beaten yet. He had the gall to retort.
“Is that so, shrimp?” he says, walking toward me. The next thing I know there’s a chubby finger shoved in my face. “I’ll fix you good!”
Then Storton turned and exited. I observed him head left down the hall and out of sight. Then I heard his voice. “Ms! Ms!” he was shouting.
A moment later he returned, and much to my chagrin he had brought back Natasha with him. She stood beside Tubgut, as they both looked at my reddening face. Storton aimed that chubby finger right at me.
“He said he wants to spank you all night and ride you home until, uhh—“ the monstrosity pauses for a minute, searching for words, “Uhh, until the cows come home… Then do it again!” The nimrod takes another moment, believing he’s done well. He glances at her uninterested face. “Uh, then break your glasses. Smash ‘em.”
Uh-oh. The fool had gone and done it now. The words were not eloquent, true. But they were the best he could manage. And yet their effectiveness had not been impaired. For Natasha’s face contorted into shocked revulsion. Her eyes widened as the brows lowered in irritation. She folded her arms across her chest before storming off in a huff.
Now the woman I’ve never even spoken to thinks I’m a dirty pervert and it’s all due to that Neanderthal water jug delivery man.
2
It was Thursday. My boss, Mr. Wilmer Cromwell, retrieved his lunch and returned to the office and shut his door as usual. He rarely closes it completely. There always remains a small gap allowing sound to leak out into my area.
Another thing about Wilmer Cromwell… Say that name to yourself. Wilmer. Wilmer. Wilmer. Sounds like some kind of farm animal. Well, this farm animal happens to control my life. He’s the head honcho. The big man. The chief. The overseer. The top dog.
He possesses a very strange, peculiar personality. The accompanying traits are as bizarre as expected. His disposition is one of unknowing arrogance and pedantry. Put simply, he’s a patronizing twit. Allow me to describe his appearance a bit. Wilmer stands about five-foot nine and weighs in at around one hundred and ninety-five pounds. A solid figure. Muscular. Beefy. Sturdy. He has perfect hair that glistens marvelously in any lighting. It looks poofy, yet stiff. Sometimes he slicks it all over to one side and on those days it reflects the glare like a veritable mirror.
His face is attractive. You know the type. He has that certain look of importance. The kind of guy you’d want running a billion dollar company or leading the country. A presidential look, yeah, that’s it. Maybe even a baronial or magisterial look. In any event you don’t imagine the man wearing that face to be calling himself Wilmer. You’d think he was a Reginald Fairbanks or Thaddeus Wilkerson. Anything but Wilmer the farm animal. Yet, he manages to play that detestable name to his advantage. Clients find it endearing. “Oh Wilmer, is it? How quaint. How cute.” I find their saccharine tones of praise sickening.
Mr. Cromwell is an immaculate dresser, always arriving in the finest of clothes. There’s never been a blemish on his coat or a scuff on his shoes. Some days I come to work and discover that he’s wearing a gold pocket watch. How ostentatious! Made all the more revolting when he comes by my desk, sits on the edge of it, making sure he has my full undivided attention before whipping out the resplendent watch and announcing the time. Nothing more. A little announcement of the time and off he goes. Honestly, I am extremely impressed by the timepiece. Though I’d never let it show. That Wilmer is already so full of himself, I fear even the slightest compliment would cause his head to burst… Which is not all that bad of an idea, actually.
His body, as I mentioned, is what you might call needlessly large for our line of work. There’s no purpose for it! And to maintain his unsightly bulk – Wilmer is forever downing these rotten muscle shakes. You can see him, many times throughout the day, yank out his thermos or whatever it is, pour in the nasty powder and gulp the substance. When finished, he will exhale with a loud, satisfied (quite annoying) Ahhhh! Disgusting…
I digress yet again. As I was saying, Cromwell retrieved his lunch and ensconced himself in that spacious office of his. Over twice the size of my little area. Well, actually, it’s not even my area. True, there’s a desk in the room that I sit at. However, the other half doubles as our waiting room. Which makes me seem a bit like a receptionist, doesn’t it? Great. Another feminine role being associated with my job. I’m a lawyer’s assistant G-D-it!
Anyway, Cromwell is sitting in his office. The door is slightly ajar and that’s when I begin to hear it. That God-awful sound. That high-pitched, grating noise. His infernal clinking and clanking!
Every day the nitwit stuffs his lunch into a large glass bowl. Usually it’s soup, salad, or something like that. However, on occasion I’ve seen him toss hamburgers, hotdogs, and chicken breasts into it, which in and of itself is highly odd. Who eats a hamburger out of an oversized glass bowl? You’d expect to see some helmet wearing morons doing that. I guess Wilmer isn’t far off from the description, though. He just lacks the headgear. Then there are the ever-present utensils. Forks, knives, spoons. Each time he reaches down to extract a bi
te, his utensil slams against the side of the bowl, making a harsh, dissonant sound. A ringing clank. A clangorous clink. And these aren’t your ordinary clanks and clinks everyone makes. They’re extra. Extra loud and extra often. The only conclusion I can draw is that he does it on purpose to annoy me. In the past I’ve made several comments regarding the clanking (only to myself of course – I didn’t have the courage to confront him personally), all to no avail. He remains in his office clanking away with what seemed to be extra to his already extraness. It hits me like a slap in the face.
I feel my ears begin to bleed as the noise permeates the room. Not literally, of course -- although sometimes it does feel that way. I can just imagine the blood trickling out, ever so slowly at first. Then as the clinking continues, the blood becomes a stream, then a gushing mess, until finally the liquid explodes out of my head like a bursting fire hydrant. Here I am prone to having out of body experiences, envisioning my corpse lying on the ground – the blood beginning to quickly pool around my head. And even in death I have no respite, as that confounded clinking continues. Cromwell sits in his plush leather chair (with additional padding on the armrests) and clinks, and clanks, and clashes, raining down blow after blow upon the bowl!
There hasn’t been one day that I’ve been able to work through his lunch. It’s all I can do to keep myself from going berserk and storming his office with a little hammer. I’d like to slap him across the face before ripping that bowl from those well moisturized hands and smashing it to bits! See all the shattered glass litter the floor. Ahh yes… An entirely satisfying moment.
After he finishes his prolonged eating period, I am able to rest easy as the blissful sound of silence fills the room once more. My heartbeat slows. My shaking hands, cupped over the aching ears, are lowered with a sigh of relief. My teeth stop clenching. And then I hear the ringing. The beatific sound of total silence. But only a moment passes before the din of dull chatter coming from adjacent offices filters in. Everything returns to normal and my near outlandish outburst is quelled…
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 1
