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

by Draven Madpen

  “What happened to you?”

  Can I tell her the truth? Would she believe me? Would anyone? An arrogant man eating his lunch out of a large glass bowl drove me insane? It doesn’t sound like something a sane man would say. I can just imagine how the Looney bin doctors would comment. They’d want to lock me up. And I’ve had my share of padded cells for a lifetime.

  “Well, you see…” I begin. “There was a, uh…”

  “A clank? You said a clank.”

  “Right, a clank. There was a clank. My, uh, pencil rolled off the desk and fell onto the floor. I, uh, bent down and, uh, picked it up. Well, I tried to anyway. Apparently I bumped, smashed more like it, hit really hard, my head --- uh, against the desk and it caused a clanking noise. It didn’t feel that painful at first but I must have been knocked nearly unconscious and that’s why I stumbled into the hallway.” Whew, this whopper of a lie left me breathless, wheezing for air.

  Natasha drops her head incredulously. Then she shrugs her shoulder and heads for the door. It’s at this very moment I notice a disconcerting observation -- one with critical import. An unsettling realization… I have received no inspiration from our encounter. Seeing, no, being touched by the beautiful and wondrous Natasha? And I feel nothing! My mind is utterly consumed by the fading sounds of spoon against glass.

  “Whatever. As long as you’re alright. Are you?”

  “Sure. Thanks for helping me out.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she says before reiterating her point. “Really, don’t mention it.”

  I hold up a hand peacefully to show I’ve gotten the message. The door shuts and she’s gone. Its loud clunk smashing against the frame brings my mind back to awareness.

  Goddamnit… Wilmer’s got another bowl!

  Chagrin: mental uneasiness caused by disappointment or humiliation.

  14

  So… the big man thinks he can push me around huh? Show ol’ J-man what’s what? I got rid of his bowl and he has the temerity to go out and buy another? And not simply just any other oversized glass bowl, but one that generates an even more irksome clank.

  I sit here in my chair looking through his slightly opened door, peering in, observing the dastardly replacement setting atop his desk beside a few muscle shakes. He’s clicking away on his computer with a full belly. The bastard. Did I go through all of that effort to be ridiculed? How dare he do this to me. It’s the final straw… I feel like walking straight into his office, unzipping my pants and pissing right into that glass cursed object. Drink up! Then I’d dump it out over his head, watching the liquid dampen his filthy shiny perfect hair! And toss the bowl through the window when I was done. That’s what I’d like to do.

  An irate ice-cream man hatches a plot to exact revenge on bothersome soccer moms. They had taken measures to ban him from selling treats to children at the soccer, baseball, and football games. Why? Because he was an outspoken religious man, a Muslim extremist, and he wasn’t shy about it either. In fact, he advertised it on his truck. Not just crosses and such. But gruesome images depicting the crusades, the inquisition, and other lurid past historical events in protest of western religions. The children referred to him as the Jihadist Snowcone.

  The insular, narrow-minded soccer moms spoke to the city council. Their efforts proved quite successful, which resulted in banning him from being within three hundred feet of the field on game days. Does this ice-cream man sit and stew? No. He develops an ingenious plan.

  One week later, he had repainted his truck, removed of all religious propaganda. A clever disguise. There were only images of goodies and treats on the vehicle like the old classical ice-cream trucks. He drives up to the field, gets out and climbs onto the roof with a megaphone – the Jihadist Snowcone professes he’s turned a new leaf. He’s no longer an extremist! In fact he’s a convert! A proselyte! He’s a born-again Christian! To celebrate, he’s giving out free ice-cream to one and all! The mothers give each other a knowing look, quite smug at having won yet another neighborhood battle.

  The children, their parents, the coaches, the grandparents, and the spectators all rush to the truck desirous of their favorite treat. The man makes sure everyone receives exactly what they want. There’s plenty for all! Almost… He runs out of the treats, regrettably informing the crowd that he must go resupply. Although, he neglected to tell them that he’d laced every single treat in the truck with poison. It started with the children, then the elderly, then the adults. An intense ever escalating aching of the gut. Slow, agonizing moans and groans ensued. Some vomited. Some fell to the ground. Thirty three humans died that week from the poisoning. The children no longer call him the Snowy Jihadist. A new moniker, Tainted Creamsicle, is how they remember him. A few kids even created a little rhyme. A story of caution for all those running toward the cheery sounds coming forth from your friendly neighborhood ice cream man. The eccentrically bizarre ice-cream purveyor fled the state, never to be seen again. Some believe he escaped to Europe, perhaps to Latveria – where he still peddles the cold treats. He’s currently number seven on the FBI’s MOST WANTED LIST.

  Did he prove his point? I’m not sure there was a point to prove. He merely grew tired of persecution and exacted revenge. Was he wrong? What drove him to action? Being banned from selling his goods due to his beliefs. That’s what did it. I personally have no interest in such political garbage. All I care about is his somewhat comical execution method which was employed. To think… an ice-cream man goes berserk and kills off over thirty people. You’d almost expect to see the side panel of his truck come flying open, followed by a shouting of “Allah alla ak-bar-uh” or whatever it is they screech, and a loud BOOM – not this mundane, womanly method of poisoning. You know those Muslims.

  Explode the innocent is what I say. Go out with a boom for God’s sake.

  What’s more is that he’s living freely somewhere, without persecution. The perfect crime? Not by my standards. It was far too messy and to top it off, the killer is easily identified. The perfect murderer avoids all suspicion, or at the very least leaves no evidence to convict him. People might know, they might suspect, they might nod and point, but he or she will never be caught – much less convicted. The perfect murder is a work of art. A true masterpiece in every sense of the word, just as the Mona Lisa or Michelangelo’s David is.

  Tonight proved to be very unfruitful. Devoid of any and all productivity or passion. Despite the night scene appearing beautiful and serene. A few of the rugged stars somehow broke through the interfering city lights, glorifying the sky with their presence. A warm wind blew through the town. I stood in the midst of a large gust, my hands held high in the air, with eyes closed.

  The canvas in my studio room remained barren of Natasha’s face. And to think that earlier this morning I’d been filled with so many great ideas. Imbued with such excitement, such gusto. But the hideous revealing of Wilmer Cromwell’s new eating glass deprived me of insight. And that is putting the situation lightly. It has robbed me of all joy. Sucked the life-force from my world. Removed the color from my TV, so to speak.

  On my canvas is painted one object and one object alone. An ugly, oversized clear glass bowl.

  I did not dream of Natasha in her noirish setting. The single dominating thought was and still is Wilmer Cromwell’s infernal clanking. His unbearable clinking. I’m positive the night was hushed and silent, but I heard, and heard vividly, the sound of odious clinking pounding in my ears like gunshots. My mind raced. My eyes glued open. I’d read a murder novel earlier in the night, but even that failed to frighten me. I imagined no burglars creeping through my darkened halls or despicable thieves sliding against the haunted walls. The clanking preoccupied my thoughts. There was nothing else. Only that terrible, strident, deathly clinking.

  15

  I arrived late to work today for the first time ever -- just to make up for being early yesterday. Why not? This way it balances out. Nothing has changed. Everything is the same. Percy continues to beguile the
dimwitted woman who I’d seen wandering around here mindlessly yesterday. At one point the ol’ bag asked me if I was her granddaughter, Juniper. At least it’s a J… She’s clueless, ignorant, and in all probability, senile. And for a brief moment I wish her to be taken for everything she’s got. Down to the last penny. It’s time to show her the error of such oblivious ways. A certain poetic ending. Although true poetic justice would be Percy receiving his comeuppance, his rightful punishment. But, that’s not going to be happen. When are these rapscallions ever made accountable for their deeds? I couldn’t care less. When has anything ever been fair? The legal system is simply a means to fleece the people. Fairness is afforded only to those with a bank account large enough to purchase the whore that is justice for a night. The world is filled with immoral citizens willing to deceive, to manipulate, to beguile others to their advantage. There’s not a righteous man on the face of this earth. Only the self-righteous.

  Men like Percy Sullivan will come and go – with no one mourning their passing. People like the old woman, suckers, will be born and die none the wiser. This is the way the world works. Cruel. Uncaring. Efficient. The wolf and the sheep.

  I try to do my part; though I fear the trifling existence which I own, this meager life, this insignificant survival of mine is so unworthy of notice by definition alone that I’d almost be better off removing myself, permanently. However, even as little as I live for, I’ve never seriously entertained the option. I feel it would be better to go out with a few thrills. Grab a girl’s boobs. Rob a bank, take a prominent man hostage, run an adult film industry. Something like that.

  Wilmer Cromwell is in his office typing furiously at the keyboard. I’m not sure what he’s always working on. Whenever I enter the office he is sure to quickly minimize the screen and flash me a sickeningly arrogant smirk. Somewhat similar to my routine when he emerges from his quarters, only I never flash an arrogant smile. It’s more of a weak, sorry to bother you what can I do for you kind of smile.

  Yesterday’s bowl incident is fresh in my mind. There’s absolutely no way I can endure another day of clanking. I’ve already decided to eat out for lunch until I can come up with a suitable plan to destroy that execrable bowl. That abominable dish.

  Until then I’ll sit here at the desk answering tedious phone calls and playing games of Go Fish! with the marvelous Sexkitten69. Maybe look for Storton to make a few of himself. Spy on Natasha as she bends over to retrieve a dropped pencil. For now, GO FISH! And ah, what’s this? The online company has released a new version of the game. They now include actual fish on the cards instead of numbers. So I’ll be asking ol’ Sexkitten69 if she has any barracuda instead of eights. This could be amusing. A cute divertissement. She sends me a game request. I’m inclined to accept.

  We’ve tried other games over the course of our battling, but none of them suited the specific needs required for us. Chess necessitates too much thought and Sexkitten69 despises the hierarchy system of checkers. Neither of us has any skill in Texas Hold ‘Em. Once we played at an online site and lost $130 a piece in the span of thirty minutes. I had to fudge on the company books to cover that little mistake… That was the end of our betting games. No, it seems Go Fish! is simplistic enough to allow a competitive rivalry and yet brainless enough to hold our attention. There is very little talent involved. The only requirement is basic memorization and a tad bit of foresight. A modicum of mental movement.

  That reminds me of another story. A few weeks back I challenged Storton to a game. I figured he’d be an easy mark, him being the retarded oaf and all that. I sat him down with a smile. Eager to wipe the floor up with that pig. What actually happened? He beat me in two minutes flat… then had the gall to insult the game. My game. He called it “stupid and dumb.” As well as, “too easy or just had a dumb opponent,” referring to me of course. How that imbecilic twit won I’ll never know. Some days I’m convinced he’s played the game an incalculable number of times. That he’s a superlative player and has spent his mundane, meaningless little life perfecting this skill. The man is masterful… Such a disgraceful dirtbag of brobdingnagian proportion! I’ve spent years playing the game! He plays it one measly time and beats me? So quickly at that!? It’s absurd to think about…

  But enough of such trash.

  Speaking of the doofus, here he is now. He’s got the four water jugs as always. However, I might have some use for him today. Storton is proficient in buffoolery. I’ve got a question that needs answering. Ones which require a certain stupidity to fulfill.

  “Storton!” I shout.

  He looks around unsure where the voice came from. I yell again, causing the duncepot to slowly turn until his unintelligent, revolting face is pointed in my direction. My hand waves him into the room. Storton trudges in, sets the jugs down and takes a seat.

  “What is it Jaquelle?” he asks smugly. “You pipsqueak, pencil pushing, uhh—pipsqueak!”

  By the tone of his voice I can surmise he’s just, moments ago, unsuccessfully hit on one of the beautiful office girls. This brute was born without the ability to comprehend facial expressions or body language, let alone spoken sarcasm and outright lies. His hat is pushed high up on his forehead, angled upwards, how a little kid might wear one. In fact that’s what he looks like. A grotesque looking overgrown baby. A manchild. I see the damp sweat spots on his shirt -- it appears that he may have wet himself.

  “Storton,” I begin, “I need to ask you a question.”

  He nods.

  “But… it must be kept in the strictest confidence. Do you understand?” I deliver the question in such a manner as a mother might say to a dense child.

  He nods again. “Yes, I understand shrimp.” Good, Igor.

  “Storton, this involves disrespect and honor. As well as questions regarding human decency, right and wrong, moral and immoral, rectitude and impropriety.”

  Storton looks perplexed, so I attempt to remove the verbiage, cutting straight to the meat and potatoes.

  “What I’m about to ask you is deadly. Deadly. Deadly.” I repeat the word deadly like a broken record. His expression changes to that of a somber countenance. My plan is working. He’s been prepped and primed… now the question can be popped.

  “What do you do when some one disgraces you? Goes out of their way to humiliate you? Stabs you in the back? Slaps you in the face? For instance, say, oh I don’t know… Say a boss disregards his employee’s wishes and flaunts it in their face. What would you do?”

  Storton answers with such abruptness I’m rendered speechless.

  “I’d kill him,” he says, his face a statue. “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

  I gulp and attempt to regain my composure. Is this fool crazy? He’d kill them? Have I been consorting with a lunatic all this time and been unaware of it?

  “You-you’d-you’d k-k-k-k-ill them?” I manage to stutter.

  He dips his head down and eyes me from under that massive forehead. The tension is palpable. A bizarre smirk crawls over his face. Storton leans in close, menacingly. I fully expect him to ram a knife through my chest…

  “Nah,” he says with a hearty laugh, throwing his head back. “I wouldn’t kill ‘em. Hah-hah. I’d punch ‘em right in the nose is what I’d do. A square punch with one of these babies.” Storton raises a pair of gargantuan, meaty fists, eyeing them admiringly.

  Strangely I don’t feel the relief I expected from his confession. There is an emptiness hovering in my chest. As if a fellow minded friend has suddenly betrayed me. Why had he lied? Was it simply a joke? Or did the answer contain much sinister undertones?

  “Punch ‘em in the nose? That’s all, huh?” I inquire just to break the silence.

  “Yeah, either that or throw eggs at his car.”

  Right. Ask a simpleton and you’ll get a simpleton’s answer. I’m beginning to prod Storton’s mind a bit further when a noise catches my attention. It’s the familiar sound of Mr. Cromwell’s desk drawer sliding open. I look at the clock. 12:43.
Damn.

  “Storton we’ve got to get out of here,” I shout while exiting the current game of Go Fish! and giving Sexkitten69 no explanation. My legs carry me around the edge of my desk, over to the door we go. The sheer anticipation of hearing metal on glass causes my right leg to buckle, even before the sound has begun. The first piercing clink suddenly emits from Wilmer’s office just as I dash from the room. Storton got the impression that I wanted him to follow me, and so, he’s hot on my tail. We’re flying down the stairs at a breakneck pace. The whole foundation is shaking under his ponderous weight. God knows what the other workers are thinking. This massive, lumbering brute chasing after a tiny, meek fellow through the halls and down the stairs.

  The clinking reaches my ears… or so I think. Perhaps it’s only in my head. Though I swear it’s there… Yes, it must be! I leap from the final step and dash toward the front door. Sunlight is visible through the glass. Without slowing a single pace I charge straight into the door -- only to be repelled backwards. Caromed as it were. My body is splayed out on the floor, my vision blurring. A grogginess coming on. The clinking grows louder and louder. It’s Cromwell, I know it! He’s chasing after me down the stairs, banging the spoon against that damn bowl. Like a crazed tribesman hammering his drums of war. Now I’ve got you, my pretty! CLANK! CLINK! CLANK! I feel the vibrations of his feet. Back you bastard! Back!

  Suddenly a booming voice breaks the tumultuous clinks.

  “Runt?” Storton asks as he steps off the stairs.

  I motion weakly for the door, shouting the best I can.

  “The door, Storton! Get me out the door!”

  He races over with earnest concern – uprighting me with a single arm. We’re off and running again. This time I pull on the door instead of pushing. It opens. I’m sprinting into the street without cognizance of my surroundings. I feel asphalt beneath my feet, causing an abrupt stop. The blaring of a car horn snaps me back to reality. There I am standing in the middle of traffic like an illiterate bum. The irate drivers exhibit vulgar gestures. A sturdy hand grips my arm, yanking me clear of the danger.