After speaking with his father for a brief period of time Roger confessed to his crime. They sent him off to the school for “bad kids.” You know the school I’m talking about. The school all the “good” kids whisper dark secrets of, but no one has ever been to. Except maybe one kid who tells these fantastic tales about the “other side.” The savage beatings that take place and brutal muggings that occur right in the hallways. The teachers have no control over the incorrigible students -- chaos is rampant.
Anyway, that is where Roger Mills ended up and it was the last I ever saw of him. Perhaps those dark whispered secrets were true… There wasn’t much I learned from Roger. I didn’t receive much benefit from ever having known the dolt. Although I did learn to plan your crimes a bit more thoroughly. Truth be told, some one that idiotic shouldn’t be perpetrating crimes at all. They’re bound to be caught. Which is precisely is what happens to most criminals. I believe it’s because the majority of them are as unintelligent and simple as Roger Mills. Just imagine a fool like Todd Storton trying to pull off a decent crime. No chance! He’d probably film himself doing it and leave the camera behind along with his license and note of admission... Addlepate!
I feel it to be an auspicious morning. The weatherman says we’ll have clear skies today, with not a chance of showers. Normally they’re not accurate but when something reinforces my beliefs, then I’m inclined to believe in it more. Last night I washed Wilmer’s new bowl four times using four different kinds of soap. There’s isn’t a tinge of residue left; I’ve made sure of it. The bowl is spotless. A king would gladly dine, consuming the finest of meals, night after night from this fabulous dish. Wilmer simply cannot refuse such a piece of craftsmanship.
On my way to work I hit all the traffic lights with impeccable timing. One great, long smooth sea of green -- flowing cars without a single hang up. There wasn’t an opportunity for some miscreant window washer to harass me today. I’ve the seen the one I launched onto the sidewalk, but only once since the incident. His leg had been fastened in a makeshift cast or splint of some kind. A few jagged canes duct taped to the leg, keeping his bones in place; at least I assume that was its purpose. And today, on this most promising of days, I see him again… Hobbling by the side of the rode… As I drove by I made sure to look the other way and shield my face with the hand nearest to the window. Don’t think that I’m scared of the loser, but I’d rather not let him see me coming by this way. He might try to pull something.
The office held a propitious air, a lingering feeling of good fortune. Maybe I was imaging things or worse yet, creating them. I need all the help I can get. If Wilmer doesn’t accept this bowl, if he should decline to use it, I don’t know what I’ll do. To be honest I’ve not given that problem much thought. Positive thinking works wonders. All negative beliefs have been eliminated from my mind. I’m one optimistic sap. The world is a bowl of frosting and Wilmer Cromwell is my cake to spread it on.
“Wilmer!” I shout out loud.
“What? Yeah?” he says from inside his office.
It’s at this point I realize that I’ve begun verbalizing my internal thoughts and his name just happened to pop out. The plastic bowl is elegantly wrapped, sitting in my desk drawer. But now is not the time to deliver. I can’t approach him under these circumstances. Not after an outburst.
“Umm, I just wanted to make sure you remembered your 3:00 appointment with Mrs. Fitch.”
“Yes, of course,” Wilmer responds. “You reminded me about that appointment thirty minutes ago. Good work today, by the way!”
He’s right. I just needed something, anything to respond with -- it happened to be one of those rare moments his appointment book was open on my computer. I return to staring at my screen, contemplating when the best time to present the bowl would be. It’s got to happen before lunch. There’s no way in hell I’ll be able to withstand another day of clanking. And I’ve already grown tired of eating out. Why should I be forced to dine elsewhere because of some inconsiderate wretch? There’s no plausible excuse for it. Consideration is a virtue in this world. Wilmer Cruelwell obviously lacks any semblance of the trait.
A few hours still remain until lunchtime comes about. Which means I’ve got time to plan and plot. Every detail must be meticulously orchestrated, as if I’m preparing to commit the perfect murder. That’s what this is like. A perfect murder.
The building’s token black lawyer has been scarce these past few days ever since the last episode – the one with the gun scare. Although it does not surprise me when I see Ellington Fairfield’s head peer into my office. He’s looking flustered as always, as if a hitman is hot on his trail. He waves me over with a motion of his head. I look back to make sure Wilmer isn’t watching and then walk to Ellington. Like a child sneaking out of class… His meaty paw grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into the hallway. He peeks over my shoulder, scanning the office. I guess the coast is clear, because he begins talking in a whispered yet intense voice.
“Jackson we need to talk.” Ellington peeks over my shoulder again.
“Sure,” I say as apathetically as always.
He sucks in a big breath of air and stares straight into my eyes. No, right through them.
“It’s about Wilmer… I think he’s plotting to kill me.”
“Oh?” I’m more amused than usual. I don’t even think about persuading him otherwise. I like where this is going.
“Yes. I heard him talking on the phone the other day when you stepped out to lunch.”
Stepped out? I sprinted out of the building like a mean drunk.
“What did he say?”
“Well, it wasn’t out and out. Nothing blatant.”
“Of course,” I say reassuringly, while struggling to stifle a laugh. Ellington is always prone to grasping at straws. I’m sure this will be no different.
He looks over my shoulder again. The coast is still clear.
“He was talking about ‘getting rid of the roach problem.’” Ellington tilts his head down and eyes me with an expression that says and you know what THAT means!
“Jilton, I know he’s always thought of me as a roach. Me and my kind in fact. All of us. The black folk I’m talking bout.”
I’m perfectly well aware of the fact that Mr. Cromwell recently discovered a roach problem in his home. Though this little fact will remain our dirty secret. Ellington can go right on thinking of whatever little conspiracy he’s got in mind. They’re always good for a laugh.
“That is odd,” I say with a somber tone. “What else did he say?”
Ellington peers over my head. The room is remains empty.
“Well, he said something about ‘gassing them’ and wanting to ‘squash the little bastards.’”
“Wait a minute Mr. Fairfield… How did you hear all of this? Wasn’t Wilmer in his office?”
“Yes, yes he was. But I snuck into the room and hid underneath your desk.”
“Fantastic idea,” I reply with convincing excitement. He nods his head in agreement. One side of me is wondering how many times Ellington has concealed himself somewhere in the room and eavesdropped on Wilmer. Or how many times he’s followed him around town and furtively observed his movements. I’ve always questioned Ellington’s sanity but now I’m questioning his ability to function with even a hint of ration. He’s turning out to be a real nut, just like everyone else in this G-D building.
“There’s more, I’m afraid. I hid under your desk, right? Well Wilmer comes out of the office and I sit there motionless. Not moving a muscle, you know? Wilmer leaves the office and I crawl out from underneath the desk and scurry into his office. I didn’t know how long he’d be gone so I had to act fast, you know?”
“What did you do?”
“…I picked up his phone and star sixty-nined his ass,” Ellington informs me with an elated grin. He can’t hold back the latent excitement.
“And you know what Joaner? A man picks up on the other line and says, I kid you not, he says ‘Roach
exterminator.’”
Ellington remains grinning from ear to ear. He’s finally uncovered Wilmer’s evil ploy. Of course!
“I’m guessing they call us black people the roaches. Don’t you get it Josiah? It’s some kind of militant racist group set on ridding the world of black people!” The crazed man before me breaks out into disbelieving, maniacal laughter. He’s stricken with a prolonged laughing fit. His hands are placed against the office window on either side of my head, effectively trapping me between him and the glass. His upper body and head are bent over, hanging in front of my chest as he cackles. The noise is growing louder and louder. His uncontrollable laughter becomes an unsettling torture. I pray to God or Allah, whoever, for someone to get this maniac away from me.
Just at that moment the door to my right opens. It’s Natasha in a scarlet red blouse. Her hair is letdown, running over those sensuous shoulders. I look toward her and then back to the laughing fool pinning me against the window. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Her face molds into a truly disgusted expression and she quickly slams her door shut.
The noise might alert Wilmer. I’ve got to escape. My only chance is to go limp and sink to the floor.
It works! I’m on the floor crawling away on my hands and knees. Ellington is still pressed against the glass, laughing like a lunatic. I’ve read of numerous cases where people have died from laughing. In fact the Greek stoic Chrysippus died of a laughing fit after he’d let his donkey drink wine and then observed the pack animal attempting to eat figs.
At this point my only concern is Ellington’s health. He must be stopped before the mad cackling takes his life. I upright myself and charge forward. My fist slams into Ellington’s gut -- shockingly the wind is knocked from him. The blow has such a potent impact that even I am surprised by the strike. His laughter ceases, immediately replaced by wheezing gasps. Ten seconds later he’s regained his breath. He bumbles backwards and leans against the wall. His entire demeanor has changed from that of a maniac to that of a disoriented, dazed man.
“Justin,” he wheezes, “thank you…” Then Ellington slinks down the hall until he reaches his office door and enters.
I glance at my digital wrist watch. It reads 12:10. Zero hour approaches. I’ve got one momentous task to complete. It’s go time!
18
“Who was that laughing?” Wilmer asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I reply while walking into his office, “I think it was the water cooler man.”
“Figures. He’s an idiot.”
Finally Wilmer and I can agree on something. I’ve got the bowl hidden behind my back. Wilmer is sitting in his office chair staring at the screen. He’s already minimized whatever he was working on. Perhaps a few smutty videos or whatever the deviant views. I don’t have a clue. But I do know that you should always be suspicious of some one who minimizes their screen when you enter the room.
“What can I do for you, Joachim?”
He’s back to foreign names? I don’t believe it… But I must conceal my rancor for the sake of this grave mission. This is, after all, a life or death undertaking.
“You see sir… I went out and bought a little present for you.”
“For me? What is it?” Wilmer’s mouth stretches wide enough I can see every single one of his teeth. I guess it’s true what they say, flattery is the fastest way to a person’s heart!
“Well I know you’re a big fan of dishes, so I took the liberty of buying you a new lunch bowl!”
It has finally arrived! The moment of truth! Have it Mr. Cromwell!
I bring the bowl around from behind my back and carefully place it on Wilmer’s desk, as if it is an all-important object not to be damaged. His eyes light up. He reaches forward and begins unwrapping the item. Ravenously, strangely.
“Jamey I don’t know what to say.” Wilmer’s got a big arrogant I’m better than you smirk on his face. Even when receiving a gift he’s still got to be a jerk about it. What a beefy clodpate.
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Cromwell!” I bellow proudly.
He removes the last of the paper. It’s finally here! Cromwell stares at the bowl with wonder. It’s magnificent. He shifts it from one hand to the other testing its balance. Flawless. And then it happens… my heart sinks. His saccharine smile dissipates, soon replaced by a confused expression. No! It can’t be! How can he dislike this faultless dish! This inimitable work of art! Impossible!
“Don’t you like it?” I ask weakly.
“Umm, well… you see…” Wilmer is stalling, forever the diplomat. I know he’s looking for a pleasant way to turn me down. He’s equivocating. Scum!
“It’s just that it’s, well… it’s plastic.”
“What’s wrong with plastic?” How can he not like plastic?!
“It wrecks the flavor.”
What? Plastic wrecks the flavor? Is this guy a dingbat?
“Oh?” I ask becoming quite agitated.
“Yes. Let me put it this way, what is your favorite drink container you like to drink from?”
“Glass,” I answer unconsciously and then it hits me… Glass does make things taste better. Or at least purer.
“Exactly. Glass gives the purest taste out of all the materials. Plastic, paper, wood, steel, metal, all the others. They all leave a noticeable taste on the food over time. Glass doesn’t. But thanks for the gift all the same.” Pretentious smile…
“Sure,” I say even more abjectly than usual. My spirit is crushed. I’m at a loss as to what to do. Wilmer hands me the bowl. I let it hang at arm’s length as I walk out of the room, defeated. What am I going to do? Death is a certainty if the clanking continues… Only being one step removed from his office, I already hear Wilmer pull open his desk drawer. He’ll no doubt be taking out the large glass bowl for his lunch. I accept my doomed fate and continue walking. The dead man’s final minutes. Soon to be escorted straight to hell – ushered in by those malicious clinks and clanks playing my final, mocking tune.
And then… a recent conversation between me and Todd Storton comes to mind. I had asked him what he’d do if someone disrespected him, disregarded his wishes in the most egregious of ways. He responded without hesitation and with the utmost conviction. His answer was, “I’d kill them.”
HARDBOILED ESCAPIST -- 19
Before that day I had never actually contemplated the act of murder with any seriousness. At least not in reality. Sure I’d thought of it from a character’s point of view. That was bound to happen due to my copious reading of crime novels. But I’d never thought of committing the deed myself. All of that changed the instant Wilmer refused my gift. It had now become a matter of survival. Me or him.
He’d refused my dish, refused to stop eating out of the glass bowl and in doing so willfully resigned me to death. An act of murder in itself. I believe it’s called willful negligence in legal terms. Then again I’m not a lawyer and I don’t care much for the law or its workings. My only focus now is on perpetrating the perfect murder. The killing of Wilmer Cromwell.
Murder is a strange thing indeed. Society frowns on the act… in some cases… and commends it on other occasions. Take war for example. During those militant circumstances your country wants you to kill of the enemy, whoever it may be. Many states impose the death penalty for a variety of crimes. How does killing someone illustrate the point that killing is bad? It seems to me to be a sort of physical oxymoron. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the death penalty. I think it’s a great system. I just don’t understand what they’re hoping to accomplish from the process. Other than the fact of offing a criminal and even some wrongly convicted innocents along the way.
Perhaps my diligent reading of murder and crime stories desensitized me. In my mind, as of right now, I don’t find murder repulsive or gruesome. It’s not a sin. It’s merely an action. One could rationalize any action given enough time. To me it is pointless. People will either agree, disagree, or be ambivalent. In the end their opinion doesn’t matter beca
use we’ve each got to decide what is right and what is wrong.
In society there is simply power and perspective. Whoever holds the power creates the perspective.
I now hold the power. The power to kill. The power to take life. And so my perspective sees it as just and equitable. Wilmer won’t acquiesce to my requests? Then I shall remedy the problem starting at the source. Just like the character Parker from a Richard Stark novel. Run ‘em down boy!
Philip Hone once said, “They committed murder, it is true; but their situation may have rendered it inevitable.” That is precisely my predicament. Rendered it inevitable. There is no other choice. My only conundrum… how? What method shall I use to take Wilmer Cromwell’s life? Gun him down? Poison him? Shove him out a window? Run him over? Strangle him? Bludgeon him? Hire a hit-man?
The more I think, the more tantalizing and appealing they all seem. So many opportunities. However, some options are obviously more viable than others, but each is plausible at this point. I mustn’t rule out any possibility lest my choices become limited.
Music is a very powerful force. I’ve always imagined a soundtrack to go with each murder. While reading novels I would organize a playlist and keep the music on a loop as I read the gruesome details. It takes some creativity and imagination, ingenuity if you will. Movies have rendered this skill useless as they already employ a song. But I’ve always wanted to see a murder committed while 1920s-30s cruise music played in the background. The kind of staticky, melancholy songs usually with a male singer. The sound comes blaring out of unseen speakers as the murderer creeps silently into his victim’s bedroom.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 9
