Perhaps I’ll incorporate such a soundtrack into my little homicide. To be honest I feel embarrassed. To think that it took me so long to reach this conclusion causes me great chagrin. However, I consider myself to be a rational person. And rational people don’t jump to murder at the drop of a hat. You’ve got to seek other avenues – as I have done, at great length. I’m sure you’ll agree with me in that I have no other alternative. Every outlet has been explored… Except for my greatest decision ever: To murder Wilmer Cromwell.
Murder. Kill. Slay. Annihilate. Assassinate. Eliminate. Rub out.
The words roll off my tongue like ice cream on a hot, sunny afternoon. They feel so natural, so joyful, so empowering. Now, I can truly understand what the lowlife scum in my crime stories thought. I sense what they felt. The same fears, worries, concerns, and exhilarations that went through their minds are now going through mine. We share a bond, an intimate connection. And on that note, I returned to my lowly chair just in time to receive a message from Sexkitten69. Sorry, babe, can’t right now. The mind is racing. There’s much to do! I open up the music folders. Ah yes… there must be something fitting in here.
I heard the familiar lumbering steps of Todd Storton as he approached my office. Of course he toted four water jugs along with him. And of course he looked utterly stupid as he flirted with an attractive, although uninterested office girl. She beat a hasty path to her office door and slammed it loudly in his face. The oaf grinned as he galumphed into Ellington’s office and replaced the empty water jug. I can only guess whether or not he would have spit into the container if Ellington had been out. But perhaps he tampers with the liquid before entering. Who knows how devious this corpulent cow actually is. Storton told me a few sordid stories that involved him and Ellington’s water jug. Things I don’t care to recall. Just imagine how vile, filthy, and squalid Storton is. Imagine that foul, repugnant character spreading his bodily fluids, his body parts all over the water jug and cooler spout. Then imagine a man drinking said water. If you can picture all of that and keep from gagging…I commend you.
The goon exits Ellington’s office and plods toward mine. He’s down to three full jugs with one empty barrel. His hat is titled upwards at an odd angle. It makes him appear dumber than normal, like a badly dressed toddler and just as clueless (if not more so). My own water jug is just about drained. I presume Storton will mosey in here and slap on a fresh one. The grunge and grime covering his putrid shirt catches my attention. His slimy hands grope at the handles of the water jugs. Sweat drips down his flabby forearms. Muscles. That’s who he is. Muscles. The big brute in a crime story that does what he’s told and doesn’t ask questions. A myrmidon. He’s far too idiotic to be inquisitive. Hey Muscles, go snap that guy’s neck! Sure thing boss, dur dur!
Sure enough Storton barges into my office, clunking the jugs roughly against the doorframe. No wonder there are a few chips in it. The buffoon is smiling, still excited from being ignored by the office girl I assume. Life is so much simpler when you’re a duncepot.
“Storton, ol’ boy! How goes it?” I shout in a friendly tone. He seems a bit put off by it. Probably because it’s not my normal greeting.
“Uhh, hi Joplin.” he says stupidly. “I’ll uh. just put this new jug on for you. Okay?”
“Sure, be my guest Toddy.”
“Okay, pipsqueak…”
Little does he know, I’ve already begun plotting Mr. Cromwell’s doom. Watching this behemoth toss around the cumbersome jugs elicits a smile from me. The muscles! Storton is going to play a prominent role as either the fall guy, or at the very least, an accomplice. He won’t suspect a thing of course. He’ll be unaware of his involvement in the crime. Although his complicity will be deep and integral. I’m going to make sure that if I go down, this brainless twit will be right at my side. I don’t plan on being caught; however, one must plan for all outcomes. It’s merely a contingency plot at this juncture.
He clumsily knocks off the empty container before swinging up a full one to take its place. I must have been eyeing him a little too intently because he looks over and says, “Are you checking me out, dude?”
“What? Of course not. I’m just observing how you perform your duty so effortlessly.”
“Why not? These jugs ain’t too heavy and I ain’t too weak. Unlike you, pipsqueak.”
“Good point,” I say. I’m trying to buddy up to the goon for now -- without being obvious. He needs to trust me a bit more before I run him on a few errands of my own.
“At least I’m not an overweight slob.”
“What did you say shrimp?”
“Just kidding, Storton, my boy. Why don’t you sit down and rest a spell. Take a moratorium from your menial, yet honorable job.”
“If you want.”
He sets the remaining water jugs on the floor with dull thuds -- then plops down on the couch across from me. The waiting room section. His eyes scan the area, absently looking, without any sign of intelligence in them. My watch says 12:20 which means there’s not much time left before Wilmer brings out his tormentor’s tool. I’ve already decided to eat elsewhere for the next few days. I can rough it until the plan is complete, a mere matter of days. That’s how soon…
Wait, a few days? you ask. Shocking, right? Anyone else would need an exorbitant amount of time to plot and design a crime of this magnitude. But I’m somewhat of an expert from having read hundreds of crime novels. I know just where the police will look. I know the amateur mistakes to avoid and the clues to leave behind to throw suspicion off my trail. This should have been my real profession. Not a lowly peon – but a hired, skilled assassin.
“Storton, would you like to accompany me to lunch today?”
He pauses for a moment, chewing his lower lip.
“That depends… Are you buying?”
“Of course, fathead!” Anything for you Storton… My dearest lackey.
I’m sitting here thanking the Gods for putting this goon into my life. I couldn’t have asked for a better stooge. And just at that moment Ellington Fairfield walks in front of my window. He glances in for a moment. Wilmer is exiting from his own office. Ellington sees him, and quickly averts his gaze at once. His eyes look straight forward as he picks up the pace, getting away as fast as he can without running. Like trying to escape a wild animal. You know sprinting will only trigger their innate nature to kill.
“Hello there,” Wilmer says to Storton. They exchange pleasantries.
“Oh, Jergen, I’ll need you to change a few appointments for me. Something’s come up and I won’t be coming back this afternoon. Cancel or reschedule all of them. Okay?”
“Sure,” I say apathetically.
“Terrific, great job today!” Wilmer says before returning to his office.
It’s at this point that I realize something. Ellington Fairfield. The paranoid buffoon from down the hall… He could be a valuable asset to me, surely. Hell, he’s already been stalking Wilmer. Jesus Christ! That’s it! Ellington knows his every move! The nut has followed Wilmer for weeks or God knows how long. Jesus, he even snuck into my office to eavesdrop. Huddled under the desk like a crazy fan stalking his celebrity obsession. I can’t be sure of the extent Ellington has gone to at this point. But my only hope is that he’s gone far, far, far beyond what even I believe to be possible. The more the better.
Just when I thought God had blessed me with a single perfect lackey, here I discover a second unknowing accomplice! Who is perhaps even more beneficial to me than Muscles. Now I’ve got the nervous jittery man. The snitch. The spy. The informer. The lookout.
20
Sexkitten69 hasn’t been online in awhile. I wonder if she’s taken ill. Our games were quite fun; they certainly helped to pass the time. But honestly, as of late I haven’t missed them. My mind is consumed by Cromwell and his demise. Go Fish! will have to wait. Go Kill! Got any Wilmer Cromwell corpses? Just one? I’ll take it!
So far I’ve been unable to detail a single concrete strate
gy. Anyone might consider this a massive problem… as the deed is supposed to be handled within several days time. I must cogitate intensely on the predicament until an answer is divulged. Wilmer Cromwell the squalid rat. A flea infested scumbag. A useless noisemaker that will soon be put down for his crimes against humanity. His opprobrious ways and maladjusted mannerisms are at an end! I shall do the world a favor and rid them of this pompous, fustian cretin! This orotund and sonorous windbag! Clang away Wilmer Cromwell! Because it will be your last! You’ve invoked my wrath, now you will soon feel the cold hand of death resting upon your square shoulders!
Okay, whew. I’m glad to have gotten that out of the way. It always does one good to vent a little. You rid your mind of stress just like exercise does for the body. A laugh, which I am unable to stifle, escapes my mouth – the thought of seeing Cromwell’s lifeless body just tickles my funny bone.
Natasha walks by my window without so much as a glance in my direction. She’s wearing a dark green shirt and a rather short skirt of the same color. Her hips bump from side to side with each step in an exaggerated, cartoon fashion. I imagine this vixen walking into my office, taking a seat. Somehow she’s now wearing a dark green aristocratic hat. Her eyes are lined with green eyeliner. Her lips are coated with a thick layer of red lipstick. Those vicious eyes staring daggers at me. This malicious woman would complete my team of ragtag miscreants. My seductress. My beguiler. My black widow. The perfect gang for a perfect murder.
The brains, me. The muscles, Storton. The informer, Ellington. The beguiler, Natasha.
But for now the idea is only a mere fantasy. Natasha has never shown an interest in me -- I doubt she ever will. I think she’s frigid and prudish. But, oh boy, what I would love to do with that body! She has the kind of figure men murder over. In fact, that reminds me of another true crime story I read. Back in the early 90s -- Oh, oh well. I’ll tell it later. Nonetheless, this trollop’s participation is hardly necessary to my plot, it would however, give me that sense of committing a real crime. The kind authors wait their whole lives to write about. The flawless setup, the meticulous execution. It assuredly has a certain poetic nature to it. At this point I will settle for what I have. Focusing, devoting all my mental faculties to perfecting this plan in a timely fashion. As they say, murder must never be late.
I presume the first order of business is to speak with Ellington, my informant. He’s got all the crucial facts I require. The nutcase’s handbook! Once I have attained those I’ll be better able to formulate my plan of attack and organize the crime.
Now, where is that little goon gone off to? He’s probably cowering in his office wondering if Wilmer Cromwell will come bursting through his door with a 12-gauge shotgun. I stand up and walk to the door without caring if Wilmer sees me leave or not. He’ll be dead in a few days, what’s it matter?
The hallway is empty. I look down to spot the black marks on the marble floor. The lazy, fainéant janitor has been slacking again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t properly cleaned these floors since I took up employment. The dope mopes around the building without the slightest sign of mopping. No labor whatsoever. How useless. If I cared enough about cleanliness and sanitation, or even proper work ethic, I’d report him to his employer. But he’s not my concern. If the brainless twit can make a living by doing nothing, then more power to him.
Ellington’s door is shut – Strangely, as I approach the room there is a voice coming from inside. One I can scarcely hear. It sounds like he’s talking to someone but as I look through the opaque door window, there is no one else in sight. Figures… He’s in there talking to himself! The man is really losing his grasp on reality, however tenuous it was to begin with. Now would be a good time to have a little fun with him.
And so, without warning, I slam the door with my fist and shout, “Open up, ya goddamn black bastard!”
There’s scurrying from inside the room. Ellington shouts some incoherent babble. A few seconds later I turn the knob, ever so slowly, so that he may watch as the commonplace metal object rotates menacingly… then I enter as if nothing has happened, assuming my usual self-effacing demeanor. A comical scene unfolds before me. Ellington is in the process of preparing to dive under his desk, but he’s frozen in place, staring at the door.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, Mr. Fairfield.”
“What? Who was that shouting? Is there a madman out there?!” Ellington jerks his head around, making little movements to see if anyone is hiding behind me. He’s still standing on one foot, slightly off balance, poised to lunge beneath the desk.
“Huh?” I’ll play dumb for a bit. “No, no one is out there. Although… I did hear Mr. Cromwell shout something a few moments ago.”
Ellington uprights himself and quickly snaps his fingers. “Cromwell! I should have guessed…”
“Actually, Mr. Fairfield, I’ve come to speak with you about Wilmer.”
“Who? About what?”
“Mr. Cromwell, my boss. Do you remember the phone conversation of his you told me about?”
“The exterminator call? How could I forget it!” Ellington’s eyes bulge outward.
“Yes, I think he’s plotting something very evil. And, well, I’m hesitant to say so Mr. Fairfield…but…”
“But? But?! But what, Jethro! Out with out, Joel!”
“I don’t know if I should,” comes my reply as I shyly look to the floor.
Ellington moves toward me.
“Comon! Tell me! I’m in danger aren’t I? What’s he done!”
I spit the words from my mouth in one rapid shot of deceit, “I think he’s plotting to off you!”
There, I said it. The deed had been done. The first seed had been planted. The rest was up to Ellington, my little freak.
“My God! Jesus Christ! I knew it! I just goddamn knew it! The call was damning enough… but now you, you Jeremiah also believe it’s true!”
“Listen, Mr. Fairfield. I have a plan. Only, no…” I cast my head away dramatically.
“What? What is it?!” he shouts, swallowing the bait whole.
“Well, it’s complicated Mr. Fairfield. Nah. It’ll never work…”
“Comon! Just say it! Tell me what makes it so difficult!”
Step inside my parlor, said the spider to the fly…
“It just requires me knowing Wilmer’s exact movements -- for the past week or so at least and where he might go in the future. But how can I get that kind of information?” Here I bring one hand to my forehead like one of those histrionic girls in the old black and white films.
Ellington blurts without hesitation. “Jerald! I’ve been stalking—err, following him for months now!”
“You haven’t!” I shout in feigned surprise.
“Oh yes I have! I can tell you where he’ll be at any second of any day!”
My arm rises to pat Ellington on the back.
“You don’t know how easy this makes things, Mr. Fairfield. You really don’t…”
“Listen Jimmy, I’ll do whatever I can to save my life. Tell me what you need and you got it. Whatever it takes.”
I nod my head in appreciation. My eyes lock onto an empty chair across from Ellington’s desk.
“Please, please take a seat,” he says.
We both plant ourselves in well cushioned chairs and get down to business.
“Alright Mr. Fairfield—“
“Please, call me Ellington.”
“Okay. Ellington,” I say with a smile. “Ellington I need you to tell me everything you know about Wilmer Cromwell. His movements, his habits, his everything.”
“His weaknesses?” Fairfield smirks.
“Yes, everything!”
“You got it.”
I yank a sheet of paper from a nearby printer. Here I snatch the pen from Ellington’s shirt pocket. He commences.
“Wilmer always, without fail, heads to the…”
My midmorning conference with our token black lawyer proved to be very
fruitful. Very edifying indeed. It lasted only thirty-five minutes, but the information I acquired is invaluable. I literally have the whereabouts of Wilmer at any given moment of any given day, aside from those unforeseen circumstances that will cause deviations in his normal routine.
Not only that, but Ellington is convinced Mr. Cromwell is set on killing him! I managed to convince Ellington that I’d thwart every effort and endeavor Wilmer might try – I’d protect him from any harm. But, back in his office, I leaned in close to the paranoid man and made him promise to keep this little secret between us, as we are unaware of who we can trust. As it stands now, if anything should happen to Wilmer, Ellington will keep his mouth shut, supposedly, and enjoy the relief. But who knows if this will be the case? Fairfield is obviously coming unhinged! Look how easily I played him for the sap. Something so effortlessly done… could another do it as well? However, I never expressly told him I’d kill Mr. Cromwell, only that I’d stop him from causing any damage. Ellington is so delusional, so detached from reality that I doubt he’d suspect me of any wrongdoing. Not the meek, quiet little worker drone.
They always say that of mass murderers and spree killers, “He was a quiet man.” The stereotypical loner, barely saying a word or giving a wave. These facts are, without fail, divulged AFTER the incident. No one suspects the meek while they remain so. Yet, how many of these timid fiends are caught or convicted for commonplace murders? Such as the seemingly unwarranted slaying of an employer? What motive could he have? None. They are never caught. How could they be? After all, I’m not walking into a mall full of people, machine gun in hand, and blasting them all to hell without provocation. Not yet anyway.
Although my newest lackey’s job is not complete. Far from it. He will continue to serve my purpose, acting as my fly on the wall. He will be my eyes and ears. An unknowing accomplice in the murder of Wilmer Cromwell.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 10
