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

by Draven Madpen

  Murder. It sounds like such a happy word. Murder. I can imagine being at a large dinner party and shouting it out during a lull in conversation. MURDER! And everyone in the building would cheer me on. They’d smile and shout along with me. MURDER! YEAH! MURDER! Like some kind of pregame chant.

  Seriously, think of a “good” word for a moment. Take considerate for example. Let’s analyze it. The first three letters c-o-n. Con. The very act of consideration is a con. Mere tripe. Consideration is ineffectual and futile. Murder is long-lasting and substantial. One carries weight and the other is swept under the rug. Murder. Murder. Murder.

  I awoke this morning with a feeling of absolute clarity. Somehow during the night a set of laws became known to me. Well, they’re not really laws per se, but more like crimes; the only two crimes in all of humanity in fact. The first is pedophilia. And the second and more egregious of the two is bowl clinking! The first crime, while despicable, might be tolerable at times. It’s not something I lose sleep over unlike the second. But the latter… which is detestable and sickening. There’s nothing more despicable than an arrogant, self-important beefcake with a clanking problem. If you’re going to be a jerk, then at least have the decency to do it in private! Do not sit around in public places committing the most flagrant of crimes, the most flagitious of iniquities!

  A woman attempts to cash in on her husband’s 135k life insurance policy by quickening his demise. She was a good housewife -- always preparing his meals, and snacks – this is, as you know, one the easiest ways to off a person. The woman began mixing ground up, triturated glass into the man’s favorite dish: mashed potatoes. You’d think one could tell if there was glass in your food. But no, that is a misconception. When the particles are pulverized so finely they become undetectable to the person. The effects, however, are still just as brutal, just as lethal.

  Tiny shards begin cutting the gastrointestinal tract. As a result, this causes internal bleeding to occur. Our greedy lady fed her husband glass laced food over a matter of weeks. Night after night, each meal, every bite worsening his condition, increasing the bleeding; but he believed it to be stomach pains and nothing more. The ploy eventually worked. Her husband succumbed to the injuries a short while later.

  However, the rapacious wench did not receive her coveted life insurance. No, no. Grinding glass may have worked years ago, sister. But in today’s world, detectives and coroners are on to such rudimentary, clichéd tricks. They discovered the real cause of death which led to an investigation and the woman’s eventual arrest for murdering her husband. An amateur mistake. Anyone that stupid deserves to be caught.

  One can learn as much from botched, imperfect crimes as they can from perfect crimes. I don’t have time to make all the mistakes myself so I’ll learn from those who have already made them -- those who have perpetrated these infantile schemes, and paid a heavy price for their lesson at that. My lesson. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your efforts make all of this possible.

  21

  I called in sick to work today. Well, actually I phoned in at the exact time I knew the office would be vacant. This meant not having to deal with that insufferable, redoubtable fiend in the form of Wilmer Cromwell. A few coughs and sniffs on the answering machine should have been sufficient. My acting seems to be improving each time another piece of the plot falls into place. And there’s a good chance it’s going to be one of those 24 hour flues when Wilmer inquires about it tomorrow. Staying home and researching my latest project is a much more valuable allocation of my limited time. The house looks like a tornado just whipped through a criminologist’s library. Dozens of books lay scattered and spread across the living room floor. You can almost spot a walkway in some sections. Crime stories from both fiction and non-fiction cases. I’m culling over this vast compendium for inspiration. My method of killing Wilmer Cromwell is still unknown to me. I have, however, ruled out quite a few tactics. In the spirit of prudence, basically anything physical has been rejected. With my weak frame it’s far too risky to attempt to overpower Wilmer, or even accidentally find myself in a struggle of brawns. He’s gulped down enough muscle shakes in the last month alone to take on a full grown bull, and probably win.

  Weapons, however, are still an option. Perhaps a gun or knife. Though a blade does run the chance of breaking into a physical confrontation. Lord knows I’d probably lunge from the shadows, slip on the ground and impale myself with the steel. Either that or Wilmer’d see me flailing about and say “Back to work, Jiggy.” I’d much prefer making a quick and effortless kill. A silenced pistol? Maybe… Ah drat! Then there would be the irksome task of acquiring a gun -- in such a manner that it couldn’t be traced back to me. A hitman? The same problem and perhaps even a bit riskier. I’ve read too many stories of vindictive wives being caught due to blundering hitmen. Hearing all the tales, you’d suspect most “hitmen” are in fact under cover police. Unless you find that rare hobo on the street who used to moonlight as an assassin. A bottle of whiskey and he’d take out anyone in the world for you. The best part being, the sot would be so drunk during all the communications there’d be no way for him to identify you. But then again… thinking back to my last incidents with the homeless, I don’t exactly have a high standing in their inner circles.

  Yet, how sweet it would be to find myself ensconced in a spacious closet inside Wilmer’s house. He’d return home late at night and enter without a care in the world. I’d wait in the shadows watching him through the tiny slats of the door. My hand would raise the gun to head level, waiting for him to enter the bedroom.

  Wilmer walked in and tossed his coat off onto the corner chair. At the very moment he turned to the dresser located near the head of his bed, I sprang from the closet and observed him recoil in fear.

  “Jexington?” he says.

  I grit my teeth, slowly applying pressure to the trigger.

  “My name is—“ BANG! Wilmer drops like a sack of spuds as the bullet breaches his skull, leaving bone fragments against the back wall. It turns out he didn’t have any brains after all.

  Yes, yes, that would be a highly satisfying scenario, although it does pose many problems. Botherations I’d rather not deal with. Gunplay is so messy and disorderly. Even a single shot can leave quite a bloody turmoil behind. Though I do like the less traceable aspects of it. Heck, I can admit it! The rewarding sight of Wilmer’s lifeless body crumpling to the floor – wearing a bewildered, shocked expression as he goes down.

  Now take poison for instance. It’s very identifiable in today’s world. The amount of crime scene investigation stories chronicling its usage is mindboggling. They’ve got technology today that leaves one speechless. These new advances make it that much harder to commit a crime, but on the flipside, malicious technology has been advancing as well. It all depends which side happens to be at the forefront of trickery during the particular moment in time of your crime. As an example, think back to the Old Western days. A man could be shot dead and his murderer never found. Today, they’d simply perform a few ballistic tests on the main suspect’s weapon and most likely find the culprit with little effort.

  Crimes must be more sophisticated these days. That doesn’t mean they must be intricate, no, not at all. It simply means a bit of thought is required, some planning. The majority of murders are not premeditated. They’re hot-blooded crimes perpetrated by capricious idiots. Your neighbor makes you angry by playing his music too loud. You ask him to turn it down. He tells you to screw off. Okay, pal. I’ll get my glock and put six rounds center mass. These are typical crimes. The transgression I’m after isn’t talked about much because the wrongdoer is hardly ever found. Intelligence is a dangerous thing.

  Then there are these other multitudinous, pesky questions to answer. Do I wish to frame someone else? Get myself a fall guy like all those hardboiled crime stories? Or shall I make it look like a random, unsolvable act? Typically, your standard frame job requires a bit more planning and a heck of a lot more time! But… is
hatching the perfect frame-up worth the effort? To somehow pin it on the repulsive Storton or conniving Percy? Maybe the paranoid Ellington Fairfield? Or the cold seductress Natasha? The idea strikes me as something beyond ordinary, a magical notion, fulfilling all those reveries which have occupied my mind for endless years.

  G-D-it, though! I’m under such constraints! The deadline (hehe) is so near, approaching so rapidly. There’s no confidence in this plot. I’m not ready… am I? Who knows…Perhaps, I could leave just enough of a trail to cast suspicion on some known sleazebag, a real grimy, dirty, underhanded scummy type -- without putting the final nail in their coffin. A few well placed clues. Point those lazy flatfoots in the direction of another; let him go sniffing someone else’s rump – removing myself from the spotlight. But let’s be honest, I can’t make the scent too weak. These coppers aren’t that bright. I need the hint to be quite evident, yet not appear contrived…

  And still… the murderous method seems to persist in eluding my mind. Hidden just below the surface it is, I know it! This ol’ peabrain of mine is cudgeling itself silly! Here I am, sitting in a mound of books, pouring over materials, searching and searching for an answer that is lurking somewhere deep within them. I just know it is! Look hard, boy. Use those years of extensive learning… Curses! Why is plotting the perfect murder such a difficult task? What a needlessly complicated mess. You know, I’ve spent my entire life compulsively reading crime novels and studying killings, yet when it is time to plan my own, I draw a blank. Disgraceful… I’m completely useless. A hopeless situation. What can I possibly do? There isn’t a way for me to commit this crime, is there? I’ve been nothing but a fool. A G-D fool! And now it occurs to me, I might as well stoically accept my fate and allow Wilmer to kill me with his infernal clanking. I’m a failure.

  All of these stories I previously read —

  Wait… Previous! That’s it!

  22

  Let me tell you what a fool Wilmer is. I’ll do it in the way all those writer types say to convey stories. I’ll illustrate his foolishness through showing. And it is simply this: Cromwell gave me a key to the office awhile back. Which is lucky for me… because here I stand, inside the building with not a soul around, as the clock reads 3:30 am. I’m here at the office. Not normally a time for employees to be assiduously working, now is it? Then again I’m not performing typical business duties. I’m going through Wilmer’s old case files. His previous cases. You see, yesterday an idea was rattled lose in my head when the word previous came stumbling out from my mouth. It struck me like a punch in the groin. A real awakening.

  I asked myself: Why would anyone want to kill Wilmer? For a botched case, of course! He’s a snobby lawyer with fancy duds. The real dilemma now is in finding a suitable suspect for the frame-job. However, more pressingly, I need to unlock these past files first. At last, I am alone again with Cromwell’s computer. That secretive machine he goes to such lengths to hide. It’s booting up nice and fast. The bright screen flashes on… PASSWORD required! Drat! Another folly of mine. I cannot keep overlooking the small points. But in truth I’m glad this happened. Now I can be reminded to focus and prepare. Leave nothing to chance! And simply because I’ve come this far, I make a few attempts at cracking the code. Generic, stupid things I figure Wilmer might use. Muscles. Muscle Shakes. Posing. Mirror posing. Nothing. Oh well…

  No need to worry. And here, you might begin to grow jealous of just how lucky I am! For Cromwell keeps a filing cabinet in the back. A place where he stores every case file of his in hard, paper copy. I guess he doesn’t quite trust the cyberspace security. This piece of furniture is an easy entry. The drawers aren’t even locked. Now, let’s get down to business…

  Which moronic dunderhead would want to exact revenge on Mr. Cromwell for losing their case? Mrs. Teetums? She lost over 150k in what was supposed to be a simple settlement with her ex-husband. Wilmer overlooked a tiny fact and blundered. Mrs. Teetums was out 150k, her estate, and nearly all of their property. She had been a somewhat wealthy woman and might consider hiring a hitman. I remember Teetums well. The woman had the personality of a battleaxe, which made it come as no surprise to discover she’d been divorced five times.

  Or how about Ralph Higgins? The squirrely faced computer-man with exceedingly thick glasses? One would think food poisoning from ingesting a well-known cereal brand to be an open and shut case. They put bad stuff in the food, you ate it, you sue, you win… Nope. Leave it to dimwitted Wilmer to bungle yet again and mislabel a few bags of evidence, resulting in the verdict of not guilty. Higgins had been robbed of what surely would have proved to be a very lucrative settlement. Some even suggested Wilmer took a pay off by the company to botch the case. Mr. Ralph Higgins was a man who could be described as believing in such a notion. And wouldn’t that be a perfect motive for a revenge kill? I can only hope Higgins has fallen on hard times and become a desperate fellow. You never know what animals will do when cornered.

  I pull open another folder and read the contents. What do we have here? Mr. Roland Drake the used car salesman. Sounds quite appealing. The oleaginous slimeball stereotype. A regular upstanding citizen you can bet… Another Percy Sullivan knockoff. It would appear Drake sold a few lemons to several dreadfully peeved consumers. Although, technically he had done nothing illegal. I’m unsure of the legal term, but some states have laws against selling “less than quality goods,” we’ll say. This law is put in place to protect ignorant buyers. Cousin Cletus buys a piece of garbage, finds out it doesn’t run past the two mile mark. He comes stumbling back to refund his cash. God bless America.

  Evidently ol’ Mr. Drake was known to pawn off quite a few of these lemons. Wilmer lost the case by neglecting to research whether our state enforced this law or not. And it did. A painfully rudimentary, stupid mistake. Dumbo-Wilmer built the case around an entirely asinine premise. As expected, it was thoroughly trounced by the prosecutor within a matter of minutes. A savage beating. Perhaps he couldn’t have won the case in any event. However, he exhibited such a pitiful performance that it most assuredly left Mr. Drake infuriated and vengeful (if his red cheeks and puffing lungs were to be of any indication) – as he was fined an exorbitant amount of money.

  Statistically, in truth, Wilmer is a decent lawyer. There aren’t a whole lot of cases for me to go on. But remember, these people aren’t actually going to murder Wilmer. I am. All I must do is leave a few clues behind to insinuate that one of them might have been involved in the killing. I may even look into cases that he’s won. Find someone on the losing end of things who would be very bitter. On second thought… that’s not a half bad idea. Who would hold a grudge against Cromwell for losing to the ol’ boy? Yeah, that’s good… A bitter victim of Wilmer’s superior, unscrupulous skill set. Maybe one of his tag team matches with Percy. I don’t much care who it is, myself. They will serve merely as pawns. Stepping stones allowing for the greater good to be visited upon Cromwell. So then… since it matters not which unsavory character I select… Truthfully, it follows suit that all my plan depends on is finding the easiest fall guy – which goon appears most susceptible to committing this heinous murder? The most likely candidate… yes, that’s good. I like that. Candidate. Let’s make it official!

  I’ve essentially ruled out framing Ellington. Even though he has a desultory mind and could very easily be depicted as delusional, verging on insane, I don’t wish to risk the attention finding its way back to my doorstep! Idiots like that are always prone to babbling. He might talk, ramble as it were, and mention my name. Or whatever he’s calling me that particular day. Not a favorable outcome. I mustn’t put myself in such peril, not even for a moment. I am the dutiful, reticent employee who is deeply upset by the loss of his dear beloved mentor, friend, and former employer, Mr. Wilmer Cromwell. Ah, that’s rich. I can’t help but chuckle.

  The same goes for Todd Storton. He’d have even less motive to kill Cromwell than me. Though, neither of them is free of my treachery just yet. They’ll s
till play a vital role in this deed. Every mastermind needs a few henchmen to do his bidding. It’s in the rulebook.

  23

  I made sure to scan a few extra case files, for extra wiggle room, before leaving the office last night. I stashed the papers at home to be read over again. I’m hopeful that by the end of today I will not only have a fall-guy selected, but also the means by which I wish to eliminate Wilmer with. He’s a lowdown, rotten, supercilious, presumptuous bag of slime. I’d like to toss him from the top floor of this building and watch him fall, feet kicking and arms whirling – right up until his body splatted against the pavement below.

  “How’s it going today, Jaleel?” Seriously? Jaleel?

  Mr. Cromwell is obviously attempting to show concern about my health. But it’s an empty question without any sincerity. The kind of perfunctory remark one makes while exiting the room, which is precisely what Wilmer does.

  “Much better, thank you,” I say to the empty space.

  Mr. Cromwell has already seated himself in his office. The door is slightly ajar; I can hear the sound of tapping coming from his keyboard. How I detest that man. Je le déteste. That’s French. Insults rarely sound as good in the French language. Everything seems sweeter, not that I care one way or the other. This is America and I’ll speak American.

  A message pops up on my computer screen. It’s Sexkitten69 challenging me to a riveting game of Go Fish! I probably shouldn’t play, but knowing Wilmer’s demise is only days away imbues me with the happiness to accept. Though in truth I don’t care whether I win or lose. This game is a mere mockery when compared to my most important task -- the killing of Wilmer Cromwell. Murder. Murder. Murder.