There I go again. The words are said without any dark connotation. They are what they are. Years ago I once described my outlook on life to a psychiatrist. He told me my philosophy was akin to that of a moral nihilist; which is basically someone who holds the belief that no choice or act is inherently better than any other. They are merely different; any further meaning is manmade, societal, or cultural. All of them equally unimportant and pointless. Murder is no worse or better than retrieving your morning paper. Quaint, isn’t it? I agree with the sentiment. Everything in life is subjective, I say. There are no objective morals. Just as I’ve mentioned before, there are but two things in life: perspective and power. Whoever holds the power creates the perspective.
Oh good, it’s my turn for a go. Woop-dee-doo. I ask for sevens. It turns out Sexkitten69 was hoarding several in her stash. She grudgingly hands over three. That puts me in the lead, setting up for a quick win. A little tidbit here… We stopped using the new fish cards because the names were too hard to pronounce, but more importantly, too tedious to spell out. Nobody wants to be typing out broadband dogfight every time they need a card. Two. King. Ace. Much better. We’re back to the good old fashion deck. And I feel a bit at ease as a result.
There’s a blur of motion from outside. Ahh… Beautiful Natasha walking down the hall. I distinctly see her look up from the floor. Our eyes lock on one another. An attempt to be sneaky. She’s not smiling, yet not frowning. It’s an indifferent face as if she were looking at a blank wall. What splendid glasses she has. Red-rimmed spectacles. Very stylish in a devilish sort of way – far removed from the bubbly, ditzy cute sense. Her hair is a bit wavier than usual today. It looks nice. Natasha averts her gaze before quickly moving out of sight, although her image remains in my mind for hours after – yet I feel nothing. There is too much at stake to appreciate the woman and all her glory. What a shame, but…
Yes… maybe… Is it possible for this vixen to lure Mr. Cromwell to an out of the way, rundown hotel? A hotel in which I would be hidden, waiting in the closet. The two would enter in a burst of movement through the door. She would cast a furtive glance in my direction. I’d smile watching them through the door slats. No, not in a deviant sexual manner… She tosses Wilmer on the bed with a flick of her hair. He lies down, legs spread. At the exact moment Natasha unbuttons her blouse I eject from the closet, wielding a silenced pistol. Wilmer jolts upright. I press the pistol against his forehead and pull the trigger. THUMP! The dull shot rings out as he falls over, quite lifelessly, to the floor. My hand grabs Natasha by the back of her head, a firm grasp on the hair, as I pull that little wench in close. I plant a kiss on her full lips as she finishes unbuttoning that annoyingly spectacular blouse.
Ahh, but alas, mere fantasy. My life is filled with these reveries, these daydreams, these phantasms. They’ll never come to fruition. Natasha will never be mine. I probably wouldn’t even like her. She’s a gossip-monger. A real prude. The grapes are sour anyway. Yet, her alluring and tantalizing presence captivates my thoughts. That fleeting, spectral woman. At times I wonder if I’ve only imagined her… Is she real? Can she walk through walls? Can she float? Does she breathe? Then I realize it is my lack of courage, my lack of conviction, my lack of confidence which prevents me from approaching the damsel. Now, not for a single moment do I think I’d have a shot. But it would be nice to experience the actual rejection for once. Instead of being content with these dull fantasies.
Drat! Sexkitten69 sneaks in a dastardly good move. I never saw it coming. She steals all of my eights, threes, and sixes to win the game. Though I can’t say I’m disappointed.
Wait until you hear the lovely news… The answer is revealed at last!
Lionel Ducard. My fall-guy. A smalltime thug, a bumbling twit Wilmer helped put away back when he was serving as the district attorney. Lionel had been found guilty of assault, vandalizing property, AND attempted murder. He’s the perfect candidate. The timing couldn’t be more fortuitous. This week, five days ago in fact, ol’ Lionel was released from the state penitentiary. You know what this means? I sure do… It means he is left free to commit a murder. I must love the thought, for here I can feel my lips spreading outward into a smile.
But let’s not get too excited yet! I’ve only just come up with the fool. Naturally, none of the details have been worked out… yet. But I can take some joy, allowing myself to appreciate the small victory. Good work, today! as Cromwell would say… Ok, that’s over with… G-D-it! I still don’t know how I’m going to kill the simp -- but I do know who will take the rap for it. Or at the very least, take the heat for it. Lionel Ducard, a petty criminal trying to make it as a big shot.
“So, Storton, tell me the truth here…” I lean in close to the gelatinous, girthy waterboy. “Have you ever done anything to Mr. Fairfield’s water?”
“Huh?” he says, looking at me with an overly perplexed look. “You mean the black guy over there across the hall?”
“That’d be the one.”
Storton mimics me by leaning in close. We’re nearly eye to eye now.
“Actually, yeah, I did. I have. Things you wouldn’t believe.”
“Oh?” I ask inquisitively.
Storton shakes his head yes. “Well for one, what would you think if I told you Mr. Fairfield as you call him, drinks my urine on a routine basis?”
“You’re not serious,” I say, despite knowing he is all too genuine. Todd Storton is a vile human being. As he speaks the words I can’t help but wonder what he’s done to my water. A bit of throw-up rising in my throat.
“I totally am,” he says indignantly.
“You haven’t done anything to my water, have you fatty?”
“What? No, of course not, pipsqueak. You’re one of my kind.”
“Your kind?”
“Yeah, you know, our kind.” Ah, so it is true. Todd Storton is a racist -- probably the only one in the building too. Ellington had right to fear, although he suspected the wrong person. Hah! What does it matter.
“Oh right…” My voice trails off as I think of something else to fill the airwaves with. Racism is awkward to me. Especially discussing it with this slack-jawed nimrod.
“So have you had any luck with the ladies in here?” I know he hasn’t. In all the time I’ve been here, Storton has never received one positive response from a single woman. And there are a lot working in this building. Strangely they all seem to be of the same variety. All are exceptionally good looking in an executive sort of way. It’s as if all the bosses were fulfilling some porno fantasy of theirs by hiring a young, voluptuous girl. But, I’m sure each gal is highly qualified; typing five words per hour and has memorized all the law statutes.
“Jake it’s funny that you’d ask me that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, because just today I came this close to getting Stacy’s number.”
I don’t know who Stacy is. I don’t know any woman’s name in this building aside from Natasha’s. And I’m not even certain that is her name.
“Georgia? Really? Wow, you’re moving up in the world.” I’m hoping I don’t sound too phony, although it’s unlikely Storton could tell. Like making faces at a fat slug.
“Yep,” he says smugly. “Right there on the stairs. I was carrying my four jugs—“
“Wow, all four?!”
“Yeah, my four jugs. And she says I ‘look like an overgrown ox.’ I know she meant I was strong as an ox. These girls ain’t the brightest, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh, of course.”
“Anyway she had an excited appoint to go to, so she runs off in a hurry. I know we’ll talk again soon and I’ll nab her number for sure. If not… then she’ll be getting an unpleasant surprise in her water jug.” He laughs out loud, nudging me with an elbow.
I fake a chortle to go along with the somewhat amusing, mostly sickening joke – when suddenly a daunting thought strikes me. How long can I go on socializing with Todd Storton? The man is a worthless weed. A plague on s
ociety. He’s repulsive, repugnant, repellent, revolting, and rebarbative. If this Wilmer killing goes well I might just off Storton afterwards. Who knows? Maybe I get addicted to the sick rush murder gives me and find myself forced to do it again, and again, and again. How funny. Now I am chuckling sincerely, observing his overgrown jaw, jutting out from the caveman-ish skull.
Our laughter goes on for awhile before dying down into a dead silence. We both stare at random spots on the floor.
“Well, I best be going Jordan,” he says to me, rising to his feet.
“Yep, see you later…pal.” The word pal comes out of my mouth like poison. I feel disgusted for having said it. Ashamed and belittled.
Storton lumbers to the doorway and leaves. He waves at me through the glass window. That dorky face of his grinning broadly. Hideous. I’m able to force one more smile before falling face first onto the desk. My head slides across the keyboard. Minutes later, upon looking up at the screen I notice the portending sign… A mix of letters having been written on the open spread sheet: MGUSDRODKJEBR. Yes, I notice it too. The word murder is spelled out amid the jumble of characters. It’s all around me. Everywhere I look the word is sure to appear. I cannot escape this. It is destiny. Wilmer Cromwell must die so that I may live. It is survival.
And then, speak of the devil… I hear the sound of Wilmer’s desk drawer. It can’t be! Not now! Have I been so careless?! My eyes dart to the clock. 12:43! Oh my God, Jesus Christ! No! Without explanation I hop from my chair, bolting from the room. Wilmer calls after me but I neither slow down nor answer back. Eat your G-D lunch, you bastard! Clank away you scumbag! Enjoy your final days on earth!
It is a bittersweet feeling in my heart. One side fears the clanking so much that I’m forced to tear away in defeat. While the other side revels in the fact that Wilmer will be lying dead in a matter of days.
After quickly descending the steps, I exit the front of our building. There is a payphone out on the street. An old woman wearing overly high-waisted pants is yakking away on the device. I rush over to her and rip the phone from her unsuspecting hands. The old bag shields her face with one hand as she takes sight of me. A disturbingly loud scream comes from her agape mouth.
“Shut up! Shut up!” I shout. Her cries are attracting some attention. But you know the city, nobody gives a damn. Some one screams? Oh well. The crowd walks on by without bothering to look at us for even a second.
“This is important, lady! Stand back and let me make this call!”
“But my granddaughter! She needs directions to the airport.”
“If she can’t find her way there then she shouldn’t be traveling!” I scream.
“Well! I never!” the woman says shaking her head. I don’t care what she thinks at the moment. I’ve got business to attend to. Old biddy wants to palaver on the phone for hours… get a private line, you old hag! No one cares to hear about your shoddily done perms or what you ate for breakfast!
Seconds later my fingers are dialing Wilmer’s office number. He picks up after the third ring.
“Mmm yes, hello?”
“Mr. Cromwell, it’s—“ And then I hear it… CLANK! CLINK! The strident noise traveling out through the phone, piercing my ears with its sinister malevolence. The receiver drops from my hand as I fall to the ground.
“Hello? Hello?” Wilmer is saying. “Who is this?”
“Wilmer!” I yell, hoping he can hear me.
“Yes? Who is this?”
I’m lying on the ground, doing my best to recover from the ongoing clank attack. The phone is dangling down on its cord about a foot above my head. There isn’t the strength left in my body to upright myself.
“Wilmer!” I shout, “I won’t be returning to work today. I’m sick again!”
“Jollister, is that you? *CLINK*”
Ahh! Like a gunshot to the chest.
“Yes, it’s me! I won’t be coming back today!”
“Okay, feel *CLANK* better soon.”
My body crumples even lower into the dirt… I can just imagine him flashing one of those pretentious smiles as he says the words. *CLANK*
24
With night, comes inspiration… I’ve drawn numerous sketches depicting Wilmer’s death in a diverse assortment of execution methods. Truly horrific stuff. Even I am shocked by some of the graphic portrayals. My stack has grown quite large in recent days. However, to me, this is the storyboard. I’m mapping out the execution like scenes from my favorite film. A pulchritudinous sight, indeed, magnificent! I’ve stashed the papers in a little drawer beneath my bed. As of now, I’m not sure whether I’ll destroy the memorabilia or not. One part of me thinks that I should do so; removing all traces of the deed, leaving even less evidence against me should things go south. The other part – the arrogant side -- says I should keep these sketches for nostalgic reasons. So that years from now I’ll have a reminder of this ingenious plot. An amateur’s mistake. And yet the allure is dreadfully strong. It tugs at me, my little demon on the shoulder. Finally, I understand the desire for keepsakes. A memento to mark the deed. Some vestige of your victim. Like a lover’s shirt tucked away in your drawer. The special item which connected you…
My favorite piece shows Wilmer gagging, grasping at his throat before falling to the floor. There’s a close-up on his whiskey glass which shows the slightest remnant of poison on the rim. It’s not necessarily the technique I’ll be using to dispatch of Wilmer with. However, from an artistic standpoint, it is flawless, mesmerizing. The facial expressions are priceless, as are the body part positions. Each panel has a feel of impending doom about it. A dismal vibe remaining prevalent throughout the entire comic. You can actually sense the anger dripping from the pages. It’s that intense… What a masterpiece!
Another excellent image, one I’m quite fond of, illustrates me tossing Mr. Cromwell out his office window. I’ve got him by the shirt collar, and then I twirl him around as his head smashes through the window. The fool’s body descends toward earth, his legs kicking rapidly in futile panic. However, despite the mental satisfaction I garner from the cartoon, this scene is entirely unrealistic, because as I’ve said, physical confrontation is not my cup of tea.
In Ambrose Bierce’s The Devil’s Dictionary he said, “There are 4 kinds of Homicide: felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy.” I believe Wilmer’s murder would most definitely fall under three of these categories: Excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy. Felonious it is not. Although, ‘tis quite unfortunate that I will never be able to claim responsibility for the act. Doing so might be frowned upon by the local law officials and could very well result in a prolonged stay at one of the cramped penitentiary apartments. And so I must take my bows under the stage as it were.
Percy Sullivan is out for a week on some lavish business trip. In actuality, a dimwitted woman in her dotage took him on an all expenses paid trip to the Bahamas. I don’t give a damn either way. Who cares if this pudgy dullard can inveigle elderly woman and rob them blind. What that fat slob, that edacious gourmand does on his own time, however iniquitous and flagitious it may be is of no concern to me! To think! He makes a living swindling, bamboozling, and hoodwinking senile dowagers! What an arrant blockhead! Percy Sullivan! You can keep your miserable, degenerate, and deplorable means of operations and go straight to hell! I’m done with you! And if you EVER, if you EVER get on my bad side I’ll off you just like I’m going to off Wilmer Cromwell! You worthless, groveling, depraved imbecilic scoundrel!
Hoo… I feel a bit better now. Venting. It is a great hobby of mine.
My mind is always freshly cleared after a good rant and rave. The spirit freed. Imagine a blocked drain being unclogged and watching the discolored water whirl pooling down into the pipe. What’s left is the immaculate tub, free of squalor. Exactly how my brain feels at the moment -- rid it of whatever waste had been collected.
All possibilities considered, Percy being out of town is actually a benefit to me. Yet another stroke of luck! (I
told you not to be jealous.) His absence means one less person to interfere with my scheme. For that I thank you, Percy Sullivan. And, I suppose, also the old bag who you tricked into dragging the both of you off to whatever pretty resort your crusted, corpulent butt is planted on. So thank you old clueless biddy!
Why must the good days pass like swift gusts of wind in their evanescent state? And yet bad days linger like never-ending nightmares?
I thought of that little poem one night before retiring to bed. It is a keen observation of my life. My existence up until this point in time had essentially been a lingering nightmare. Some little fly sputtering about at the bottom of the world’s sink… Now that I have a sound purpose in life, the days zoom by faster than I can even blink. But, sadly, I wish they’d linger just a bit longer. I need the time to plot and plan! To enjoy these heavenly transitory moments of my being. Steadily but slowly, the execution continues taking shape bit by bit.
Earlier, after informing Wilmer I wouldn’t be returning today, I went home and thought of a canny idea, a new development in my master plan regarding Lionel Ducard, the fall-guy. It occurred to me that if Lionel is to be my stooge, then I must ensure he’ll be without alibi. Otherwise what good is there in framing him? Quite unexpectedly, this fact does not trouble me in the least. The mind has been brewing a machination of pure genius. I cannot disclose my ruse at this particular juncture. Just know that I have one… and it is stupendous!
The means of extirpation. The method of execution. The mode of elimination. The expunging device. At first I thought implementing the bowl somehow seemed like a quality idea, to incorporate the buffoon’s own torture object in his own killing. But soon, complications arose in the thought process – such as, what if a savvy investigator came sniffing around and somehow connected me back to the bowl. Yet, almost as quickly as this thought had entered my mind, another more cogent consideration came about. The sheer absurdity of it all. How ridiculous is it to suspect a man killed another over the clanking of a glass bowl? The idea is silly. Comical. Laughable. Droll. And yet it is my reason! What logical thinking, reasoning detective would ever suspect this grievance as a motive for murder? It seems my reason for killing is also, in a sense, my strongest defense.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 12
