Authors: Draven Madpen
My hope is, hours earlier,
Storton infiltrated the hospital and purloined my poison. That is, if
everything went well. Knowing him he probably stumbled to the wrong hospital,
bumbled into the ER and was thrown out by security while attempting to lock
pick the vending machine. I was a fool to trust him. Now my entire plan is a
wash. A disaster. A no go. He’s ruined it for me. Wilmer’s going to kill me.
That settles it. Clink, clank, I’m a dead man! I might as well go pick out my
plot in the cemetery. Well, on the bright side, if he is caught I can always
claim him to be retarded. In that case nothing he says will be valid.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
What the--! Where is that
coming from. My digital wall clock reads 1:35am.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
There it is again. If I’m not
mistaken the noise is coming from my neighbor’s abode. Party going on or
something? I climb out of bed to have peek through the nearby window slates.
There’s a person standing outside my neighbor’s door. They’re still banging
away, fairly adamantly. It must be something quite important. No answer. Tiny,
muffled sounds become audible to me even through the walls. The person is yelling
something out. I can hear the word, “OPEN!” being said numerous times.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Who the hell is going to be
pounding on doors at this hour? I see my neighbor’s side window open a small
portion. The person leans toward the aperture -- here I assume words are being
exchanged. Suddenly the figure gives a wave of the hand and spins around. Wrong
house, I guess. Well, that settles that. No more noise! Now it’s back to bed
for me.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
That sound again! But this
time I am slightly more alerted… as the sounds are coming from somewhere much,
much closer. Like right at—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
My front door!
Did the junky follow me home?
Or a few of his friends? Jesus Christ… I’m in trouble now. He probably saw my
wad of cash and came to collect the rest.
Free money from that little tyke,
they thought. I knew it was a mistake to show off. It was a wad of ones anyway!
Be reasonable!
The sound of a trashcan lid
falling comes from the back of my house. Agh! Have they surrounded my home,
blocking off all the exits? I’m a dead man. An absolute finished cadaver. My
life is ending just like I thought it would, going out at the hands of some
plebian reprobate! My final moments on earth, lived out as a minor victim in a
crime novel. Someone who can be dispatched of to show how rough and tough the
antagonists are. A throwaway character. That’s all I am, all I’ve ever been.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Alright, I’m coming! My heart
is racing. Finally something to be excited by! I can’t be certain but I think a
line of pee is dripping down my leg. Strangely, a sense of duty grips me. I
feel compelled to approach the door and meet my end with dignity and composure.
Like a stoic.
I creep down the hallway. It’s
pitch black outside. All I can decipher is the silhouette of a large shape on
my doorstep. Well, I’ve had a bad run, why not finish it!
“You won’t take me alive, ya
ruffians!” I shout, suddenly ripping the door open… and fall to the floor,
cowering into a ball.
“What the? Julius? What are
you doing?” The voice has a familiar imbecilic tone to it. I look up to confirm
my suspicion. Todd Storton. He’s still wearing surgeon attire.
“Storton? How did you find my
house? And what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I followed you home one
day.”
I try to remain composed but
I’m certain my expression changed to that of a disgusted countenance. He
followed me home one day? Jesus Christ… How many stalkers work in my building?
“Umm, ok… What are you doing
here?”
“I brought these,” he says,
then holds his hand out. “For your mother, you know. You said they were
important so I ran right over.”
Right over? Hasn’t it been
hours? Oh, who cares!
That beautiful moron! He’s
done it! It’s the poison! I snatch the bottle from his hand, simultaneously
slamming the door in his face. The green frowny face is clearly visible on the
container.
“Don’t forget about Georgia!”
Storton yells from outside.
“Right, right, a deal’s a
deal! Storton!” I scream and wait to hear his footsteps disappear.
So, ol’ Todd Storton came
through for me. Another piece of the puzzle falls into place. God, I just hope
he didn’t bumble about. Let’s pray fatgut only alerted half the hospital staff
of his actions.
That leaves just one more
lackey to complete his task before all systems are a go. How lovely when a plan
comes together… Wilmer Cromwell your demise is near! Muhuhaha! Maniacal
cackling bursts from every pore of my body. The laughter is effusive, endless.
What a grand adventure this
is. I’m sad to see it coming to a close. For now, I’ll finish out the night by
drawing several cartoons of Wilmer dying a horrible, miserable death.
30
Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “I
say a murder is abstract. You pull the trigger and after that you do not
understand anything that happens.” Do I believe his sentiment? Is it true? The
hour of reckoning is nearing and I will soon test Mr. Sartre’s assertion.
The infernal sound of clanking
has not entered my ears for a lengthy period of time. Or so it feels. Though
I’ve not forgotten for one second the iniquitous man and his complete disregard
for my safety. He’s forced me to dine out for lunch, reschedule my life around
his eating routine, and seriously damaged my mental stability. Wilmer will pay
for his sins. I will have my retribution… and soon. At times, specifically
during the night, I will awake in a cold sweat – the clanking ringing in my
ears.
CLANK! CLINK! CLANK!
Over and over! Even when I sit up, clutching
the blankets, the noises do not stop. I hear the debilitating sounds growing
loud and louder. A never ending nightmare brought on by the evil Cromwell…
Wilmer Cromwell moseys into
the office with a pretentious smile on his face. He’s holding a muscle shake
mug as he walks by and pats me on the shoulder with a “Good morning and keep up
the good work, Jolsen.”
“Thanks, Mr. C,” is all I can
manage, but I say it in such a friendly tone that I’m ashamed of myself. Wilmer
enters his office; the door shuts slightly. I hear him rearranging a few items,
then almost immediately the quiet tapping of keyboard keys becomes audible.
What a fool! Always pecking away… Just what is he up to? After I dispatch of
the rogue, that is the first order of business. Find out what he’s been up to
on that computer.
For now I’ve got some time to
kill. Tick tock, Crommy. Time is almost up! I message Sexkitten69 for a game.
She accepts almost immediately. C’mon, girl! Can’t you act a little less
desperate. I, myself, couldn’t care one way or the other. It doesn’t matter who
wins or loses. I’m just waiting for Ellington Fairfield to show up so I can
beguile the delusional nut more thoroughly. The man has one very important
objective to complete in order for my plot to proceed.
My indifference seems to be
paying dividends. I’ve already stolen several cards from Sexkitten69, still
able to keep her from stealing a single one of mine. Acquiring, I mean. Just as
I make a move to retrieve the winning cards, Ellington Fairfield comes into
view. He rushes into his office and closes the door in a hurry. I look over my
shoulder; listen for the tapping of keys coming from Wilmer’s room, then sneak out
the door and over to Ellington’s office. But oh boy, what should happen on this
journey?
Natasha crosses my path in the
hallway. We meet face to face for a split second -- she intentionally neglects
to notice me. Her eyes pass over my body without a sign of emotion in them. I’m
starting to think this perfect woman is really quite a cold hag. But then I
catch a glimpse of her butt and legs as she walks past. They’re flawless. Once
more she captures my heart. How can I hate such perfection?
“Ellington,” I shout in a
whisper before opening his door.
By the time I enter he’s
already drenched in a cold sweat. Papers are scattered on the floor. He looks
like hell -- I tell him so. His shirt is half tucked in. That tangled mat of
hair on top of his head sickens me. So dirty looking, so messy. The man is
frazzled.
“Jasper, what is it! Is he
coming for me now?”
“No,” I reply, though
Ellington doesn’t seem comforted.
“They’ve been following me
everywhere I go. I went to the market and they were there. I went to the bank
and they were there. I went to the gas station and they were there. Three of
them! Three different guys following me!”
Only three? I’m surprised Mr.
Fairfield doesn’t think an army of white supremacists is hunting him down.
“That’s not surprising to
hear. I told you, Fairfield, these guys are serious. I’m here because the time
for action is at hand. You must act
tonight
.”
Ellington whimpers. His lower
lip trembles.
“What have I got to do?”
I pull the mickey pills out
from my pocket, holding them high in the air. He stares intently. And just when
I see the fear overtaking his eyes, a quick flick of my wrist sends them flying
in his direction.
“You put these in the man’s
drink and when he gets knocked out, you hide his body in the dumpster out back.”
“Out back where?”
“He’ll be at a bar tonight.
You might have to smash the pills, I’m not sure if they’re dissolvable or not.”
Sheesh, that might be helpful information actually! Although Ducard did suck
down a loogie without pause…
He nods at me, staring at the
pills in his shaking hand.
“The bar is called TJ’s Hearty
Swill and Grill. Be there around 7pm. And you’d probably better double up the
dosage to make sure he stays asleep. Otherwise he’ll inform his partners and…
well, they’ll most likely kill you. Wilmer has ordered them to do so.”
“Jesus Christ!” Ellington
slaps his forehead and leans back in the chair with a groan. “Christ! This is
getting to be some heavy shit. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you
looking out for me, Jerome.”
“Think nothing of it,
Fairfield. The man is about 5’9, bald headed, goatee, looks like a con and acts
like it. He’ll most likely be wearing a janitor’s suit to throw you off. Wait
for him to look away or go to the bathroom, then drop the pills in. When he
falls asleep you wander over to him and tell the bartender your friend must
have had a little too much. Then carry him out back and stash his body in the
dumpster. Be sure to close the lid nice and tight. Got it?”
“TJ’s Hearty Swill and Grill,
7pm, bald head, janitor’s suit, pills in the glass, too much to drink, throw
the body in a dumpster. Yeah, I got it.”
“Yeah, you got it. Be careful
Fairfield, your life depends on it.”
“Jesus Christ…” he says as I
exit the office, feeling like a mob boss. Now let’s hope he doesn’t wonder what
a black man would be doing in a supposedly white supremacist bar, dragging an
unconscious white man out back.
Today… ah yes, today, today I
watch Wilmer Cromwell with sadistic attention, knowing that it is his last here
on earth. He’s wearing a very well tailored suit as always and his hair is
overly refined as usual. I peer through the opening in his doorway. Wilmer is
sitting at his chair with that arrogant smile plastered on the smug face. The
one he has even when no one else is watching. How bizarre. He’s worse than the
man who laughed… For a second I wonder what his ambitions are. What are his
life goals? All will be snuffed out… A moment later I couldn’t care less what
they are or how meaningful they might be. Cromwell is a weed. You don’t
threaten my life and live to tell about it, bub!
The quiet tapping of his
fingers on the keyboard is rather soothing, comforting. I’ve grown used to
hearing that interminable noise each day like the dull ticking of a clock. But
I won’t miss it. I’ll learn to live without it. My greatest strength is
probably adaptability. Stick me into any situation, no matter how foreign, and
I’ll accustom to the scenario in no time flat. True, it may not be a very
agreeable adaptation but it is adaptation nonetheless. For instance, take this
Cromwell ordeal. I adjusted to my position here at Cromwell and Sullivan rather
well. And once the circumstance became unbearable I developed a plan to remedy
the problem. Hence my current plight. Adaptable.
I’ve dawdled away the morning
hours doing nothing of importance. Which happens to be my normal routine it
would seem, but for some reason I’m more cognizant of the fact today. Still,
it’s a paycheck. Somebody has got to do suffer through this.
These past few days have
dragged on and on…. like months, and yet they’ve gone by in an instant. A
strange almost inexplicable feeling I suppose. The infernal clanking has not
left my memory but I’m having trouble consciously recalling the sound. An idea
occurs to me. A devious, deviant, dangerous thought… I feel as if I should stay
in for lunch today and listen to that odious clinking one final time. If not just
for a tad bit more motivation to foment the deep hatred residing in my soul.
Yeah! That’s just what I’ll
do. Lunch will be
dine in
today! I hope Wilmer came prepared, because I
won’t be holding back. Give me your best shot, big man. You worthless overseer,
head honcho, rat faced executive, bumbling boss! Enjoy your last clean meals!
Tomorrow you’ll be gurgling your own vomit moments before falling over dead!
You fiendish fop! You narcissistic fiend! I’ve been subjected to your
oppressive, inhuman, insufferable ways for far too long you indolent moron! Rot
in hell!
“What’s going on, Jessup? Is
everything all right?”
Damnit. I’ve done it again. I
really should monitor my internal thoughts more closely. It dawns on me that
I’ve shouted the phrase, “Rot in hell!” at the top of my lungs while staring
directly at Wilmer’s door. And now the fool wants to question me about the
outburst. So intrusive the duncepot is.
“Sure, Mr. Cromwell.
Everything is fine. I just got upset at the computer… been running slow today.”
“Oh… I know how you feel,
Jorge, but please keep your voice down. I sometimes squeeze this rubber ball
here when the stress level shoots up.”
He called me Jorge? Whore-hay?
At least it starts with a J…
A red rubber ball abruptly
comes shooting out through the opening. It lands about two feet from my desk as
Wilmer says, “Here, take it for awhile.”
I pick up the object and stare
perplexedly at the grime encrusted, slightly moist item. This squishy, magic
red ball is his secret?
“Uhh, thanks Mr. Cromwell,” is
all I can reply.
He expects me to squeeze this
germ infested bouncy ball? What a nutcase. Only psychotics and postal workers
squeeze these little bagatelles. You can rest assured knowing it must have been
a real idiot whoever invented the stress ball. I assume it was either invented
by a stay at home lesbian mother or a fat executive man with thick glasses and
a ludicrously bad mustache. Can’t people control their stress in more civil
ways? Squeezing a ball is so prehistoric. You’d imagine a caveman smashing
rocks against an embankment when he was frustrated. We’re civilized now.
Squeezing this dirty, filthy ball is out of the question. Have some
self-control, man!
I set it on the corner of my
desk. My mind then set about envisioning Wilmer lying on the floor seconds from
death. He’s clutching feebly at his throat, writhing in agony. I walk out from
behind a bookshelf. He can hear my footsteps approaching. Suddenly I am there,
standing over his body. Wilmer’s eyes glance up at me. I see in them, what can
only be described as, the most pathetic presence. A futile life being rubbed
out and the realization that he’d accomplished nothing of a value and never
would. Pitiful. I cackle at him. One of his hands reaches up toward my leg, but
I step back before he can take hold. Ideally I’d have some Saturday morning
cartoon villain speech written up for the moment. Sadly, I’ve never been good
at impromptu wit. That’s why my life is meticulously planned right down to the
minutest detail.
Today is Thursday. Which means
Wilmer will be fitting in an evening workout at the gym on 41
st
and
9
th
street. Obviously that means his house will be empty during this
time. A perfect opportunity for someone, let’s say a con recently released from
prison holding a grudge against the man who put him there, breaking into Mr.
Cromwell’s home and poisoning his food. If only someone had kept tabs on the
hoodlum… Wilmer Cromwell might still be alive come Saturday. But I have a
sneaking suspicion that he’ll expire a bit before the appointed time.
Ellington walks by my office
window again. He appears nervous, although a bit calmer than before. We
exchange conspirational nods to one another, nothing more. Maintain the ruse.
My clock reads 12:40. Only minutes away from showtime. I hear Wilmer’s desk
drawer being pulled open. He’s taking out the overly large glass bowl in
preparation for his salubrious lunch. The thought of his clanking makes me
cringe but I resolve to stay and experience the immobilizing, high-pitched,
strident noise one last time. A final send off, if you will. Wilmer’s death
wail.
The first clank reaches my
ears with an unfathomably forceful, penetrating power. The ringing reverberates
in my skull like a crazed pinball. I’m surprised by its viciousness. I attempt
to stand, making my way to the door. But a second and a third clank follows
suit. My legs turn to jello. I’m buckling, dear god! I’m buckling! More
clinking continues as the room begins to blur. There’s now a constant throbbing
in my head -- like it’s going to explode.
BAM! BAM! CLINK! CLANK!
My
heart is racing; I fear a heart attack is imminent. His spoon continues banging
against the sides of the bowl with increasing rapidity. Every second or two
brings with it another clank or clink. As if Wilmer knows, as if he has planned
this moment. A last ditched effort to off me before I am able to off him.
Crafty son of a -- He clanks away like an obtuse high school marching band.
Beating on the glass-like drum. I can almost sense the bowl cracking each time
the spoon strikes another painful blow. Wilmer laughs… he cackles… he giggles…
Ridiculing me on my death bed, this floor of disgrace… At this point I realize
I’ve made a fatal mistake. There isn’t time to escape the infernal racket.
Blundering blockhead! Overwhelmed by the onslaught of clanks, I wince and
convulse with each new clink. I will meet my demise here and now, never getting
to dispatch of Wilmer Cromwell, never getting to exact my revenge…