Authors: Draven Madpen
35
There I am falling through
darkness, tumbling through eternity, resigned to meet my end until – quite
unexpectedly –
WAM!
-- my head makes a forceful contact with the
countertop.
This startling collision is enough to snap me back to my
senses. Aside from the stinging pain at the back of my skull, I have come out
unscathed. But the distant clanking still plagues me. Remove the treachery from
sight! Now! Throw those bowls back into the foul depths from which they came!
I am forced to slam the
cabinet doors shut with a horrendously clamorous bang; a final effort to save
myself from utter annihilation. The bitter hatred rages on inside. I have the
distinct urge to smash every single one of these items lurking behind the
woodwork to bits. Break his will, break his spirit. But as much as I would love
vandalizing his prized possessions, I know I can’t. Too much racket. Too much
agony. Not enough time. And in this very instant I register something of grave
importance. The shower noise from the back room has a new, freer sound. As if
the person inside the stream has stepped out. Then I think back, remembering
how hard I closed the doors. Too hard! Too loud! Fool!
Plap. Slap.
Jesus Christ! He’s coming back
to investigate! Here I am, once again, hurling myself to the floor at the base
of Wilmer’s kitchen island. Such a needless interruption caused by my own
stupidity (really caused by Wilmer and his bowls, if anyone is to be blamed).
Plap.
The footsteps come to a halt. The Asian goof is scanning the room with his
eyes, I know it. He’s peering through the dimly lit kitchen for any sign of
danger. Maybe he thinks it came from another area? I’m sure his heart is
pumping with fright. Home invasions are rather scary, aren’t they? Even if it
is only a little weasel cowering on the floor… Look on, boy, look on. You won’t
find any, surely not. What is there to spot? I’ve done nothing. The
interminable seconds tick by. Suddenly --
Plap. Slap.
He agrees, and off
he goes. The shower once again taking on the familiar full body tone. For the
love of god, please leave me alone or I’ll have you deported!
Now…What did Mr. Cromwell say
that one day? Under the what? Ah yes, that’s right! I open the cupboard above
the microwave. Jackpot! My eyes are greeted by the sight of at least ten
different smiling tins and containers of muscle powders. The stuff
bodybuilders, strongmen, and athletes like to drink. What is Wilmer always
saying about these products? Ah yes, he says
you’ll also find many out of
shape, fat, slovenly slobs chugging this stuff down like it’s a milkshake. Cup
after cup. These people aren’t fit. Look at them. They’ve got sorry physiques.
Half of them are skinny twigs and the other half are chubby bozos. Neither of
them needs this powder. What they need is a healthy diet and sound workout
routine. But no, to them this muscle powder is a miracle drug. One which hasn’t
yielded favorable results for them in over five years. But they don’t care.
They are delusional consumers looking for an easy way out. Oh well, it keeps
the companies in busines
s. Oh well, indeed.
There are three times as many
supplement pill bottles – each of these immaculately organized. That is one
thing I will have to say, Wilmer certainly keeps a tight house. It’s as if a
well paid foreign cleaning lady lives here. Everything is
just so.
Arranged and organized like he’s going to be interviewed on TV. I hear the
sound of a sliding glass door coming from the bathroom. Pause, listen for a
second. A moment later there is a rummaging noise in the same room, followed by
the sliding of the glass door again. Back to scrubbing I suppose. Back to
poisoning I go! The only concern on my mind is which of these delicately
organized powders will I taint? Ockham’s Razor. A theory which states the
simplest answer is usually the right one. And so I choose the one nearest me,
sticking right out there in front like a beacon in the night with its bright
yellow label and black lid. It’s almost magical. That queasy, uneasy feeling
has returned. Butterflies. The culmination of all my hard work and diligent
planning is finally within my grasp!
A part of me wants to take my
time in unscrewing the top. Let me savor the moment. Relish in the excitement,
thoroughly implanting the memory in my brain. Observe as I tip the poison
bottle over, watching the contents pour out like fine grains of sand shifting
inside an hourglass. Seeing the colors blend together so perfectly, so
innocuously. The other part of me hears the shower running in the background
and fears it will soon come to an end -- resulting in an altogether unpleasant
scenario. Taking all this into account, I quickly extend a gloved hand,
grabbing hold of the muscle shake, rapidly unscrewing the lid and next reaching
into my pocket for the poison bottle, where immediately afterward I begin
tipping – goddamnit! My hands must have become quite sweaty in all the
excitement, slipping even through the gloves. God forbid it was caused by
nervous jitters. I should be steady as a surgeon! Yet I look down to see
trembling fingers… The muscle shake container slips from my hand, falling over
sideways on the counter. A good portion of its contents spread out over the
surface. Confound it! Why me! Stay calm… Quickly, I set the poison down before
holding the shake container against the edge of the counter and scrape the
powder back inside. Good thing Wilmer’s house is so spotless. There wasn’t any
dirt to be mixed back in. What I need is a few deep breaths. Calm the mind.
Prepare myself for this next ordeal.
With those out of the way I
find myself free to continue on. The muscle shake is in my hand, the poison
container held fast in my fingers (using what mental powers I still retain in
these circumstances to steady the digits). The toxic sand begins pouring out in
all its beautiful glory. And then I notice another stroke of luck. The poison
powder is nearly identical in color to the muscle powder! As I stare so
excitedly on at my own righteous bidding, I sense a strange feeling within me.
A bizarre, yet undeniable notion. I can withhold the urge no longer – a
maniacal, never before heard laughter bursts out of me. I feel like a madman as
I stand there watching the powder slide out, cackling uncontrollably. Perhaps
the Asian man will hear my obscene sounds. Maybe even a few of the neighbors. I
don’t care. Let them listen to my cackles! Join in!
With nearly half of the
dangerous substance emptied into the shake, I pause for a moment, deciding to
allow myself a small instant of joy to remember this occasion. But just as I do
this, my heart stops. My eyes widen at the very thought. A noise catches my
attention. Why would such a thing have me so alarmed? Well… I’ll tell you, this
noise was not coming from the bathroom. This one came from the front door. The
jingling of keys followed by an inserting of one into the lock!
36
There’s no time to stop now! I
haven’t any recourse to take! I dump the remaining powder in as fast as I can.
My fingers are moving like lightning, screwing on the lid, jamming the muscle
shake back into the cupboard and sliding the poison container safely into my
pocket. We can’t forget that now, can we? I’m amazed how well I function under
the pressure. Only sheer fate is preventing me from being caught. They’ve got
me surrounded on all sides. The back bathroom and the front door. Yet I remain
collected, ready to perform like a seasoned master. Just to be sure I’ve left
no trace of the mess, I blow hurriedly across the counter, hoping to disperse
any remnants of the deed. And after executing a quick eye scan to spot any
other important missed objects -- the last thing I want is the police finding
my driver’s license setting on Wilmer’s countertop! -- I turn to flee --
glancing at the front door right as the knob begins to spin. Judging by the
black outline of the person I can see through the door’s frosted glass
windowpane, it is without a doubt my employer, Wilmer Cromwell. Returning home
after a nice workout at the gym, most assuredly. Stay healthy ol’ boy! Just as
Fairfield had informed me. Too bad the dimwit didn’t bother to tell me about
the Asian man! There’s only one spot for me to go. There’s no other choice…
I take off scrambling toward
the darkened room across the hall, the spare bedroom, not caring if I should be
seen or not. My footsteps fall heavy on the floor, although slightly muffled by
the ambient shower noise. A beam of light shoots over the floor in an angular
slit as the front door opens – the ray catching the lower part of my leg just
as Wilmer enters. I round the final framework praying I’ve gone unnoticed,
ducking into the shadows. His slow footsteps begin the dramatic walk as he
moves inside. I fear Cromwell already suspects me of the sinister act. He knows
I’m here… I can sense it!
He reaches the kitchen area,
tossing a bag of some kind on the counter. I’m trying desperately to hold my
breath – all the while wishing to suck in every ounce of air possible, the
stress and exertion from the last sprint having sapped every bit of my
strength. Has he spotted me? He must have!
That’s when I hear him say,
“Well, well, what do we have here?”
What the?! Have I forgotten
something? Did I leave the poison behind! A quick patting on my pocket reveals
this thought to be false. Then what?! Here I notice the shower has stopped. For
how long, who knows. There’s no point in me sticking around this place now.
What is the old phrase?
“Get out while the gettin’s good.”
The dirty
deed has been done. Time to skedaddle, I say. And with this reassuring thought
I begin the arduous, risky process of lowering myself out the very same window
through which I climbed in earlier. Well, climbed probably isn’t the most
accurate of terms. I just hope this time around I can go about the task a
little more quietly.
The room is dark. Shards of
broken glass scrape and shift beneath my shoes. A dull crunching or cracking as
I land on the odd piece or two. Every tiny sound sending shockwaves through my
body.
Please don’t hear this Wilmer! Or you Asian fellow!
I’m not sure
how good their hearing is either. Superhuman level? Maybe he’s like a dog and
his ears have already perked up. He’s sniffing his way into the room, hot on my
scent trail. Wilmer’s right behind him with a frying pan or some other equally
humiliatingly feminine object… waiting to bludgeon me to a bloody mess. I can’t
even bring myself to look back now. Let me be caught and killed already! I knew
I wasn’t cut out for this kind of nonsense! Murder!? What was I thinking! Who
the hell goes around murdering people without getting caught? Only on TV… I was
a duncepot to attempt this. Just please Asian man, make it quick. Snap my neck
like a true kung fu master in one of those foreign action films. Don’t, no
please don’t, please refrain pummel me with a few dozen kicks and punches to
every inch of my soft body. Make it one swift ending motion. Rid me of all this
stress and trauma. I don’t care anymore!
And then I hear it. Muffled
voices coming from the kitchen. Wilmer and this other oriental fellow
conversing. A kind of greeting from the general tone I assume
You fool! Snap
out of it! Seize the moment!
Here I take my chance, darting for the window,
spinning myself around and shooting my body through the opening feet first.
Somehow (miraculously, really) I manage to do this without any sort of trouble.
It’s one in a million, but thank heavens! It is my lucky night, after all. As
my legs take hold of the outer wall, I grip the inside of the window sill with
both hands but – just before lowering down I catch a glimpse of Wilmer and the
Asian miscreant standing there in the kitchen. All I can see are their obscured
silhouettes. Nothing but dark, shadowy spaces aside from the kitchen area
behind them. I see them lean in close toward one another. And I don’t care to
see any more. My fingers break free of the woodwork as I land softly on the
ground (fell on my butt and rolled over backwards a few times, narrowly missing
a run in with the gnome’s pointed hat…). But I’ve done it! I have done it!
Wilmer is a dead man!
Sadly, the joy is short-lived…
For then it hits me… Lionel Ducard. A critical component, if I do say so
myself. What a lamebrain I was to forget this portion. An absolute rank
amateur, a true abecedarian, a neophyte of the first degree! He must be framed
for
my
actions. How again? The watch, of course. It’s tucked snuggly
away in my pocket, still secured in the plastic bag. I’m not sure how I’ll make
this work now, but the uncertainty does not stop me from savoring the moment as
I pull it out, remove the device from the bag, and hold it triumphantly in my
hand. More hushed laughter ensues. I find myself in a fit of mania; one I am
unable to rid myself of. I imagine the scene, fantasizing wildly, it feels like
I’m watching a movie or reading a crime novel about some lowly criminal. This
isn’t me here at all at Wilmer Cromwell’s home. It’s someone else entirely. A
run of the mill con out for a night of revenge.
But…Where shall I place the
watch? I can’t very well mosey back inside, tap Wilmer on the shoulder and ask him
if I can take a tour of the house real fast, allowing me to toss it down
somewhere! Think, man, think! And I do. Ah-hah! I see it, of course… the
window! It’s the most logical location. The upstanding Mr. Ducard simply
snagged his watch on the broken window or caught it on a shard of glass as he
escaped, whereupon it slipped off his wrist without him knowing. Exactly. How
ingenious. You see, I’m able to think on my feet -- slightly. All these years
of reading crime novels and watching scary night time detective tales has its
perks; such as these devious impromptu murder scene alterations. Once again I
envision the lowly criminal in my mind. He’s crouching on the inside of the
window, preparing to make his get away. I’ve got the watch in hand. Lionel is lowering
himself down when his left grip weakens, resulting in a rapid fall where the
watch is ripped from his wrist and falls onto the carpet of the darkened
bedroom. Where to drop it…
The best spot is probably
directly at the base of the window. Yeah, that’s good. Now how to get up there…
Hassles! Hassles! Hassles!
I do my best to jump ever so
quietly up to the aperture. Hopping about like an uncouth child… How
embarrassing! After the third try or so I manage to bound just high enough,
allowing me to toss the watch in (although the metal did graze along the
woodwork, narrowly falling back to the ground). It lands softly on the carpet
with a clunk. Thank god! Easy peasy! Too easy!
Now
all is taken care of. Excellent. Job well done, ol’ boy.
Knock. Knock. Knock. BANG!
The noise comes from the front
of Cromwell’s home. Some one at the door? I suppose so. No need to stick around
and find out. Wilmer’s, or the Asian man’s footsteps, move in the direction of
the front door. Time for me to get lost! I take one final look back at the
house as another round of uncontainable cackling bubbles up from my gut and
bursts forth from my mouth. On the way back to my abode, I pause in front of
the undressing woman’s window to peer inside for a second.
Nothing. Drat!
I guess you can’t win them
all.