The New Year Killer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A business model for insanity.

Submitted: February 11, 2008

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Submitted: February 11, 2008

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Am I crazy? I ask myself this while staring out the window of my office on the forty second floor of the Mendelson building on 6th and Severson. Across the street is the Sterling Center building, home to GMAC, Golden West Financial, Qualcomm, FedEx, and a portion of Channel 3 News. In the room directly across from me a twenty something, black haired boy, possibly making copies or possibly avoiding any kind of real work. I am suddenly reminded of the Monty Python sketch about corporate takeovers where the skyscraper sails through the city and the employees crash through into the other skyscraper murdering, pillaging, leaving blood and paperwork scattered on the floor, tables and chairs. Am I crazy? I ask myself this and imagine my secretary, Carol, buzzing in and replying: but is anyone really sane? I let out a brief chuckle and then cough and then become paranoid that Carol might be listening and quickly hide under my desk. I wait patiently for one minute, hardly breathing, and where I hear nothing I reemerge, nervously peeking over the desk to see if anyone else is in the room. On my desk are stacks of paperwork, important files that should have been closed and completed months ago but have sat on my desk for a good part of the year. 96 will be better, I tell myself, much better than 95. I’m not so certain about this but I do not admit this to myself as I like to stay positive most of the time.
“Carol, can you bring me the Rohnert file please?”
“Sir? That file is already on your desk.” Carol answers back.
“And the Jenkins file?”
“That is also on your desk as well sir.”
“Good, just checking.” I disconnect quickly and swallow back vomit and reach into the second drawer for a bottle of 12 year aged Glenlivet scotch about one third full. The glass on my desk is already half full but I fill it to the top and take a quick sip and then a longer steady drink. Easing back into my chair I start spinning giving myself ample room from the desk as not to bump my knees. If I spend half my life drunk, I will undoubtedly spend the other half hung overI am fucking deep. I pick up a pen lying motionless on my desk and try to balance it on the head of its cap, but after two minutes of being unsuccessful I throw it across the room and smile smugly and decide it might be fun to make paper airplanes. There are 4 planes lying on various parts of the floor and as I make a fifth one I wonder how many paper airplanes would comprise a fleet. I am overcome with an urge to crumple up the current plane I am working on and put the four scattered on the floor out of commission. The last plane was hiding behind the leather sofa chair in the corner of my office and as punishment I rip it into shreds. I’m starting to feel a bit flush and head back to my desk, somersaulting a part of the way, and reach into the first drawer where in the back hides a pill box marked with letters signifying each day of the week. I flip open “Fri” and take out the four pills, two white, one orange, and one big and blue. I make it a point to throw the big blue one across the room and the other three I take in one gulp using the scotch as a chaser. Against the south wall of my office are two large Ikea bookshelves, metallic grey which I like because it really looks like matte black. On the fourth shelf of the second bookshelf is a so-so Panasonic CD player which I open and pull out The Bends CD to place in it. I wonder if Carol would want to come in and pretend to be dinosaurs, but then realize she would want to be a brontosaurus and would be moving entirely too slow. I feel an urge to punch her in the face because of this, but this quickly subsides due to the insane voices on The Bends  CD. 
It is now almost two and I have yet to open the files lying ominously on my desk. Maybe I should tell Carol I have a dentist appointment. Or maybe she would even believe I had tickets to the circus that’s in town. Regardless, it’s none of her business and she shouldn’t be asking me why I’m leaving work early. That fucking cunt! That fucking whore! That fucking stupid whore! Okay Jack, take it easy. Wait is my name Jack? Couldn’t it be James or John? What about Jimmy? Does it really matter? I’m sure it’s Johnsonville, but I’m not a place. But I am a person and a person is a noun, and a noun is a person, place, or thing. So it is possible I could be a place! Suppose I am a thing, now that would be just silly. Or would it? I needed to check my wallet for cash so I walk over to my desk, this time reaching in the third drawer underneath the pornographic magazines. Sometimes I keep my wallet in the fourth drawer behind my collection of cutlery. I like to switch it up in case Carol starts snooping around. I’m sure either of those drawers would thwart her thievery.  This reminds me that I need to get cameras installed in my office, but first I need to find out if it’s possible I could have a remote station set up in my apartment where I can keep watch at all times. The scotch is starting to kick in after my second glass. I need to use the restroom but I would have to be out of mind to leave my office with Carol still out there. Perhaps I could tell here to get me some coffee or tea but from India or Sri Lanka somewhere far, far away. It would take her weeks, and give me plenty of time to build that bonfire in the conference room. My full bladder is becoming unbearable and I debate finishing what’s left of the scotch so I can use the bottle, but instead I piss behind the leather sofa chair in the corner of my office where the paper plane, piloted by Captain Twelve Fingers, a fucking moron if you ask me, decided to hide. I wonder how the Captain feels about his hideout now. I realize my office is beginning to smell like urine and this problem is far more important than the files on my desk. Normally I keep disinfectant in the bottom cabinet of the first bookshelf but I am fresh out and smash two picture frames on the third shelf of the first bookshelf because of this.
“Is everything alright sir?”
“Sure Carol, why do you ask?”
“I thought I heard something break.”
“No everything is quite alright.”
“Okay sir.”
“Carol? Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Sir?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me for the update?”
“Oh, thank you sir.”
“No sweat kiddo.”
One day you will suffer the wrath of Captain Twelve Fingers Carol, but first I need to build him a new plane. I am sure I see birds flying outside the window of my office, but looking closer I see I am mistaken and they are actually bats. I wonder what bats would be doing in the city, but then realize even bats have to feed. I should train bats to feed on Carol. The smell of urine is becoming unbearable and I debate setting the office on fire while I crouch down in the opposite corner of the office. There are some empty cardboard boxes next to me that I planned on using to file away Carol’s body parts that I know I can get the errand boy, Richard, to take down to wherever it is they keep the files, without asking questions. Instead I cut up the boxes and make a fort with two levels and three windows. I wonder if the union would be capable of penetrating my fort. I laugh at the absurdity of this. I am starting to chew my own fingers off because I know those files will have to be on Thompson’s desk by the end of the day and the man has no compassion even if it’s new years eve. The blood is starting to make the fort messy so I tear it down and wonder if I could convince Carol she ruined my fort. Thompson would definitely give me permission to fire her if that tidbit of information was leaked to the press. I’m starting to get sleepy. I take out some stainless steel scissors located in the tray drawer directly underneath the middle of the desk and begin cutting my ears and nose off. I want to be sure Carol is blamed for this too so I take out some post-it notes and write “Carol was here” and start placing them on my various appendages. I even start tacking a few of the notes onto my chest and arms. Outside it is starting to rain and the bats start catching on fire. 
By the coat rack where I hang my suit jacket is a golf club and a yardstick. I take the yardstick and begin to shave one end with the knife hidden in my shoe fashioning a spear, which I then tape to the end of the golf club. I want to use this on Carol if she asks me one more question, but instead stab myself in the thigh just above the knee of my right leg. I am so impressed with the projection of the blood, that I stab my left arm and the jugular which I believe is in my neck. There is now blood all over the floor and I start laughing because I know that bitch Carol will have to clean all this up before she is escorted to prison where she will surely be raped and beaten by black midget women of the Amazon. After a while I am lying on the floor in the middle of my office minus one arm, two legs, a nose, and two ears, as well as an eyeball I decided to stick with a fork from my cutlery collection and place facing the window so I can always know what is going on outside. The sun begins to set which means it’s almost time to leave work. I wonder how hard it will be to get my suit jacket back on. At five I tidy my desk, walk over to the coat rack and put on my suit jacket. I walk out of the office and say goodnight to Carol and obligatorily say I’ll see her next year. We both laugh and I turn and start moving towards the elevators. Am I crazy?


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