A Little Mischief
S8: Short fiction
The photo above is a piece from Robert Longo’s Men In The Cities collection which ran from 1977 to 19821. It’s the same print that’s in Patrick Bateman’s apartment in the movie American Psycho. Patrick is a hollow shell who has invested in a well constructed human mask. He is also more concerned with the appearance of success and the items indicating such, than people. During the mid eighties, this would have been a very sought after art piece and of course, Patrick would have to have it.
It got me thinking: Why save all the guts and gore for October? I love horror movies as much as the next person but let’s spread the depravity through the year, shall we? I wrote a satire piece2 in May 2022 that was a real scream. I’m still very proud of it and the image of a business man mid tumble inspired this Murderous March™ special.
For your consideration, a short fiction piece about a death turned on its head…
Slip and Fall
I was fortunate. The discharged bullet somersaulted in his skull with no exit. He was already slumping forward and out of his chair when his nose poured out hot, maroon blood onto my new carpet. Luckily, the artwork on my walls appeared unscathed. I could peak at them later. Right now I had to muster up a believable mask of shock and… something else. I read it somewhere.
I stumbled into the hallway after splashing my face with water to feign the clammy countenance of trauma.
“He’s… he’s…” I pointed a bloody finger down the hallway to a spreading puddle coming from under my door. In the mad rush, I blocked out everything and commenced my practiced trance. Just on the outskirts of my perception came screeches and gasps. I swayed and let my body relax completely as I tumbled to the floor. I closed my eyes and let unconsciousness take me. Or a short acting sedative. Same thing.
I hadn’t planned this quite right. I’d hoped he would do this in his living room, not my office. Shit. That carpet was at least 10 bucks per square foot and the last in the bolt. Should have gotten the Scotch Brite stain resistant coating. I was upright now, leaning against a beige file cabinet. There were few questions from the detectives. I kept my gaze straight, looking through and beyond them. I kept the tears coming periodically.
Make no mistake: John Sinclair is my enemy. He needed to go. John’s the type to worm his way into your life and gather enough information to use it against you. He is, excuse me, was, a classic career man. Fast-talking with a flash of white teeth and suave persona people fawned over. He bargained his way through a bachelor degree then hit the ground running at a startup in the city. The best way to bump your wage is to jump. Two years here, three years there, by the time he was in his mid thirties, he’d snagged an unbelievable account manager position at a prestigious company and showed no signs of slowing down.
I had heard of John back in his early days and for fun, kept tabs. Everyone has this silly idea their moves are swift and secret, but everyone knows someone and information gets around. A few contacts of mine gave me scoops on him over the years. Like any good hack, he learned early, seduced (but never slept with) a naive girl who gave him access to research files he used to impress a few clients. When he was done leveling up above the fray, he left that girl high and dry.
At other jobs, he’d liquor people up and they’d sing on all sorts of things. He even figured out a guy’s company password based on his favorite beer and penchant for ordering mozzarella sticks no matter where they went to eat. That password got John the keys to an embezzlement kingdom, where he stashed company money in an offshore account. When it got hot, he planted breadcrumbs right to his little friend. That man did two years and came out the other side a drug-addled wreck.
There were bigger swindles, like trading racy photos of a CEO for a million dollar severance package and glowing recommendation. Teflon John. So when he landed like a gilded 737 on our company steps, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on him.
The secret is telling personal details right away but never asking the other person to do the same. Most people tell you their name, maybe crack some joke about the mundane day or what they’re having for lunch. Not John. He’s a salesman. And he is focused on you. The pitch often starts with a little league story or some fond memory of an elderly relative.
Before you know it, he’s rescheduling his lunch time to be with you and he is a riot to be sure. But the pressure mounts and you break. You tell him about your alcoholic mother or passion for rollerskating. He lights up and it seems like he’s really into you, but it’s really because he’s in.
I played with John for a while, drawing him closer, then pushing him away. John had never been refused before and had to change tactics. A predator doesn’t like that. Not this type at least. I started noticing my submitted work had silly errors. My boss would come by and ask to make corrections, adding that she was surprised I’d missed the details. But I don’t miss details.
I hid a camera in my office and watched John tinker with my work after hours. Little shit. What he knew was that I was careful and that it would flip me upside down for anything to be out of order. I’d start getting paranoid maybe, getting careless, then unravel right off the ladder to the directorship. Clever.
So I started tailing John and learning more about him. Where he worked out, got his shirts laundered, even went grocery shopping. He ate shredded wheat every morning with oat milk. Gross. I got to know his routine and he was as unremarkable as anyone. That was until one weekend.
He headed out to schmooze with someone he intended to manipulate, I assumed, and I followed him to a house on the outskirts of town. He stayed there for only a short time before walking out with a large envelope. I was lucky to be on vacation that week and snuck into his house for that envelope. Inside were files on people at the company. He was working with someone to dig up people’s secrets for leverage. It didn’t look like he’d read it yet but he would soon know about my charge down south for unlawful disposal of garbage. That day it was actually garbage.
I decided to do my own digging and replaced all the files with the one I kept on him with a note: We’re watching.
John was no longer in control but I’d suspected he knew how to pivot and before long he was back in true form. So I had to push his destruction along. Some of our mid morning coffees had a little something extra for him. Little syrup of ipecac here, little PCP there. Just a tiny bit beyond his perception, just enough to give that sense of foreboding. I started leaving trinkets in his house and conservatively vandalizing his expensive coupe before he started to crack. He was the paranoid one now, tweaking, scratching, and seeing demons at every turn.
Best yet, he started to bungle it up at the company. After what were probably sleepless nights he drowned in alcohol or Xanax, he’d come in dull and glazed over. He wasn’t as quick with a quip or as charming. John devolved into a college freshman at his first gig. Unsure and struggling to keep up. Pathetic.
When he came to my office that morning, he was despondent and hopeless. Houdini lost his magic and the contacts he depended on for his ascent had started distancing themselves because of his erratic behavior. He had never known significant failure so this was devastating. He’d come to me, his only friend left to spill his guts and then… well, he pulled out that gun and stuck it in his fat mouth.
I didn’t really kill him. He made that choice himself. It just happened to suit me.
This was a learning experience, though. Lengthy and messy but fairly satisfying. It was a plain sight kill where I was soaked in blood but somehow the victim.
8/10. Might try again.
FRIENDS… I was thinking I should record audio for this because audiobooks are my jam and in my mind, my voice is sultry and captivating. So… audio or no?
Check out this collection of Robert Longo publications. Seriously thinking about getting a print from Men in the Cities but there’s so much more.
GOOD LORD! That's TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT. How on earth.... Scary. Yeah, this would be awesome as audio.