Chapter 4: Where There is Good There is Evil
Source: Personal Computer Log
Name: Mr. Smith
Location: VEG Headquarters
My office collapsed upon itself on nights like this, to where only I existed, my own perfect automated environment of which I controlled every aspect. My chair set to lean only three inches from its upright position raised exactly five inches from its base. The A/C scheduled to cool to an icy sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit from eight PM to ten o’clock, and then heat back up to a cool seventy at midnight. My fitted suit, precisely cut to complement my slim physique accented by my power tie, that’s tip touched the top of my silver belt buckle. My desk, designed in the most optimum way for efficiency, had zero clutter.
The only item that seemed out of place was my picture frame, with black trim edges to match my glossy black desk. It was meant to keep me looking normal in the eyes of my superiors, whose visits were rare. Merit wasn’t enough for the bunnies that hopped from office to office, leaving pellets of crap that lingered for hours. No, these sick individuals needed to see that you were a “family man,” to feel comfortable in your presence. Since I myself was not the “family type,” my sickening attempt at humoring the masses was of my childhood. It was my family in front of a stereotypical suburban home. Mom and Dad stood with bright smiles plastered on their faces, my father’s right hand resting on my shoulder. Cliffy, my German Shepherd, was sitting upright next to me, her head almost the same height as mine. Her tongue wet, dripping with saliva, making me shutter as I studied it now. I don’t know why I chose this picture out of the hundred others, probably because people related with animal lovers. Cliffy was put down shortly after that photo. What the photo didn’t show was that Cliffy was a female and pregnant. I remember loving the dog more than anything when I was younger until that one day.
Cliffy had just given birth to four pups and was now licking her enflamed private areas. The garage smelt musty and was too hot for my liking but the idea of an animal giving birth intrigued me. I went in, against my father’s wishes, knowing that Cliffy would do nothing to hurt me. Her eyes were tired with the labors of birth; she was letting out long sighs followed by short whimpers. Stay away from her son, dogs are funny right after they give birth. It stirs up some kind of protective instinct; I heard my dad’s voice echoing in my mind. I wanted to get a look at my new friends though, so I crawled in closer. The air settled thick, so thick that I could feel it heavy upon my skin like water resisting each inch closer. Then it felt like fog clearing, I could see their cute little innocent faces letting out shrill high pitched squeals. Warmth covered me, the environment making me feel like I was just being born to her as well. I got closer wanting now to lie next to them and then it happened. It was three quick snap shots. The first was of me full of life and wonder taken from a couple feet away, embracing the entire scene. The second was a close up of Cliffy’s pearly white teeth sunk deep into my right arm. Blood oozing out slow, thick and dark like molasses. The third was someone different, someone changed, a version of my prior self that I didn’t recognize. A dark void of misunderstanding, doubt, and shame all brewing inside. The photos were only flashes I saw, a dream or a memory I couldn’t tell, before I blacked out.
I woke up in a hospital, my mother crying by my side. She came in close when my eyes fluttered, but I pushed her away. Her touch sickened me, as did my weakness. I asked her where the bitch was. I specifically referred to her as a bitch instead of Cliffy. My parents took note and looked at me in disbelief.
They let me rest longer, but when it came time to come home I wouldn’t take a step in the house. It felt tainted, even unsafe for the first time. My parents made Cliffy wear a muzzle but I still felt it, somewhere in the back of my mind a fear lurked gripping my every action, listening to my every word. Within three days I had them put Cliffy down. The life fading from her eyes was a curious sight. It was like a syringe drawing out her soul, slow and coldly calculated, and at the same time injecting me with life. I felt almost godlike. I asked if they could bring her back now, and my parents only cried thinking I didn’t understand death and that I chose to put her down prematurely. It wasn’t that at all. I wanted to revive her and kill her all over again except I wanted the needle.
I snapped back to the present when a light knock disrupted the sleep of my door. The knock of the soulless cowards that roamed my floor, likely an over privileged intern whose Daddy got them a job to play political activist for the year. Just another notch on their puke packed resume. I waited, holding my breath and hoping this one wouldn’t have the balls to knock again, but then it came, another whisper of a knock. “COME IN,” I shouted in a commanding tone, as to scare the piss out of whoever it was. The door peaked open just enough for John, a junior level analyst, to stick his nose in. I didn’t mind John because he kept to himself and had a solid work ethic. He never joined in with the others jolly routine and looked almost uncomfortable when someone tried to socialize with him during work hours.
It baffled me how some of the fucking parasites in this office would stand next to John’s desk, only when they had no one else to talk to as if he were a last resort to delay their days work. They would try and force awkward conversation on him even if he was obviously busy. Standing there with an insincere tone asking asinine questions that they didn’t care to know the answers to.
“John, come in.” I said. The young man stumbled inside and his stammer made me smile a bit.
“I, I got the results you were looking for sir.”
“Go on.” I had only asked him an hour ago, the boy worked quick.
“In three months the town saw triple its profits across the board.”
“Excellent work John. That will be all.” The door shut respectfully soft and my controlled environment reverted to normal.
My mind danced delightfully to the news to some sort of jazzy Frank Sinatra tune. Still there was that fear lurking like a snake underneath my collar closing around my necktie, squeezing at my throat, infecting my thoughts with torturous venom. They are coming for you; they own you and your pathetic job. You call this a day’s work? You think you have power? They own three quarters of the global market and could destroy this disgusting excuse for an economy with the flick of a finger. Admit it, you coward. The Chinese will take over the world and you will be left with the pups begging for a fucking morsel. I slammed my fist against my chest forcing the breath I had been holding in screaming out as I gasped for air. The panic hit me more often these nights. I shot out an e-mail to inform my superiors of John’s findings, packed up my laptop to call it a night.
The hour was late and the only lit establishments were pizza joints and fast food Chinese. My stomach growled at me like some sort of alien entity. The Chinese restaurant on 52nd street danced in my mind. It would be nice to sit amongst the cockroaches that plagued this planet. The idea of ordering an obscene amount of food and disposing of most of it in front of malnourished servants scrounging by intrigued me.
The decor was overloaded with bright reds and those trendy paper lanterns that invaded your eating space. I sat at a table near the back where I wouldn’t be bothered by customers looking for late night conversations. When the waitress came I snatched the menu from her hands and motioned for her to leave at once. She gave a semi-formal submissive bow and walked away keeping an eye on me until I had decided.
After ten minutes or so I threw a single look in her direction and she came scurrying over like a pitiful dog waiting on its master. When she fumbled for her pen and paper I gave her a sharp piercing glare, until she apologized and placed it back in her hip apron. I then proceeded to order as many things as I could on the menu knowing I would only be able to stomach an eighth of the amount.
After thirty minutes my food came pouring out of the kitchen. The woman had to make two separate trips to get it all. I inspected every item and t
hat’s when I snapped. I wouldn’t come to know that the woman was Thai, I hated the Chinese. I wouldn’t come to find that she had willfully entered herself into a black market mail order bride outfit to find refuge and a better future for her and her two-year-old daughter, I hated the Chinese. I never cared to ask about the bruise on her face that she received from her abusive American husband, I HATED THE CHINESE. I would never know her struggle, sneaking out every weekday while her husband was at work, to a minimum wage shit job, just to save up enough money for her and her daughter to escape, I HATED THE CHINESE. I would not be a part of the investigation team that would find a Thai woman and her four-year-old daughter with blunt force trauma to the right and left temples, lying dead near a riverbank, I HATED THE FUCKING CHINESE. My Wonton soup came out as sweet and sour with a black hair in it, and this Chinese bitch was responsible. The manager assured me that she would never work in their establishment again once I mentioned my employer. I hadn’t eaten a bite yet my stomach now felt content.
I walked back toward my apartment building, which was located across the street from my work. The porter held the door open nodding to me as I entered, knowing that the mundane formalities bothered me. I glided past him as if he were an inanimate object. On my way to the elevator, the buzzing of my pocket interrupted my stride. My cell phone slid unrestricted out of my pants and I looked in shock at the caller ID. Sector 8 lit up brightly as the phone shook my hand, I answered and said, “two minutes” and then hung up the phone.
I darted into the elevator, inserted my key while hitting the 61st floor button and a moment later I was zooming up to my rooftop penthouse apartment. I got off before the doors could finish opening and ran toward the only door on the floor that read fifty-one overtop. I could hear the soft click of the door remotely unlocking as it read the keys in my pocket. I pushed and I was home. Dim lights filled my apartment and I took out my cell phone saying, “Call back.” My phone did all the rest. I put the warm receiver against my frozen ear and listened.
“Commence operation black out.” Then the phone went dead. A smile started somewhere deep within me, creeping through my body to the right and left sides of my face, tugging at my lips. I dropped my phone to my side, feeling the power engulf me. It was time.