9 TO 5: By John Pupo
Thursday, November 19th, 2009Blood. Not just a little. A lot. I hate when my nose bleeds this much. And it’s always at an inconvenient time. Like when chatting up someone, or during an interview, or while tearing apart flesh. It’s one thing for her blood to splatter, but another when it’s your own.
It always seems to happen when I’m nervous. Normally work equals complacency. Someone must be spying about. I think I’ll have to investigate and make this little problem clot. They usually hide in the closet or under the bed. So predictable. I prefer when I have to use my mind.
Two years ago I had one try to knock me out with a vase. Thought he’d be like the hero in a black and white western. Broke into twelve pieces, and just caused a little headache. It cost him his right leg, his lower lip, and three fingers from his left hand. That was all in the first five minutes. It did make a nice arrangement. Too bad there was no baby’s breath around.
A blur. Dark shadow on the back wall. She has no idea that I can pinpoint her movements. They all think they have the upper hand. She’s probably watched too many horror movies, and thinks she’ll be the girl that endures victoriously. I leave no survivors; I like the satisfaction of a job well done. The only thing missing right now is background music.
I like a soundtrack for the chase. Whatever is around will do, but some selections are better than others. It made an odd staging when the fat one only had Stephen Sondheim. A roaring scene when “Poor Baby” erupted.
“Poor baby. Sitting there, staring at the walls and playing solitaire. Making conversation with the empty air.” Propped in the corner, a pack of Hoyle cards strewn across the table. A run of hearts inserted into each new opening created.
Shit, I think I stained my white tee. I was going for the whole James Dean look. At least the red coat won’t get too messy. Style and panache are my only main concerns when creating a masterpiece. My nostrils can pick up the cheap perfume despite the smell of drying blood. Just like I thought, under the bed.
A blonde once thought she’d crawl under the couch. Figured being that low I wouldn’t deduce that she was there. With each garbled breath the middle cushion rose and fell. One well placed jab with a fireplace poker ended that animation.
I’ll sit on the bed. Then I’ll lie on it. Only done for effect. I like to hear the gasping breaths. Do they really think I can’t hear? A sock muffling sobbing doesn’t really reduce the noise that much. It makes it more pronounced.
Looking at my watch I realize it’s almost five. Crap, I need to clock out and be done. This won’t be able to be carried over into tomorrow. Thinking quickly I kick a concrete block holding the bed up. Poor little princess who wanted a higher bed. Being a killer isn’t a mental deficiency, it’s a nine to five thing. The crunching noise reminds me that I need to get Rice Krispies on my way home.
©2009 John Pupo
John has been trying to break free of his retail shackles. His latest work “That Perfect Dress” will appear in the Pill Hill Press Anthology Twisted Legends.
