Happiness & Homicide: The Workplace
This real job shit is for fucking losers. I don't know how people handle some of these boring, mundane tasks. I know it's a cover, but I need to find a better cover and fast. All of the people here are catty, pathetic and stupid. I've never seen a large collection of the intellectually challenged, it's kinda like being at a perpetual U2 concert.
They've assigned me the mundane task of packing orders. I've never been more disgusted by humanity than I am now; the give me this shit, gimme that shit mentality. No wonder murder rates are up. I'm stood packing next to this little Poptart in a plaid dress. She works slower than old people fuck. Her fake, high pitched greeting annoys me the second I lay eyes on her. If I was a guy who believed in fate or karma, I'd think that this had to be some sort of punishment. I can't bring myself to be that stupid. "Hi, I'm Wil." "I'm Teena. You spell it T-E-E-N-A." I roll my eyes. "Great, I'll write it down." I jib sarcastically. "You should, everyone spells my name wrong!" I roll my eyes. "I can't imagine why."
I watch her slowly fold every individual piece of clothing and place it into the packing bag. What a fucking time waster. The shit needs to get done!
They've assigned me the mundane task of packing orders. I've never been more disgusted by humanity than I am now; the give me this shit, gimme that shit mentality. No wonder murder rates are up. I'm stood packing next to this little Poptart in a plaid dress. She works slower than old people fuck. Her fake, high pitched greeting annoys me the second I lay eyes on her. If I was a guy who believed in fate or karma, I'd think that this had to be some sort of punishment. I can't bring myself to be that stupid. "Hi, I'm Wil." "I'm Teena. You spell it T-E-E-N-A." I roll my eyes. "Great, I'll write it down." I jib sarcastically. "You should, everyone spells my name wrong!" I roll my eyes. "I can't imagine why."
I watch her slowly fold every individual piece of clothing and place it into the packing bag. What a fucking time waster. The shit needs to get done!
It's been three hours of her slow packing and constant talking at me. She's told me all about her life, her boyfriend, her IUD, where her mother had her first orgasm and how her father secretly masturbates to Richard Dreyfuss. I can't take it anymore. I smash her over the head with the label printer. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!" I climb over her, flipping her over like a pancake and begin stabbing her with the box cutter. Bloodflowers bloom all over her dress where I've had my box cutter. I forget that I'm at work as I slice through the leggings she's wearing underneath, leaving deep bleeding gashes in the wake of the blade. A nasty thought overtakes me and I slash through the remains of her leggings before jamming the blade of the box cutter into her vagina. Let's see you try to flirt with this! The blood pooling on the floor is making it difficult to stand. I hold myself steady, breathing hard, the adrenaline pumping through my veins. It's so intoxicating. I should lock the stockroom door to prevent some asshole from stumbling in upon this. I almost slip walking over to lock the door. I take a breather, letting the euphoria give me a hard-on. I look around the room, taking it all in and that's when I remember and look deep into the all-seeing eye of the security camera. FUCKIN SHIT! Wait, they're rebooting the system this weekend, it's not on yet, I can take care of her and then go to make sure nothing was captured.
Thankfully there was plastic sheeting on the ground. It makes my job so much easier. I pull the blade down and tuck the box cutter deep into the pocket of my cargo pants. I need to get rid of it. Drop it into the river on my way home. They'll never find it in there. Not that they'd think about it, but nobody really wants to dive into a river where human shit is flushed into millions of times a day.
....
I lean against the outer door of the store. Get it the fuck together man! You just took an unnecessary risk killing her. You know better than to act out in rage like this! Contain that shit and get her later where it's not so public. I punch the wall. All of this careful planning and I blow it with one stupid move! It felt great but the risk wasn't worth it. Just gotta lie low. Go to work tomorrow like normal or take a sick day? Do I have any sick days? I've never had a normal job so I don't know how this all works. If I call out will they fire me? It's not like I can't find another empty, meaningless job somewhere else. Just lay low. Listen to the gossip in the breakroom. I straighten out my shirt collar and head back into the stockroom.
I notice a small pool of blood on the floor. I can't explain that away without...I reach into my pocket and pull out the box cutter. I slide the blood out and inflict a deep gash in my forearm. Blood erupts at the slash sight, staining my pale forearm and adding to the existing pool on the floor. It's not a smart forensic countermeasure, but it's an excuse I'll be able to use for cover until I can properly scrub the floor down. I can't trust maintenance to do it all alone. I'll help him, pretend to be a nice co-worker. I hear someone coming. I quickly unlock the stockroom door, careful not to spill any blood away from the infliction site. I wait a few seconds before screaming "OH MY GOD!!"
A small girl from the shoe department, whose name I believe to be Kathleen walks in and sees me clutching the bleeding gash in my forearm. "Can you help me? I had an accident with the box cutter! I was opening that box of merchandise I to back stock and the blade just slipped!" "Oh God, are you okay? Of course, you're not okay! Let me get the first aid kit!" She heads into the small room off the stockroom to get the kit while I slip the box cutter back into my pocket. She runs back over to me, a look of panic on her pale face. "Hold it out and I can clean it." "There's too much blood, here." I slip my shirt off and press it against the wound. "I-I-I don't think that you're allowed to do that." "You wouldn't want me to bleed to death here now would you?" I give her my sweetest voice. "Of course, I wouldn't! There's just...wow you're tattooed." Her eyes take in the pale inked being before her. "HAHA yeah. I have others you can't see." I poke her in the nose playfully.
I carefully pull up the shirt to check if the bleeding has steamed. I throw the shirt down on the floor and ask her to hand me a disinfectant towelette. Wordlessly, she hands me two small foil packets. I rip one of them open with my teeth and shake open the little towelette inside. I wipe away the drying blood before moving onto the wound itself. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" "Yes. I have another shirt in my locker too, so no harm, no foul." "Do you want me to get it? You must be cold." I smile at her, locking my muddy hazel eyes with the ice-flow blue of hers. "Really, I'll be fine."
...
By the time I get home I'm exhausted. All I want to do is lay on my piano and smoke a bowl. I open the door to find Nick standing there with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. "How was work?" I want to punch him in the face. I try to step past him. "I've had a long day." "Tell me about it! I made cookies!" I stare down into his face. "I don't want to talk about it." "Please? I wa-YOU GOT HURT AT WORK!" he screams seeing the bandage. Christ, I'm living with an old woman. "It's not that big a deal." "Are you sure? Do you want me to help you change the dressing?" I take one of his cookies. "I'll be on my piano." "You and that damn piano! Why don't you just fuck it already?!" he screams throwing a cookie at the back of my head. I turn around and pick it up off the floor. "Who's to say I didn't?" I wink and take a bite out of the cookie. It's good to be me.
Thankfully there was plastic sheeting on the ground. It makes my job so much easier. I pull the blade down and tuck the box cutter deep into the pocket of my cargo pants. I need to get rid of it. Drop it into the river on my way home. They'll never find it in there. Not that they'd think about it, but nobody really wants to dive into a river where human shit is flushed into millions of times a day.
....
I lean against the outer door of the store. Get it the fuck together man! You just took an unnecessary risk killing her. You know better than to act out in rage like this! Contain that shit and get her later where it's not so public. I punch the wall. All of this careful planning and I blow it with one stupid move! It felt great but the risk wasn't worth it. Just gotta lie low. Go to work tomorrow like normal or take a sick day? Do I have any sick days? I've never had a normal job so I don't know how this all works. If I call out will they fire me? It's not like I can't find another empty, meaningless job somewhere else. Just lay low. Listen to the gossip in the breakroom. I straighten out my shirt collar and head back into the stockroom.
I notice a small pool of blood on the floor. I can't explain that away without...I reach into my pocket and pull out the box cutter. I slide the blood out and inflict a deep gash in my forearm. Blood erupts at the slash sight, staining my pale forearm and adding to the existing pool on the floor. It's not a smart forensic countermeasure, but it's an excuse I'll be able to use for cover until I can properly scrub the floor down. I can't trust maintenance to do it all alone. I'll help him, pretend to be a nice co-worker. I hear someone coming. I quickly unlock the stockroom door, careful not to spill any blood away from the infliction site. I wait a few seconds before screaming "OH MY GOD!!"
A small girl from the shoe department, whose name I believe to be Kathleen walks in and sees me clutching the bleeding gash in my forearm. "Can you help me? I had an accident with the box cutter! I was opening that box of merchandise I to back stock and the blade just slipped!" "Oh God, are you okay? Of course, you're not okay! Let me get the first aid kit!" She heads into the small room off the stockroom to get the kit while I slip the box cutter back into my pocket. She runs back over to me, a look of panic on her pale face. "Hold it out and I can clean it." "There's too much blood, here." I slip my shirt off and press it against the wound. "I-I-I don't think that you're allowed to do that." "You wouldn't want me to bleed to death here now would you?" I give her my sweetest voice. "Of course, I wouldn't! There's just...wow you're tattooed." Her eyes take in the pale inked being before her. "HAHA yeah. I have others you can't see." I poke her in the nose playfully.
I carefully pull up the shirt to check if the bleeding has steamed. I throw the shirt down on the floor and ask her to hand me a disinfectant towelette. Wordlessly, she hands me two small foil packets. I rip one of them open with my teeth and shake open the little towelette inside. I wipe away the drying blood before moving onto the wound itself. "Are you sure you'll be okay?" "Yes. I have another shirt in my locker too, so no harm, no foul." "Do you want me to get it? You must be cold." I smile at her, locking my muddy hazel eyes with the ice-flow blue of hers. "Really, I'll be fine."
...
By the time I get home I'm exhausted. All I want to do is lay on my piano and smoke a bowl. I open the door to find Nick standing there with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. "How was work?" I want to punch him in the face. I try to step past him. "I've had a long day." "Tell me about it! I made cookies!" I stare down into his face. "I don't want to talk about it." "Please? I wa-YOU GOT HURT AT WORK!" he screams seeing the bandage. Christ, I'm living with an old woman. "It's not that big a deal." "Are you sure? Do you want me to help you change the dressing?" I take one of his cookies. "I'll be on my piano." "You and that damn piano! Why don't you just fuck it already?!" he screams throwing a cookie at the back of my head. I turn around and pick it up off the floor. "Who's to say I didn't?" I wink and take a bite out of the cookie. It's good to be me.
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