Ten Shots

So the other day I walked into my house after a rough day’s work, threw the car keys casually in the general direction of the couch in the living room, and walked in on my wife banging an unknown stranger. And that’s not the worst part. The worst part is, she seemed to be having more fun on his dick than she ever did on mine.


My name is Roger Clarke. My wife’s name is not important. I’m just gonna call her The Bitch throughout this. You’re probably gonna end up reading this account in the newspapers. It’ll have her name in it too. Hopefully. If it doesn’t, I’m perfectly okay with her name just being The Bitch. I’m willing to give up the joy of having her name exposed in public just to get the satisfaction of being able to call her The Bitch through the rest of this account. And yeah, I am breaking the fourth wall. Fuck that shit.

I’m the nice guy. I’m the guy mothers hope their kids will turn out to be, when they find out that their kids have no discernible talent and will probably never really make it big in anything. I have faint memories of being talented in the early school years. I remember being up on stage in debates and quizzes. I remember being vaguely good at baseball. But with every passing year, the memory fades a little. I hardly remember what I looked like back then. So I have this generic kid’s picture in my head, giving me a smug smile as he eloquently answers quiz questions about whatever kids in junior high answer questions about. He’s smug because he doesn’t know yet that he won’t actually amount to anything. That he won’t one day get home from his shitty job to see his wife fucking someone else.

People keep wondering what the problem with the education system is. That’s the problem – stop telling every single kid that he’s going to be president or astronaut or whatever. It doesn’t work that way. Only The Chosen Ones make it. The rest of them, well, the rest of them become Roger Clarke. How is that gonna boost a kid’s self-esteem anyway? What happens the day he finds out he’s not gonna become President? What happens the day little girls discover that they’re not gonna become famous scientists or mathematicians or whatever because in a few years they’re gonna be too bothered about what skirt to wear with what shoes to give a rat’s ass about algebra?

But I digress. Not easy to do when right in front of you your wife, oblivious to the six feet of crap that is the existence of Roger Clarke, is coming to what appears to be a thundering orgasm. I stared into the guy’s eyes. He was a thirty-something blond kid with decent abs, and that stupid, happy grin that people have when they’re stealing and enjoying someone else’s sandwich. He looks back at me. Almost as if to acknowledge the fact that he made a mistake, but he’s not gonna apologize for it.

I walk out, banging the door behind me, if only to catch The Bitch’s attention.

I feel like I need to start again. I’m Roger Clarke, and I’m a forty year old accountant at one of those not-quite-Wall Street firms. You don’t need to know which one. You’ll find out in the news. Those news people are awfully meticulous, aren’t they? Well I hope I feature prominently in my own story. I have a tendency to not do that.

I have a wife and two kids. You already know the wife. We’ve been married fifteen years, and after the scene with the blond guy and the orgasms, I can safely say that my kids have been the best, purest, and most divine things to ever have been in her nether regions. My daughters Erika and Jodie, 8 and 5 respectively, are the two most beautiful things in the world. Too bad they’re gonna have to go through hell. But hopefully, if things work out the way I want them to, good things will come out of this. For them. And for them only.

My job basically involves sitting at a desk crunching numbers. You know, the kinda job hipsters imagine when they’re trying to scare somebody away from Corporate America. Yup, I’m the nameless, faceless Corporate America, bitch. I get paid less than I should, considering I have a Master’s Degree, but what can I say? You take what you can get. And yes, future hippies of the world, I do have an asshole boss. You ever decide to convince people why living peacefully within the system and becoming a corporate shill is a bad idea? Make them read this. It’ll scare ‘em straight. And no, I’m not gonna give you the name of my boss either. I’m just gonna call him The Asshole. So every time his name comes up and you wanna picture him, just picture a giant, walking, slobbering buttcrack. That’s how I see him anyway. But he’s useful for 5 minutes of his life, because it is with an interaction with him, that my story will begin in earnest.

It was a Wednesday. Some time in the afternoon. Two days after I’ve found The Bitch in bed with the guy. For those of you wondering why I’m actually telling you the day, it’s so you can keep a mental countdown. See, this story ends on Friday. Two days of my life. That’s all I’m gonna need here.

So The Asshole creeps up on me, slick in his suede suit and perfect, ready-for-the-conference room hair, and asks me for a file. I give it to him. He licks his lips, clearing the last bits of coffee off them. Or the last bits of pussy. Could go either way. He had joined a year ago, and for the first month there had been rumors that he was gay. He had spent the next eleven months disproving them with every malleable intern, or receptionist, or any girl with a pulse that he could find. But he was a nice guy. That’s what they all said. He’s a nice guy. To be fair he was. It wasn’t like he misbehaved with any of the staff members. He didn’t yell at anyone. He wasn’t unfair to his employees. Yet every once in a while, in the most innocent of moments, his shark teeth would come out, and you could tell that he wouldn’t be over killing his boss to get his job.

Even though I’m turned away from him and am working on my computer, I can tell that he’s lingering. I’ve opened up the most complex software I know, completely unrelated to the job at hand, just to make him aware of the fact that what I do is in fact fucking rocket science. Plus I know that he wouldn’t have a clue about what I’m doing. See, apparently you can become an administrator without knowing what the fuck you’re administrating.

“Roger, did you hear what Gibson said?” The Asshole asks me.

I turn my swiveling chair slowly towards him, hoping against hope that my leg will touch his and knock him over. I quietly shake my head and say, “No, why? What did he say?”

Gibson is The Boss. He holds the ax over The Asshole’s head, and therefore, over my head. The Asshole shakes his head, licks his lips again, and says, “Apparently they’re gonna start ‘evaluating personnel’. You know what that means.”

I nod. I do know what that means. They’re gonna downsize. Start throwing people out, unceremoniously. I can practically imagine the ax falling over my head. Literally. In that one moment I’m picturing Gibson, as the hooded executioner, asking me for my last wishes, and then bringing the ax down. I make myself feel better by imagining the same thing happening to The Asshole. That makes me feel better. Especially because I’m imagining him crying and begging for his life before the ax comes down. Good stuff.

Apparently that’s all he wants to say. He licks his lips one more time, for good luck, then struts away. So my job is in danger. That’s fair I guess. I’m efficient, I do all of my work, I never cause problems. Of course my job is in danger. Down the hall I can see Office Slut laughing and talking to The Asshole. As she sips from her cup of coffee, I can see down her ludicrously low V-cut top. It’s inappropriate for an office environment. If we had a fair, impartial (gay) boss, she wouldn’t last a day. I knew she didn’t know a single thing about office accounts, or clients, or acquisitions or any of that stuff. But she knew exactly how short her skirt needed to be to keep her job, and still avoid getting raped on the street. I guess that’s a talent.

Despite myself, I continue staring at her, with her beautiful blond hair and her perfect teeth and her alluring lipstick. Her skirt gently moves across her thighs as her legs fidget nervously. It’s a fucking mindgame. This is why shorts will never be as sexy as skirts.

Asshole is using all of his charm on her. I don’t know if they’ve already slept together and he’s touching base to make sure he doesn’t get sued for harassment, or if he’s laying the groundwork for his next conquest. Either way, she seems pliable enough. They’re both smiling, and as she laughs at some undoubtedly hilarious yet self-effacingly charming thing he no doubt just said, I can spot the shark in him. Even from across the hall. I can see the murderous glint in his eye. A predator closing in on his play. A successful hunt. The smell of blood. Abruptly I turn around and get back to work. Somebody needs to feed the family.

I go home and get my ass on the internet. The Bitch and I haven’t talked for some time. I had confronted her the day after her sexual gymnastics. With a perfectly expressionless face, she had told me that my dick wasn’t good enough for her. I had stood there, staring impotently as my wife of twenty years confessed to cheating on another man, and somehow made it my fault. Well, it wasn’t my fault. But I wasn’t gonna file for divorce. I wasn’t gonna put Erika and Jodie through the same thing I went through. This marriage was going to last to the end. Till death do us part.

I’m checking my email for official notices, half-expecting an email from my boss saying “Hi motherfucker, you’ve been fired. And I’m also having sex with your wife.” But I find nothing of that sort there. There’s a bunch of spam, an email asking me if I wish to take a wonder drug to make an erection last longer. For a second I consider opening it. Delete. I’m randomly deleting spam till I open an email telling me that today is the fifth anniversary of the Virginia Tech Massacre. Sad. Delete.

I go through my sad little bedtime ritual, brushing my teeth and washing my face, wondering what purpose all of this serves. My wife doesn’t love me. Or at any rate, doesn’t want me physically, which to my male brain equates not loving me. My daughters, my little angels, are too young to understand what their father has to go through everyday. They’re the only things keeping me going.

Thursday morning I get to work, momentarily happy to be out of the toxic atmosphere of my house. But as soon as I enter our little piece of paradise on earth that I call My Office, I can sense that something’s wrong. And it is. Because there’s a reason that yesterday The Asshole told me that they’re downsizing. He was setting me up. He was preparing me for what was to come. And like an obedient little lamb scurrying off to slaughter, I am duly prepared, head held low, jacket over my shoulder. The Office Slut is next to the water cooler talking to some girl. Some girl. This is new for her. She never wastes her time in office talking to a girl. Time wasted socializing can be put to better use sleeping her way to the top or getting guys to do her work for her. But the important piece of information to be gleaned from this is that this means that most of the guys aren’t available. Implication : staff meeting. And sure enough, behind the glass door, I could barely make out a bunch of suited up men, sipping their coffees and laughing. Because destroying people’s lives doesn’t have to be a somber time.

I walk up to my desk, pull out my chair, and start working. Clearly if there is news about me, I’ll find out anyway. But someone needs to punch in those numbers, and it has to be me. Because I’m that guy. The guy who cleans up everybody’s mess. The guy who actually gives a shit about where the company is going. The guy who doesn’t break rules because he doesn’t know how to.

Office Slut walks up to me. Actually, I don’t even need to turn around to see it. I can smell her perfume. I can’t help actually being a little intoxicated by it. What’s she wearing? Fucking pheromones? Whatever it is, she smells nice. I wish my wife smelled like that. “Hey Roger.” She says with a genial, almost flirtatious smile.

“Hey.” I say neutrally, trying to focus on the fact that there’s a head attached to the set of boobs I’m staring at. She blinks slowly, her long eyelashes slowly covering her eyes and then uncovering them, almost appearing rehearsed. I quietly wonder if she actually practices stuff like that in front of the mirror at home. Blinking slowly. I wonder if I can do that. Her black top looks good on her. Face. Focus.

“Any idea what those guys are discussing in there?” She asks me, leaning against my desk.
“No clue. You came here before I did. Didn’t Gibson say anything?” I ask, not being able to control my curiosity at what is happening inside.

“I don’t know either. You know how it is. Boys and their secrets. Sometimes I wonder if all they do inside is talk about us girls. They never let us in there.” She says. It’s hard to maintain a conversation with a girl when all you wanna do is hold her against the wall and ravish her. But I can’t do that. After all, I can’t give her a promotion.


I shake my head. I haven’t been inside either. So I don’t know what’s going on. But I know that they’re not sitting inside discussing women. They can do that out in the open, in front of the girls. In a place like this, even the girls won’t mind. Any attention is good attention. But I’m their friend. I’m the married guy. I’m the guy who these girls consider to be the safe one. Fuck my life.

I realize that she’s waiting for me to say something, interrupting my internal monologue, so I say, “I don’t think that’s what they’re talking about. Probably business stuff. Finances. Accounts.”

“Why aren’t you in there then?” She asks, and her question catches me by surprise. She probably sees the surprise on my face, and continues, “I mean, you’re the best there is at all this accounts stuff. All that number crunching. You could probably teach those people a thing or two.”

I can sense that she’s flirting with me, probably more out of habit than out of intent. She’s so used to subtly and not-so-subtly coming on to everybody that it’s hard for her to switch off. But that’s not the important part. The important thing is that she’s right. I should be in there. I’m the one who handles the accounts. There are three others in accounts besides me, and all three of them know as much about accounts as I do about Ancient Mayan Mythology. Or what’s been in my wife’s vagina lately for that matter.

And yet, one of those guys is inside that conference room, laughing and sipping coffee and deciding everyone else’s fate. I nod again, I’m not sure why, and say, “Well we can’t all be on stage now can we? And why would I want to be inside when I can be out here talking to you?”

She laughs. It’s a high-pitched, fake laugh, scripted to perfection. That’s probably the most important thing she learned. When a man says something funny, laugh. When a man says something flirty, laugh. When a man says anything at all, laugh. Or at least smile. You’d be surprised how far the dumb, sweet bimbo act can take a girl. And then they complain that it’s a man’s society. The door to the conference room opens, and men in suits start walking out. It’s show time.

Office Slut winks at me, then wishes the guy in the cubicle next to me good luck, and saunters away. She knows she’s not getting fired. The fact that she didn’t feel the need to wish me good luck is probably a good sign. She thinks I won’t need it. Because I’m not getting fired.

While most of the men in suits disappear out the door, having decided whatever they needed to decide, Gibson and The Asshole come out, give each other a glance acknowledging what had just happened, and walk back inside, but not before The Asshole whispers something in Office Slut’s ear, then proceeds to spank her gently on her ass. Real classy.

I’m still sitting quietly in my seat, observing the whole thing, wondering what just happened. As if to clear my doubts, Office Slut walks up to me. She tells me that Mr. Gibson wants to see me in the conference room. Here it is.

I walk in, and it’s just the two of them. I’m not surprised, because while all the other suits were here to make the decision, and make it seem formal, these were the guys who had to do the actual culling. They had their best stern faces on.

You know that high-pitched whistle that you hear when you have a cold? The one that just doesn’t go away, and while you can hear everything else that’s going on in the world, and you can hear what people are saying, the whistle is just louder than all of those things? I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, too fucking bad. Because for the next five minutes, all I can hear is that whistle. I can hear them say that while I have been an irreplaceable employee, it has to be done. I can hear them say that this has hard for them. I pretend to believe them. I heard them graciously offer me a sterling letter of recommendation. I tell them I don’t need one. The Asshole personally apologizes to me. I hear all of that. But I hear the high-pitched whistle over that. And I don’t quite know what to react to – what they’re saying, or the whistle.

Instead, I just stagger out of the office, towards my desk. What used to be my desk. I pick up my things, my laptop, my coffee mug, and out of the corner of my eye I see The Asshole walk out, whisper something in Office Slut’s ear, and surreptitiously kiss her on the neck. I can see her squirm. But I’m too busy to try and figure out an appropriate response to the whole thing. What should my emotional response be? What should my facial response be?

I quietly walk out without saying bye to anyone.

As soon as I’m out in the open air, looking back at what used to be my office, I’m hit by the realization that for the next few hours of my life, nobody knows where I am. And nobody’s expecting me. The Bitch thinks I’m at work. People at work think I’m slinking back home to cry to my wife about how the mean people took away my job. But I have no intentions of walking home unexpectedly and disturbing my wife’s banging session with whichever punk she found willing. She deserves her privacy. And a venereal disease.

No, instead I’m gonna do something better and more constructive. I’m gonna go to a bar and get hammered. I pull out my car for the last time, looking back longingly at the place I’ve worked at for all these years, hoping the building would catch fire. Despite all the strength of will I can muster, the building fails to ignite. Disappointed, I drive away into the overcast sky.

I park my car next to my favorite bar. I’m gonna continue calling this place The Bar, because I think the bartender is a nice guy, and this story probably won’t be the best advertisement for his place. And no, you won’t find out about this in the newspapers either. This will remain my little secret. Well, me and Old Guy. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

I’ve parked my car near the back of the restaurant, and the area is mostly empty since for most of America this is the moment most people settle into their comfy office chairs and begin the pretense of doing something constructive in office while they surf porn and play Angry Birds. Now The Bar is this one-story building, the likes of which everyone’s seen, with a small dark alley behind it. I peer through my windshield to see that an old guy is being mugged by this one assailant. It’s about to start raining, so I turn on the radio. I’m not gonna go out in the rain and spoil my new overcoat.

Sure enough, it starts raining. I can see that Old Guy is protesting, and Mugger is looking impatient. A lot of you may be wondering why I’m not getting out of the car to help Old Guy. Well fuck you. I don’t know the old guy. I’m not gonna spoil my suit for a guy I don’t know. Also, and this might be a slightly more important factor, but even over this distance, I can tell that the Mugger is holding a gun. I can see the glint of metal, and I can tell that it’s a gun. I’m not saying I’m a coward. I’m just saying that I’m not fucking stupid. Roger, you’ve spent all of your life hiding and avoiding confrontation. What’s one more? I’m telling myself. The logic is sound.

There’s some good music on the radio today. It’s all rather peaceful. And then, out of nowhere, I hear a sound. I know what that sound is. It’s the sound of a police car. I turn around to see that indeed, there is a police car, but it’s not turning here. It’s continuing onto the main road, no doubt heading to a crime scene where the wonderful cops of the city will prevent crime and bringing the malevolent souls to justice. Because that’s how the world works, right?

But my reverie has gotten in the way of my voyeurism. Apparently Old Guy made use of the momentary diversion caused by the cop car to hit the Mugger, because I can see the Mugger staggering. Now I see him run away. I hear a clink. And now the Old Man is struggling to run away in my direction. He can probably see my car. But he collapses after taking two steps, and I can see that he’s still heaving against the wall. Clearly not a pleasant experience for him. I switch the radio channel to Classic Rock.

Within a few minutes though, the rain has stopped. I walk out of my car towards the Old Man. I can tell that he’s alive, and I’m satisfied. What I am curious about, is the clink sound. What the hell was that? Was it what I think it was?
I walk up to the alley, hope in my heart. Sure enough, I’m right. It’s the gun. In his hurry to avoid being caught, the Mugger dropped his gun. A gentleman who can think on his feet, if there ever was one. I slide the gun into my pocket, get back into my car, avoiding eye contact with the Old Guy, and go back to my car.

I do end up having a few drinks at a different bar, and by the time I get out, it’s time to go home. Home. Wonderful home. A man’s Fortress of Solitude. And his wife’s Personal Brothel.

The Bitch isn’t home. I play with my little angels for a while. I can’t believe how beautiful they are and how quickly they’re growing. Erika is already at the age where if you kiss her forehead, she’s worried if you ruined her hair. Girls. They grow up so fast. I know if I had a boy, he’d still be pretty stupid by now. If only.

But as I settle into my chair with a beer in front of the TV, I’ve calmed down. I don’t have a job anymore. My wife doesn’t love me. Life cannot get worse from here. What I don’t know right now is that within the next twelve hours, life is gonna get much worse. Hell, what I don’t know right now is that the next twelve hours are a countdown for me. The final few hours of my life. Twelve hours. Seven hundred twenty minutes. I don’t know right now that that’s all I have left, give or take a few painful seconds one way or the other. And yet, right now I feel powerful, because what my kids don’t know is that I have a fully loaded weapon in my pocket, locked and loaded.

The Bitch walks in at around seven in the evening, with grocery bags. So she went grocery shopping. Fan-fucking-tastic. I bet she’s gonna cook me something real good. And I bet I’m gonna choke on it and die. It’s been that kinda day.

I’m not gonna move from my chair though. I like my chair. I’m never getting out of my chair. I’m Roger Clarke, The Good Guy, and I’m never getting out of my chair. I practice mouthing those words. I’m The Good Guy. I’ve always been The Good Guy. I’m the guy girls trusted in college to drop them back to their room when they were drunk, and not rape them. I’m the guy teachers forced the assholes to sit next to, hoping I’d be a good influence. Well the only influence anyone gained there, was me learning to shut the fuck up to not get beaten up. And the new thing I’ve learnt about myself today is that I’m also the guy companies get rid of quickly when they wanna let a few people go, but their dicks don’t allow them to fire The Office Slut. Roger Clarke. The Good Guy. The Unemployed Good Guy. That’s me.

My fingers move through my overcoat pocket over the tips of the gun. My gun. It feels sleek. Powerful. I wonder if I can injure somebody just by hitting them hard enough with the gun. I’m sure it can be done. I’m on my third beer, when The Bitch pointedly tells the kids to leave the room because ‘she and Daddy need to talk’. This can’t be good.

She stands in front of the TV, waiting for me to turn it off. I merely turn down the volume. She shrugs, and starts talking. And then we talk. I’m not entirely sure about what. I don’t really care about what. The essence of it is that She doesn’t think we should get a divorce, since it’ll affect the kids negatively, even though she’s convinced that our marriage is over. I tell her we’ll do whatever she wants. And I mean it. I’m not going to become an asshole to her after all these years of marriage. I’m too nice to do that. Fuck. I tell her I got fired. She looks down. I can tell that she feels sorry for me. I know her well enough to know that even if she’d rather go around fucking whichever random punkass bitch she could find, in her heart she still cares for me. So this bothers her. Doesn’t bother me anymore.

When I wake up next, it’s Friday. Now I don’t know right now that the last few hours of my life are about to go down. All I do know is that I’m sitting up in bed, with no place to go. I have no work. I don’t have a job. The fact that my wife doesn’t love me hits me hard in the face like a punch. I could disappear from the face of the earth right now and nobody would notice. My kids would, but they’d get used to whoever their mom happens to be banging for a longer period of time after me. The Bitch would probably be relieved. I don’t really have any friends at work.

Everybody asks themselves this question once: who would cry when they die? I believe there’s a book with this title too. It’s a question worth thinking about. And I realize that the answer for me, is nobody. Nobody would cry. Nice guys finish alone in bed with a wife fucking someone else and no job. And all of it suddenly becomes clear to me. None of it is fair. What happened to me with The Bitch isn’t fair. What happened to me at work isn’t fair. None of it is fair. Fuck these people.

Convinced that nobody is going to walk in on me, I pull out my gun. I open my mouth, and move the gun inside. Even before I begin the entire charade, I know I’m not gonna do it. I’m not gonna blow my own head off. That’s just nasty. And it’s not fair. I don’t wanna be the nice guy who blew his brains out. There’s more to me than that.

So I walk up to The Bitch while she’s in the shower and shoot her in the back of the head three times.

The gunshots are loud as shit. I’m glad my kids aren’t home. Her blood covers the shower curtain and the wall behind her. I suddenly feel like Norman Bates from Psycho. The shower is filled with blood as she collapses into the tub. I’m still holding my gun up. I don’t dare move it down for fear that my arms would break off. I just stay still for what seems like eternity. I’m sure my eyes are wide right now. I force myself to blink. Then I turn on the shower to at least take away all the blood on the floor of the tub, before it congeals and becomes harder to remove.

I go make myself a cup of coffee. So my wife is dead. Lots of people have dead wives. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Roger Clarke – widower. Single father of two adorable kids. The personals ad practically writes itself. Sure, his wife died under mysterious circumstances, but I’m sure she was a heartless whore. And he’s such a nice guy. People are gonna say. It sounds fair to me. Coffee tastes good. I take a biscuit. I go into a different bathroom to see if I have any blood on me. Thankfully, no. I don’t feel like taking a shower right now.

I’m still in my night clothes, a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. That’s okay. I have nowhere to go. I sit in m chair for a bit, My Gun in My Hand. Such a powerful word – my. Small word, so much power. I’m feeling restless after the coffee, so I get up and get into my car. My Gun still has seven bullets left. You know where this is going. It’s gonna be fun. And it won’t take too long. Fourth wall again. Meh.

I park in my regular parking spot next to my office. So sweet of them to still keep my spot open. I’ll be sure to thank Gibson for the hospitality. I’m a nice guy. And nice guys finish last. Always.

People are staring at me as I ride the elevator to my floor in a t-shirt and shorts. Clearly not the appropriate dress code. I don’t know what The Office Slut is wearing. But I’m curious. I’m also a little giddy. I have a gun. They don’t. I win.

As the elevator stops on my floor, I walk out quietly, the gun tucked into my shorts and the tshirt covering the bulge. And oh, wonder of wonders, the first person I see is Gibson. I can see his bald head shining as he engages in conversation with one of the other guys in accounts. I keep walking towards him till he notices me. He seems startled, but not overly surprised. Calmly he says, “Roger, you shouldn’t be here. Not like this.”

“I wanted to thank you for keeping my parking spot open.” I tell him. I’m pretty sure he was going to say you’re welcome, but I’ll never find out. Maybe I should’ve waited a couple of seconds before shooting him in the throat. But I couldn’t wait. Conversation isn’t the most fun thing to do at times like this. Gibson’s eyes bulge out, and his mouth is open. The big hole in his throat is spouting blood like a faucet. He collapses at my feet. It’s all breathtakingly beautiful. I look up at the security camera in the ceiling. I’m hoping it’s taken some good footage. This would make for excellent reality television. Maybe one of those cop shows. I’m at least hoping for a good picture for the newspapers.

In my funk I’ve forgotten about the existence of the other guy – the guy Gibson was talking to. Fortunately, he appears to have forgotten bladder control, as well as the ability to move or articulate words. Good thing people in accounts don’t need to talk too much. Backroom boys, as they call us. This fellow isn’t going to make much of himself at the frontline. I shoot him too. In the forehead.

Everybody in the office knows that something bad has happened. Gunshots are loud. Louder than you can imagine. A gunshot literally sounds like a brick wall hitting your face. I peer behind the glass door, and I can vaguely make out The Asshole and The Office Slut hiding behind desk chairs. This should be fun. I try to open the door but it’s locked. I shoot the lock and the door pops open. A small corner of my brain tells me that I have four bullets left. More than enough.

“Hey. Asshole. Come out from behind there.” I actually say asshole, and not his name. More fun that way.

“What do you want from me Roger?!” He shrieks. I can hear The Office Slut sobbing. Exhilerating stuff, all this.

“I just wanna be in the newspaper bro. Tomorrow, I will be. It’s nice to have people discussing your name. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” I say gently. It’s true. I didn’t wanna shoot myself sitting alone in my room. Nobody’s gonna notice that. Nobody noticed me while I was alive. People are going to have to notice me when I’m dead. It’s only fair. At least all the people who have wronged me, do not deserve to casually continue living their wonderful lives while I rot in pieces. It’s only fair. Plus, I get to be in the newspaper. I can practically see the headline – NICE GUY ROGER CLARKE TAKES REVENGE FOR INJUSTICES. I’ll be an inspiration to nice people everywhere to not give up.

The Asshole doesn’t respond. For a couple of seconds I can’t even hear him breathe. All I can hear is the Office Slut crying. This isn’t fun anymore. This needs to go down faster. I fire a shot where my best estimate of The Asshole is. It misses, but his head jerks up in surprise. I shoot again. Bullseye! I hit him square in his right eye. Blood starts pouring over the wonderful mahogany conference table. They’re probably gonna want to have to replace that.

“Roger! I always liked you! I was your friend!” Office Slut screams out.

“Yeah. No. Get up. Now.” I say. I’m really starting to hit my zone here. I quietly trace my footsteps over around the table, and find much to my delight that I’ve crept up on her from behind. She’s leaning forward. I can see up her skirt. She’s wearing blue panties. I shoot her in the back of her head and she collapses too. Done and done.

The last bullet isn’t for me though. Or for anyone else here. It’s for the window. I shoot at the window till it breaks down. Then I jump. In my last five seconds of consciousness, I fly. Flying is awesome. Everyone should try it. Newspaper front pages, here I fucking come.


PSYCHO KILLER KILLS FOUR

Psycho killer Roger Clarke, in a horrific spree yesterday, killed five people, including a neighboring female he supposedly was infatuated with and used to spy on, and four people he worked with, in one of the worst office shootings the city has seen in a long time. This comes close to the fifth anniversary of the Virginia Tech Shootings .While nobody knows much about Roger Clarke, it has been brought to our attention that Melissa Harper, his neighbor, had taken out a restraining order against him for spying on her and being obsessed with her. The report from that restraining order states that she found out that he had manufactured a key to her apartment. She was shot in the back of the head three times, and is survived by her two kids – Erika and Jodie, both of whom will be placed in an orphanage now since they have no legal guardians. Roger Clarke had been ordered to see a psychiatrist for dementia, but had missed his last four appointments. While the last life he took was his own, the city mourns the carnage this madman caused in his dying moments.