Cuteskunk BBS/cuteskunk.zip/cuteskunk/Text-Files/Milk-And-Tea/milk-tea.011

Text File | 2003-06-29 | 10KB | 165 lines

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            Issue #011   -   "The Wastebasket"   -   by Groovy Mann
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     ⌡                                                                  ⌡

     I had been going over the Spencer books when I glanced down at the
wastebasket beside my desk.  At its bottom, on top of the crumpled wastepaper,
lay a head, eyes half-open, staring up at me.
     I forced my eyes back to my desk.
     As surreptitiously as I could, I scanned the office.  It was a large,
chiefly unpartitioned room, containing some twenty desks.  Everyone seemed
busy enough.  Nobody appeared to be watching me.
     I added a column of figures slowly.
     Were all of them in on it?  Were they all waiting for my reaction--or
just Lacy?
     Even though I had not finished adding the column, I turned the page,
giving me the opportunity to raise my eyes again.
     Lacy sat at his desk, apparently going over contracts of some sort--or
pretending to?
     What did he expect of me?  That I would scream and faint when I saw the
head in my wastebasket?
     Yes, probably; it had been that way last week when I opened my desk
drawer and had seen the severed arm.
     The arm had been wax, of course; a clever wax model of a severed arm.
     Lacy had come to the firm some three months ago and that had been the
beginning of an epidemic of "practical" jokes--the buzzer in the palm, the
squirting flower, the exploding cigar.
     It was several weeks before he turned to me as one of his victims.
Perhaps he overlooked me at first because I was generally characterized as
colorless.  I do my work quietly and leave at the end of the day.
     I am in my early fifties and have been employed by Big Black Tools,
Records Division, for some thirty years, never missing a day except to attend
my mother's funeral.  Sigh....
     I carefully studied the wastebasket again.  Yes, certainly a wax head;
frankly, not very realistic at all--no color in the cheeks.  Still, perhaps
that was the way it was supposed to look--drained of blood.
     The head appeared strangely familiar but it took me a few more moments to
recognize it.  Of course; it was supposed to represent the head of Bronson,
the janitor.  Not a very good likeness, though; the face was too thin, the
hair too coarse.
     Now, just what should I do about this?  Ignore the head all day?  Throw
my wastepaper on top of it and pretend that I had simply never noticed it at
all?
     I found myself smiling as I imagined Bronson emptying the office
wastebaskets at the end of the day and seeing his own head tumbling out of one
of them.
     Or should I now just calmly get to my feet and empty the wastebasket on
Lacy's desk, saying something like "I believe this head belongs to you?"
     Yes, that would be most satisfactory.  Unfortunately, I couldn't do it.
It was a bit too exhibitionistic for my nature.
     My eyes went to the head again.  Yes, it was quite artificial.  Even
those drops of blood on the wastepaper were obvious fakes--brown, instead of
red.
     Did genuine blood turn brown after exposure to the air?
     My hands were a bit damp.
     Of course it was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous, but suppose that were a
real head in the wastebasket?  Wouldn't a human head be somewhat drained of
blood and probably appear waxen?
     Yet it was absolutely insane to think that anyone would actually put
a human head into my wastebasket.  How could Lacy possibly have managed it?
He couldn't just walk across a crowded office carrying a dripping head.
     Suppose he had let it drain first?  Suppose he had put it into a paper
bag or some other container?  Suppose he had deposited the head in my
wastebasket before eight o'clock this morning when no one was about in the
office?
     If this were, indeed, a human head, then it was no longer just a
practical joke.  This was murder!
     I wiped my forehead with a handkerchief.
     Why would anyone want to murder the janitor?  Why go through the ritual
of severing his head and placing it in my wastebasket?
     The answer seemed painfully obvious.
     If Bronson's head were found in my wastebasket, everyone--certainly the
police--would immediately jump to the conclusion that I had killed Bronson.
My fingerprints would surely be on the very crumpled paper on which the head
rested.
     What possible motive could I have for such a crime, though?  I did not
even remember talking to Bronson in my life.  Perhaps I had nodded to him in
passing, but that was all.
     I became aware of the office boy routinely going from desk to desk
picking up the early morning outgoing mail.  He would be here in a few
moments.
     I almost panicked, but then I saw my briefcase leaning against my desk.
Quickly I put it on top of the wastebasket.
     The office boy came whistling to my desk, removed the three letters in my
outbox, and moved on.
     I took a deep breath.
     This was all insane.  The head had to be wax.  All I had to do was just
reach into the wastebasket and touch...
     But suppose it wasn't wax?  Suppose it was really the janitor's head?
     I went to the water cooler and swallowed two aspirin.
     How could the police possibly believe that I could murder Bronson? I
certainly had no motive--but did a crime like this need a motive?
     It was one thing to kill Bronson, but quite another to cut off his head
and deposit it in a wastebasket.  It was the work of a madman and madmen do
not need motives.
     I grimly imagined the speculation of the state psychiatrists and
psychologists.  The very steadiness and order that were my strength and
stability would now be regarded as suppressions.
     I led a quiet life.  I had no hobbies, no close friends.  I had never
married and I lived alone with one roommate, a bachelor like myself.
     I cut the grass regularly.  I rose at the same time every morning and
went to bed at the same time every evening.  I did not drink, except for the
occasional wine cooler.  I did not smoke marijuana or cigarettes.  I had never
been absent from work a single day, except for that funeral.
     Would they make something out of that, too?
     Whether the head was wax or not, I would have to get rid of it
immediately--but how?  Should I simply pick up the wastebasket and walk out
of here?
     No.  If it were a real head, would the murderer allow me to dispose of it
so easily?  After all, he had gone through the trouble of planting it in my
wastebasket.
     Would he "accidentally" jostle me and knock the basket from my hands as I
passed, causing the head to tumble to the floor over and over?
     I would need a box.  That was it.  When I was positive that no one was
looking, I would quickly empty my wastebasket into the box.  I would walk out
of the office with the box under my arm, apparently taking it to the mailroom
for wrapping, but I would drop it down the chute to the incinerator instead.
     I let myself into the corridor and followed it to the door at the far
end.  I opened it and stepped inside.  The storeroom seemed shaded and deathly
quiet.  Evidently no one was here at the moment.
     I moved toward a table of apparently empty boxes at the farthest end of
the room.  I stopped.  I saw the black shoes, the dark gray uniform coveralls,
the...
     The body had no head--and beside it lay a large bloody knife.
     I heard footsteps in the corridor and saw the silhouette against the
opaque glass.  The knob turned and the door opened.  It was Reznor, the office
manager.  He closed the door behind him.
     At my desk, I frowned.  What had I been doing last?  These damn headaches
played havoc with my memory.
     Miss Ruiz came to me with some papers.
     She glanced down into my wastebasket and saw the two heads, side by
side--the head of Bronson and the head of Reznor.
     Her eyes widened.
     I sighed.  Why must they always try to scream?
     I reached into the bottom drawer of my desk for the knife and used it for
the third time that morning.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │ MiLK & TeA Sights:                                                         │
 │                                                                            │
 │                    The Obloid Sphere 41:708/1 [708]965-3098 [Illinoizze]   │
 │           The Land of Rape and Honey 41:609/1 [609]698-1358 [New Jarsee]   │
 │                                                                            │
 │ Note: These are the only two MiLK & TeA sights to date.  There are like    │
 │ 10,000 other boards supposedly ready to be milk and tea sights, but until  │
 │ I get the news that say they are ready to distribute, They'll remain       │
 │ unlisted. -Jamesy                                                          │
 │                                                                            │
 │ An udder note: The addresses listed above are for [LaMENeT], The offical   │
 │ net of M&T.  You can reach the editors of M&T through the boards listed    │
 │ above with LaMENeT Addresses.  Whoomp, there it is.                        │
 │                                                                            │
 │ .nfo:           File: #011          Author: Groovy Man                     │
 │                 Size: 10325 Bytes    Title: "The Wastebasket"               │
 │                                                                            │
 └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘