The Office

"John, what's your stats like today?" Timothy Mallory buzzes in my
ear like an annoying insect. Idly I stare into the middle distance,
casually eying up the cute arse of Monica the office secretary. I have
no idea why I do, she hardly interests me, very few people do nowadays,
at least until they start screaming. I sigh as Timothy repeats the
question, his voice has a whining edge to it, a sharp nasal inclination
that begins his sentence. Barely I resist the urge to plunge my letter
opener into his bladder. His crotch is several inches from my face, and
I feel uncomfortable at his close proximity to me, his invasion of my
personal space.
"Crap as usual." My flat response doesn't phase him like I'd hoped,
maybe I should tell him to fuck off, or threaten to follow him home and
stab him to death with his gold plated fountain pen. I always hated my
job, and I still hate everyone around me. If I didn't need the money
I'd have found something that was worthwhile, not that there was
anything else other than crappy nine to five, minimum wage jobs that
even a goddamned computer would find mundane in this city. Timothy
interrupts my train of thought.
"Oh, and why's that? You know Dickson wanted those stats by 9.30, he'll
be pissed if he's gotta go into the meeting with the shareholders and
the stats aren't there for his presentation." He looks at me as if the
thought of the fat sack of shit that calls himself a manager getting
fucked off would intimidate me. I almost laughed at him. He would be
even more pissed off if he realised that I'm the guy who's been sending
him Jiffy Bags full of rotten meat for the past three weeks.
"Tim, its 9.45 now, if Dickson wanted those stats by 9.30, then he
should have given me more than forty five minutes to finish them in.
Now I can get them done for 10.15, but only if you let me get back to
work." I stare at him. Hard. The man looks like a typical corporate
rent boy, too busy kissing the arse of the middle management to know
when he's overstepped the boundaries. How many blowjobs did he give to
Dickson to land his job as Team Leader? I'm sorry, I digress, sometimes
I let my negativity get the better of me. Timothy Mallory, is five foot
nine, of white, lower class shit, he got his job through being buddies
with the boss, and probably fucking his way into the good books of the
manageress of the Personnel Department. He's got the looks, I'll give
him that. Kind of looks like Leonardo Di-Caprio in an Armani Suit.
Thing is, the little turd's thick as shit. It always riles me up, when
he thinks he's giving me a dressing down, like he's got his job because
he's more intelligent than I am, or that he's somehow better than me.
He's also younger than me, by a long, long way. I grin at him, not
smiling, just showing him my teeth.
"Look, tell him I'll be as quick as I can, and that I'll deliver them
personally." Timothy looks annoyed, he glares at me and responds "Okay,
but if this bollocks up, its you taking the fall." He then turns and
leaves, probably going to the toilet for a wank. The other office
staff, pretend to look busy, as the gossips begin to whisper in the
stony silence. I have a feeling its going to be a good day.

Its 1.30pm, I still haven't done the stats for Timothy, or Dickson, I'm
not going to either. Its just so funny watching Timmy boy squirm, and
then restraining myself from bludgeoning him with my antique pewter
desk lamp. He should be back any minute, no doubt he'll want to drag me
into his office for yet another disciplinary hearing. I look at my PC,
still displaying the porn site I logged onto. Since I got back home
last year, nothing seems to do it for me. Not women, not drugs, not
booze, just violence, and food, I like to eat. I hear footsteps
approaching, rapid, heavy steps. Not a woman, unless its that fat slut
Janine coming back from the vending machine, no it's a man, its Timmy.
I don't look up. I smile slightly as he stands there, fuming, I can
feels his anger, it's the only thing that I can feel, that and boredom,
all my other emotions left me when I went away. He wants me too look up
at him, to feign surprise, I do neither, and sit and watch Asia Carerra
get fist fucked by Chasey Lain on the movie I just downloaded. He cant
see my screen, not that I'd give a shit. I think I spoiled his plans.
He compensates quickly.
"Well?" He stands there hands gripping my partition, his knuckles turn
white as he grips the wood. I look up, and pretend to yawn.
"Well what?" I laugh manically on the inside.
"Where the hell were the stats you said you'd do? You made me and Mike
look like prats!" He spat the last sentence at me accusingly. I smiled
at him, genuinely this time.
"I couldn't be bothered." Its funny how you can notice all the little
details when you don't join others in their anger, for example, I liked
the way the blood rose in his face, and his pupils dilated, and then
how a vein in his temple kept throbbing in time to his pulse, funny
that. I observed the vein jump again.
"What did you just say?" he screamed. I smile magnanimously.
"I couldn't be bothered, what's wrong with your hearing, you have your
head to far up "Mike's" arse?"

He turned white, nostrils flaring.
"Into my office, now you little bastard!" I laughed, my exchange had
been low, so that no one in the department could hear, but Timothy's
outburst caused a dozen heads to turn in our direction in shock. I
stood slowly, a grin spread across my face.
"Okay Tim, you're the boss." I followed obediently into his
office.

The room was very much unlike the 50 meter square cell which I and 25
other people worked in every day. The lighting was quite subtle,
tasteful even, and the walls were painted with a warm shade of peach.
The huge window outside showed the London skyline to great effect. The
sunlight glittered warmly upon the mahogany desk. Designer naturally,
very modern, large and highly expensive. A sleek black PC sat on one
side of the large leather chair, and a picture of a woman holding a
child was present on the desk. Probably Timothy's wife and daughter.
I'll take that picture for future reference, after I'm finished with
this little shit. I notice that the room smells faintly of wood polish,
obviously the cleaners have been in today, which means that they will
next be in the day after tomorrow. Tim closes the door behind us, and
steps behind the desk.
"We need to talk about your attitude, and the fact that you may have
cost us a sixty-five-thousand quid contract. He steeples his hands in
front of him, he pauses as if expecting me to grovel. I stand there
grinning at him.
"What the hell is so funny John? What? What are you grinning at?" He
sounds indignant. I like that. I still don't respond, just stand there,
staring at him. He stands now, his anger rising like a tide.
"Why are you smirking like the fucking Cheshire Cat?!" He glares at me,
his arms flail for a moment as he looses control, he clamps them by his
side again, obviously fighting to maintain his composure. He sighs,
resigned, and slumps down on his chair. He opens his mouth as if to say
something, then his jaw snaps shut as I speak.
"If you really want to know, know why I'm laughing, I'll tell you."
Timmy looks like he's going to respond, but I cut him off.
"I'm grinning like the "Fucking Cheshire Cat", because I'm going to
kill you." My voice is calm, deliberately, I say this all like I'm
reassuring a child that everything will be okay, and that the monsters
under the bed can't possibly hurt them. I continue.
"I'm going to kill you, and feed on your blood to make myself strong,
and then I'm going to climb inside your skin, and kill that fat fucking
boss of yours, then find your families and kill all of them as well." I
pause to enjoy the expressions of shock and fear that cross his face in
quick succession. He reaches for the buzzer to call security. He stands
quickly, making sure the desk is between the two of us.
"Oh by the way, that button you just pressed, it, uh, no longer works,
I took the liberty of making sure that the cables were cut. Hope I
don't get charged for damaging office property." I smile at the
expression of incredulity, which passes across his features. He looks
as if this is just some horrible dream, that he will wake up if he just
concentrates.
"Why&;#8230;why are you saying this?" he slurs the words as if he
were drunk. Still not registering what I just said to him. I smile
carnivorously. I know that his shock won't last long, soon he will
scream for help, and then people will come running, running, and even I
can't afford that to happen. As if sensing my thoughts, he opens his
mouth to scream for help.
"SHUT UP!" My voice, laden with my power bores into his mind. His mouth
clamps shut on reflex, and he stumbles as if I'd just punched him in
the gut.
"Good boy, now if I recall, you asked me a question, and guess what?
I'm in a good mood today, so I'm going to answer. Three years ago, you
fired a guy named Michael Clark, remember?" He shakes his head
dumbly.
"Small guy, five foot ten, short brown hair, quiet. You fired him
because he came up with an idea to save this shitty company when you
and your boyfriend Dickson were facing the dole queue. You took credit
for his work, then found some excuse to sack him." He looks blank, he
remembers, I know it, he just doesn't want to admit to it.
"You know what I'm talking about, so don't play fucking dumb you little
shit!" I'm getting angry now, and this prick is only going to make
things worse for himself. He's starting to realise the severity of his
predicament&;#8230;good. A thick sheen of perspiration covers his
features, and his suit is now rumpled from the exertion of trying to
break my influence.
"Don't worry Timmy, I'm not going to damage your skin to much, I need
it for when I meet your Wife and kids."

He finally manages to gurgle in horror as I drop my false face and show
him the real me. I notice a dark stain appear on the front of his
trousers, as he looks at the decayed walking corpse wrapped in the ill
fitting suit, that clawed its way out of Mike Clark's grave. I grin, a
charnel rictus, as I advance in three easy strides towards him. I grasp
his head in my withered hands, thick trails of mucous drip from his
nose, and his eyes roll wildly with terror. My jaw dislocates, and I
lunge forward hungrily, my mouth covers his in a gruesome display like
a necrophiliac's wet dream. I heave, and the parasitic mass of maggots
and chittering insects that inhabit my corpse and give me my power,
surge into his mouth. He chokes and gurgles satisfyingly, as my inner
corruption tunnels into the warm flesh of his nose and throat, then the
warm moist sacs of his lungs and the dark caverns of his still living
body. The buzzing swarm envelops us both, I feel my grip on my old body
failing, and the insectile thing that I am, ripples through his
thrashing body, feeding on his blood, breeding deep in his innards, and
hollowing out his internal organs, to accommodate my essence. I am
stronger now. He finally dies, and I feel it with something almost
approaching sensual pleasure, when I enter his skull, and with frenzied
rending, I devour his brain, and make his corpse my own.

Slowly, I stand noting the destruction of the office. My former body is
now little more than a mass of polished bones, and flensed scraps of
clothing. Odd, that I feel nothing for it now, and that my goal, that
of vengeance is now partially completed. Vengeance for someone I used
to be, before I died, alone and homeless after loosing it all. Still,
not much further to go now. Not long till I rest in peace. I walk
slowly towards the mirror above Tim Mallory's, no, my, desk. I smile
slowly, waiting until the insects beneath the skin finish adjusting to
their new home, then I walk out the office. I stop, and smile at Mike's
secretary Christy. I flash her a winning grin and perch on the edge of
her desk.
"Christy, can you make sure that no one disturbs John, we, uh, had a
talk, and he's working on a special project for me. Oh and could you
get me a nine-thirty appointment with Mike for, oh, say Wednesday? Oh
and by the way, you look great today, would you like to go to dinner
tonight?"