Tutorial

Account

Forums

Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Gander’s Sauce.

Category: Issue 16

The hardest part of the whole procedure was getting him over the banister. But here I am again, starting a story at the end. 

His name was Peter Needle and of course everyone in the office called him the Prick, its uncanny how some people’s names seem to fit. A thin, sharp-featured little man with non-descript hair, and a film of sweat that glossed his face with a silver sheen even in the coldest weather.

You’d think he was some high flyer instead of just the manager of a small advertising firm.  He tried to convince the female staff that he was chick bait - as he called it - more like chick shit, I thought, and so did the rest of the girls in the office. Unfortunately those who turned down his advances seemed to get dismissed shortly afterwards.

His idea of good management was to lace his comments with sarcasm.  ‘If you had twice the brains, you’d still be an idiot.’ Or ‘No wonder your ass is so fat, you never get off it.’ Apparently he was also a hands-on sort of guy. Several of the younger girls complained he made moves on them. Brushing against them or accidentally touching their breasts. He was clever with it, no one ever saw any of these incidents, and it was his word against theirs, so nobody reported it.

My sister, Julie, came to work in the office as a junior and he started his shenanigans with her. Touching up my little sister was a no, no in my book and this was when I decided enough was enough.

I can’t recall exactly when the idea of how to remove him from the office became less of a fantasy and more of a plan. It somehow evolved on its own and I found myself taking the first steps.

I decided flattery was the key. I have to blow my own trumpet here and say I’m not too bad to look at. Blonde, long legs and I’m told, a bit like a fair-haired Kate Moss but with more curves. Whatever, I get my share of wolf whistles.

And so the game began.

I leaned across his desk one morning, showing plenty of cleavage at the neck of a slinky red dress, and let my hand linger over his. He got so excited I nearly felt sorry for him, but not quite. After a couple of weeks of furtive smiles and come-on glances from me, he slipped a note between the pages of a memo asking for a date.
I didn’t want to appear too eager, so I waited until the end of the day, then leaned into him and whispered ‘Pick me up at seven.’

We spent the first date at restaurant, where he bragged about his triumphs. Starting with school and rambling on until he got to how our company had literally begged him to become manager.

‘They actually poached me from another company. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ The cliché hung in the air while he waited for my response.

I gave the required exclamations of wonder. ‘Well they certainly made the right choice when they employed you, Peter.’

He gave a tight little smile of satisfaction and toasted me with his glass of Asti Spumento. ‘Here’s to us.’

The evening lurched to an end outside my apartment with a kiss. I was wondering how many more boring evenings I was going to have to spend before the next move. He must have read my thoughts, the sweaty, kiss turned into a full tongue down the throat, hand on the ass scenario. Although I had to hold down a moment of nausea, I smiled sweetly.

‘Not here. I share a flat, I can’t invite you in.’ I forced a note of regret into my voice.

His breathing slowed and his small, watery eyes swam back into focus. ‘Christ, why didn’t you say so before,’ he hissed.

I pretended not to notice the anger on his face. ‘I didn’t know what your intentions were, now did I?’

‘Well, you didn’t think I was going to stand on your doorstep kissing your cheek for the rest of my life, did you?’

I was silent for a moment and then as if I had just thought of it, I whispered huskily. ‘Suppose I came and spent next weekend with you?’  He’d already described the house he’d inherited from his parents, virtually brick by brick. It was in the depth of the countryside and the isolated location suited my purpose admirably.

The triumph in his eyes belied his casual tone. ‘Okay, why not. Come down Saturday evening. I’ll cook us a meal – I’m a great cook.’

Of course you are, I thought.

***

The following Saturday I packed a small bag and checked essentials for the plan. Digital camera, sleeping pills, and a garish, cerise coloured roll of nylon ribbon.


The house was quite impressive. Tall bay windows flanked the door on either side. The curtains were not drawn and shafts of light revealed a well-tended lawn ending in a bank of trees.

Wearing a black skirt, too shiny and too short, a white sweater too tight and too low, and looking like a hooker touting for business I parked my car and rang the bell.

The door opened and the Prick emerged in a mid-night blue smoking jacket and yellow cravat, like something out of an old melodrama.

‘Good evening, my dear. You look delightful.’

I fluttered my eyelashes and managed not to laugh.

After an indifferent meal and a few scarcely veiled hints at his sexual prowess Needle poured coffee. ‘How about a glass of port?’ he said.

‘Mmmm lovely.’ I replied. He strutted to the drinks cabinet, and while his back was turned I managed to lace his coffee with sleeping powder.

I sipped my drink and watched his eyelids droop. He yawned loudly and I said in a husky tone. ‘You seem tired, should we go to bed?’

With a pleased smile he took my hand and led me up a long staircase to the master bedroom. I think he imagined foreplay was something that happened on the golf course, because once inside his hand went straight to the hem of my skirt.

I gave a girlish giggle and kissed his cheek. ‘Wait a minute, I’ve brought something special to wear. You’ll love it,’ I said, resisting his effort to push me onto the bed.

His eyes narrowed and for moment I thought he wasn’t going to stop.

‘Okay, but it’d better be good,’ he said and although his lips were stretched in a tight smile, I could hear a note of irritation in his voice.

I took my bag into the on-suite bathroom and hung around until I heard his soft snores.  Guessing that the pills had worked, I opened the door and crept across the white, shag-pile carpet..

He lay naked above the covers like a grey slug.  Between forefinger and thumb - I’d forgotten to bring gloves – I lifted his equipment, and tied the pink ribbon securely around the lot, finishing with a flamboyant bow. Scurrying round like paparazzi I snapped photos from all angles.

My plan was to circulate them around the office and send a few to the director. The head of the company and his wife were staunch churchgoers and rather than face scandal, I hoped that they would request Needle’s resignation.

Unfortunately, and it was here my enthusiasm got the better of me; an idea to further his humiliation came to mind. I eased him out of bed, dragged him by the shoulders into the hall, and propped him over the banister. Balancing his weight, by hoisting his arms and upper torso out over the hallway, I tied both ends of the trailing ribbon to the railings and placed my knickers on his head. I was just crossing his feet into a suitably nonchalant pose for the camera when Needle opened his eyes.

Now, whether it was panic at finding his head encased in a pair of knickers, I don’t know, but he kicked out. The remaining foot slipped on the polished floor and he toppled backwards over the banister suspended by his tackle. He dangled in mid-air, his arms flailing as if he was swimming a back stroke, and screaming like a girl as the pink ribbon tightening with every jerk of his body.

I put my hands over my ears and ran down the stairs. I stood in the hallway and looked up at him as he dangled above my head. I hadn’t intended things should go so far and now I couldn’t pull him back up.

He grew still. Blood dripped in red circles at my feet. I heard myself whimpering,
and scrunched against the wall.

His naked body slapped the varnished floorboards as he finally fell free. Moments later, the rest of him plopped d beside his body. Frilled around his genitals the torn flesh from his stomach and thighs gave the grotesque appearance of a limp nosed, mouth-less face.

My heart thudded and my legs felt drained. Small whines of panic whistled from between my lips as I packed the few things I’d taken from my bag and wiped down everything I’d touched. Fortunately there were no close neighbours to see me as I crept away in the early hours before dawn.

***

I lived in fear for the next few days. After all, the guy was dead and I’d killed him. Detectives questioned the staff, and to my relief they seemed to think Needle had been into weirdo drug and sexual activity with some unknown male partner. I congratulated myself that I’d not been stupid enough to confide in anyone.

Everything settled back to near normal. Without Needle we office girls had a few, fun weeks in which we didn’t get a lot of work done.  The irony of it all is with no one to run the office I was promoted to his job, and yesterday I heard myself say to one of the staff.

‘If you had twice the brain you’d still be an idiot. Get up off your fat ass and do some work.’

Posted by littlewhitewolf on 10/29 at 11:41 AM | Permalink
(1) Discuss • (0) Comments

« The Fields Of Melancholy      The Greatest Escape »