First of all, you couldn’t have followed my protocols to the letter or they wouldn’t have tracked you without you knowing it. Second, you shared the same office with another professional for weeks and you never even suspected him. Finally, you failed to get any intel from him before you shut him down. So tell me, who the hell else should I blame?”
“I see your point,” I acquiesce.
I act like I’ve been humbled by Bob’s diatribe because I desperately need some sleep. Vanity and pride are Bob’s weaknesses, and when you feign submission to what he believes is his superior intellect, you trigger both. It makes him soften his edge a bit and revert to his mentor persona, the one that has been “nurturing” me since I was recruited.
“Use my shower. I’ll have someone bring in food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat it anyway.”
“Okay.”
“Let me see your wound dressings.”
I take off my shirt and pants and show him—big gash on my hip that I stitched myself. Several minor cuts with butterfly bandages, etc.
“Not satisfied with the hip laceration. Starting to look inflamed. We’ll get that recleaned and stapled. And I’m going to put you on Clindamycin for infection. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
If he had a heart it would melt.
“Get some rest. We’ll work this out.”
The warm and fuzzy feeling I got from Bob in that moment went away quickly when, after I showered and had to endure the reopening,cleaning, and stapling of my wound, he locked me in one of the empty offices and left the storm troopers outside all night. He told me they were there for my own protection, but I knew why they were there. Cleanup crew. If I’m blown at Bendini, I get swept back under the rug where Bob found me.
15
----
MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE
A s I mentally climb the walls of my well-appointed office prison, I decide to fully mind fuck myself with all the questions and implications that have come out of me having to whack my intern supervisor in my own apartment. Now that things are clearly heating up over at the firm, what with Hartman trying to turn my head inside out and all, my assignment has just become exponentially more complicated. There will be a fire under my ass like never before, and I’ll get burned if I don’t move quickly and avoid all complications. The more I run through everything in my mind, the more I realize that there is one thing I need to do if I want to make it out of here alive:
I have to kill Alice.
I’m sure that sounds cold to some of you. Work on that. To those who have been thinking I should have done it when I first found out she was a fed, you get extra credit. Her presence is only going to make things ten times more dangerous for me now, and I’m too close to retiring to fuck things up and end up getting smoked or, worse yet, eating shit in prison for a dozen consecutive life terms.
The story will come out about Hartman being found shot dead by his homosexual lover (Bob’s cliché du jour, not mine), and Alice will smell a rat because there is a conspicuous lack of a body to verify the story. That whole habeas corpus thing is kind of important toFBI agents. I told Bob the party line should simply be that Hartman disappeared. Disappearance raises questions, but none of them can be answered without a fucking body. Throw an actual narrative (currently unverifiable) into the mix and you’ve got people like Alice trying to connect the bullet holes to draw a picture of who pulled the trigger and then tried to cover his tracks with a story that would have been summarily rejected in the Murder, She Wrote writing room. Elementary, my dear Watson, he was drilled by Colonel Mustard with his own gun in the IKEA living room.
My head is going to explode. How did things ever get this fucked-up? Maybe Bob is right. Maybe I am slipping. Then I remember the scene in Blade Runner when Roy Batty shoves a nail into his hand to make sure he can still feel
“I see your point,” I acquiesce.
I act like I’ve been humbled by Bob’s diatribe because I desperately need some sleep. Vanity and pride are Bob’s weaknesses, and when you feign submission to what he believes is his superior intellect, you trigger both. It makes him soften his edge a bit and revert to his mentor persona, the one that has been “nurturing” me since I was recruited.
“Use my shower. I’ll have someone bring in food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat it anyway.”
“Okay.”
“Let me see your wound dressings.”
I take off my shirt and pants and show him—big gash on my hip that I stitched myself. Several minor cuts with butterfly bandages, etc.
“Not satisfied with the hip laceration. Starting to look inflamed. We’ll get that recleaned and stapled. And I’m going to put you on Clindamycin for infection. Just to be on the safe side.”
“Thanks, Bob.”
If he had a heart it would melt.
“Get some rest. We’ll work this out.”
The warm and fuzzy feeling I got from Bob in that moment went away quickly when, after I showered and had to endure the reopening,cleaning, and stapling of my wound, he locked me in one of the empty offices and left the storm troopers outside all night. He told me they were there for my own protection, but I knew why they were there. Cleanup crew. If I’m blown at Bendini, I get swept back under the rug where Bob found me.
15
----
MY HEAD IS GOING TO EXPLODE
A s I mentally climb the walls of my well-appointed office prison, I decide to fully mind fuck myself with all the questions and implications that have come out of me having to whack my intern supervisor in my own apartment. Now that things are clearly heating up over at the firm, what with Hartman trying to turn my head inside out and all, my assignment has just become exponentially more complicated. There will be a fire under my ass like never before, and I’ll get burned if I don’t move quickly and avoid all complications. The more I run through everything in my mind, the more I realize that there is one thing I need to do if I want to make it out of here alive:
I have to kill Alice.
I’m sure that sounds cold to some of you. Work on that. To those who have been thinking I should have done it when I first found out she was a fed, you get extra credit. Her presence is only going to make things ten times more dangerous for me now, and I’m too close to retiring to fuck things up and end up getting smoked or, worse yet, eating shit in prison for a dozen consecutive life terms.
The story will come out about Hartman being found shot dead by his homosexual lover (Bob’s cliché du jour, not mine), and Alice will smell a rat because there is a conspicuous lack of a body to verify the story. That whole habeas corpus thing is kind of important toFBI agents. I told Bob the party line should simply be that Hartman disappeared. Disappearance raises questions, but none of them can be answered without a fucking body. Throw an actual narrative (currently unverifiable) into the mix and you’ve got people like Alice trying to connect the bullet holes to draw a picture of who pulled the trigger and then tried to cover his tracks with a story that would have been summarily rejected in the Murder, She Wrote writing room. Elementary, my dear Watson, he was drilled by Colonel Mustard with his own gun in the IKEA living room.
My head is going to explode. How did things ever get this fucked-up? Maybe Bob is right. Maybe I am slipping. Then I remember the scene in Blade Runner when Roy Batty shoves a nail into his hand to make sure he can still feel
Similar Books
