They'd been whispering about me behind my back for weeks.
"Don't you find it weird?"
"Who wears a sandwich head on their head?"
"Maybe we should call somebody?"
"Yeah, but I don't wanna lose my job."
Today it was ham, Limburger & Swiss with a dollop of horseradish. Yesterday had been a bacon and blue cheese and the day before PB&B, mostly because I find jam, jelly and marmalade to be thoroughly heinous excuses for foodstuffs. Ah, but bananas, now you're talking my language.
Now let me be precise. The sandwiches I wore were not on my head proper, but rather they were attached to the propeller of my beanie.
And, they were hermetically sealed within an oft recycled Ziploc sandwich bag, unless of course you want to get technical and count all the pinholes I compulsively poked in said bag.
It wasn't an easy balancing act. On the one hand I needed to let my aromatic sandwiches breathe like a fine grape, but, on the other, I wanted to avoid getting crumbs all over my custom tailored Armanis.
Vanity exacts its toll, and appearances, while quite often deceiving are nevertheless invariably convincing.
It was 11:45 am on an overcast Wednesday morning and I was in the shitter, deep in a round of QuizUp and peristalsis, wondering how I was going to kill the next couple of hours before attending a very important meeting.
I heard the bathroom door open followed by the high strung voice of Sam, my partner and best friend since elementary school.
"Yeah, tell me about it, Boris. But what can I do?"
"Sam, you gotta do something. I've got ten years of my life invested in this. Clients are starting to talk. Yesterday he wore a frickin' bacon & blue cheese to the meeting with the Twitter boys. They kept wrinkling their noses and looking at their watches and Simon just kept spinning that fucking stupid propeller like a fucking reprobate!"
"Jesus Christ. Why didn't anyone call me? Do you know how much that account's worth?"
"Nobody wanted to bother you and anyway the damage was already done. He called them Twatter three fucking times and kept offering everybody a bite of his, 'sammich'! The fucking boardroom smelled like dirty ass, Sam!"
"Damnit Boris! I don't care if my wife was in labor! That was a fucking mission critical meet-Aw fuck! I got fucking piss all over my shoes! Godammit!"
I lost my QuizUp to some bloke in the UK who went by the handle, "Famous Anus", and immediately challenged him to a rematch while waiting for Sam and Boris to vacate the lavatory. I hoped neither the Limburger nor my stifled giggles would betray me.
When the coast was finally clear I flushed with my heel then abandoned the stall. In front of the mirror I checked my look. My eyes were seriously bloodshot and I needed a shave. Aw hell, I needed a lot of things but it was important to prioritize and right now dealing with an asshole was numero uno.
I dropped my pants to my ankles then hoisted myself up onto the sink. Reaching behind me I fussed with the faucet until it was just the right temperature for what needed to be done. I got ample soap pumped into palm then mixed it with some water and began to suds up my asshole with the all the pent up fury of a storm trooper assault on the rebel base.
Kevin, one of the architects in the .NET group, walked in the bathroom whistling a happy tune which he abruptly killed when he got a load of me swinging my ankles from my perch above the ad hoc bidet.
Kevin's jaw dropped a little while he stared at me.
"Hey, Kev! Whaddya say? Whaddya know?" I said brightening. I liked Kev. He was a laid back guy and a problem solver.
"Um, you okay there, boss?"
"Oh, yeah. Definitely. It's just, well, I despise fucking TP. I mean who the fuck in their right mind wants to smear Limburger shit all around their ass? But some hot suds and elbow grease? Can't beat that squeaky clean shiny heiny with a goon squad and a no-knock."
"Um, okay?"
"Say. You mind handing me some of those paper towels?"
Kevin frowned a tad, pulling off a few sheets from the dispenser. He handed them over without getting any closer than he absolutely had to.
"Actually, a couple of more please. Sometimes I gotta dig deep if you catch my drift."
Kevin complied with a forced smile then said, "Well, take care Simon."
Kevin turned around and was about to leave when...
"Hey!"
"Yeah, Simon?"
"Didn't you want to use the bathroom? Seat's all Limburger toasty in stall number three."
"Um, nah. I'm good."
I felt bad for putting Kev on the spot.
"It's okay, man. Sometimes I come in the bathroom just to melt wax on my nipples and contemplate a world where enemas are mandatory; and not just on weekends."
"Yeah. Okay, well later Simon."
An hour later there was a knock on my office door.
"If you ain't fucking Jesus Christ you better have a damn good reason," I hollered.
It was Sam. I fucking loved that guy but he was no messiah.
"What can I do ya for?" I asked, spinning my ham & cheese crown. "You want somesammich pal o' mine?"
"Simon, can we talk?"
"Um, whaddya call this?" I asked, with a vague Italian gesture.
"Sam, listen. Your behavior is really starting to worry me. People are talking. I need to know what's going on with you before the whole shit house goes up in flames."
I stood up and came around the desk. I walked right up to Sam and placed my hands on his shoulders. I looked him in the eye and said in a hushed tone, "Don't tell anybody Sam, but," I continued, looking both ways for the fabled flying asparagus, "my hoodie has a serious woody."
"Goddammit it all to hell, Simon! What the fuck? Have you lost your godammned mind? I mean-"
"Fermez la bouche, Sam! I have an urgent appointment with Calvin and I dare not dilly-dally. Seems his tiger trap app's APK has been hacked and started broadcasting secret transmissions from the Stephen Hawking of the future- only in Esperanto! Calvin says Spaceman Spiff's outta town and I'm the only one in the Valley who can program in Esperanto.
But fear not ol' pal! I'll be back before five and we can play Stretch Armstrong then, okay?"
"Simon, just listen to me man. You're not making any sense at all. Just talk to me for a second, wouldya? Please?"
I thought Sam was gonna make with the waterworks any second. It really tugged at my heartstrings but I had a tight deadline and had no time to coddle the poor bastard. If I was going to make my appointment on time I would have to change tack.
"Sam, I gotta ask you a serious question!"
"Okay."
"Can I borrow your lighter?"
"What?"
"Your Bic. Your Bic. It needs a flick."
Sam fished around in his pockets and finally handed me a blue Bic.
I bent over and torched a massive bacon and blue cheese flatus that I was sure singed more than a few short and curlies. I proferred Sam's lighter back at him as an aroma that could level Tacoma began to work its charms.
He just stared down at the cheap lighter sadly then said, "You keep it, okay, Simon? We'll talk later?"
"Thanks, Sam. If you need to quench your stench just breathe deep, young Lochnivar."
With that I took my leave. I descended the stairs double-time, all the way down to the parking lot. Sam's inconvenient intervention had put me exactly three minutes behind schedule.
I hopped in my silver Jag, heading out on the highway, looking for adventure and well, I'll get to that in a minute.
I listened to my favorite song seven times in a row while smoking a couple of bowls of the kush and trying to avoid getting pulled over for speeding.
At exactly 2:45 pm I pulled up to the front door of my eight bedroom semi-sprawling manse. Removing the Glock from underneath my seat I concealed it in the small of my back. I fished out my keys then let myself into the house.
Inside it was deceptively quiet. I lost my shoes, socks, and ham and cheese beanie, then cracked my neck in both directions.
"Showtime," I whispered to whomever was listening. I caught a glimpse of myself in the big hall mirror. I smiled broadly at my reflection. It smiled back.
Friendly world.
I then tiptoed up the long and winding stairs. I tiptoed some more down the long hall towards the master bedroom.
As I got closer the mid-afternoon silence slowly gave way to the moans of illicit, adulterous anal sex, the moans progressively gaining in volume according to principles laid out long ago by Herr Doppler.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. I pressed my ear carefully to it.
"God, fucking yes! Yes! Ram it up my poop shoot, Herve! Make that shithole yours, Papi!"
"Hijo de puta! We're out of Crisco!"
"Just keep going you pussy! You never fucking heard of spit?!?!"
"Ohhhh, you are the dirty birdy, no?"
I removed the Glock from the small of my back.
I flung the door wide open revealing a less than savory, though wholly anticipated sight.
"Ahem," I said, clearing my throat. "I can run out to the store and fetch a fresh tub of Crisco if you want? It's really no trouble."
"Omigod! Simon! It's not what you think!"
"That would probably seem more convincing were it but for the big Castilian dick protruberating from your overly entitled, bleached butthole, babysnakes."
"Suh-Simon," babbled my glamour girl, her glassy eyes fixated on the big gun. "Whuh-whuh-what are you gonna do?"
"Oh," I said, regarding the Glock I now held sideways in my southpaw. "You mean this? Well, confidentially speaking, the word on the street is, the boys in the crew have got a present for you."
Herve, of the in flagrante delicto, craned his muscular, tennis pro neck around to get a better look at me. His eyes immediately fixated on my piece. I supposed turnabout wasfair play. I watched the blood drain from his head; both of them. Multitasking. Impressive.
"Heyyyyy, bro! I can explain everything."
"No need, bro" I said, before emptying the Glock's magazine into Herve and Shawna's naked bodies, turning the starched white sheets I had awoken upon into my best impression of a Type O Negative Jackson Pollack. If you asked me I'd say it really brought the room together.
When I was done with arts and crafts I let the gun carelessly slide from hand to rug. I then jumped up on the bed and peed all over the both of them while I sang the refrain from, "Crew Slut".
Add water, makes its own sauce.
And then? Then I got down to business.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I send you greetings from the land of beatings."
"Sir? Sir? What's your emergency?"
"I'd like to report a shooting."
A very short while later, after jumping in the tub for a quick Mr. Bubble bubble bath, I was arrested for shooting my wife and her Latin lover.
"Is that your gun, sir? Did you shoot those people?"
"It wasn't Sheik Yerbouti!"
"Why sir? Why did you do it?"
"Because, Detective, Mr. Bubble makes getting clean almost as much fun as getting dirty."
My Glock powered meltdown stubbornly defied the fickle 21st century news cycle. Silicon Valley entrepreneur goes all Dirty Harry? Fuckin' Fox News ate that shit up like tapas on a bender.
It wasn't long before some rocket scientist labeled me the, "Silicon Valley Sandwich Shooter". It stuck like Limburger shit on a baby wipe.
And justice for y'all
My trial went mostly like this:
"And how would you describe Mr. Vagiwicz's behavior in the weeks leading up to the shooting?"
"Um, Simon had been acting pretty far out there for weeks. Wearing those damn stinky sandwiches on his head and washing his ass in the sink every day."
The jury just shook their collective heads sympathetically. After all, hadn't I just made a high six figure contribution to the VFW but a few months ago? I mean it wasn't like I was a goddamned terrorista or anything...
So when the verdict came back after just two days, not guilty by reason of insanity, nobody exactly died of shock.
I could tell it really burned the DA's ass with the case being so high profile, and in an election year at that, but where there's Silicon Valley ducats in abundance you know the legal Dream Team is never lagging too far behind.
When all was said and done they carted me off with little fanfare to a really cush mental health facility with a surprisingly acceptable 9 hole course. I had a nice long rest that lasted just shy of a year. Everybody there was just really swell to me and we all promised to keep in touch.
These days I'm pretty much all better. I ended up selling my share in the company to Sam and he was very generous with me. Like I said, he was my best friend. And wouldn't you know it, the Slayer Rule doesn't even apply if you're found not guilty by reason of insanity. Yeah, I guess I forgot to mention, my fucking wife was bucks the fuck up all the way back to Beverly Hills.
Well, thanks for letting me get that off my chest. It felt almost as good as getting that Limburger sandwich off my head, not to mention that cheating cunt off the face of the Earth.
Now if you'll excuse me I got a private jet to catch to Bangkok. From what I understand it's pretty easy to disappear a cheating bitch over there without going through the whole insanity rigamarole.
Now, that's my kinda town.
From Crucifiction by Krafto Matix.
