Conversation with a Bud
Scott Micheel
He’s got to die, that’s all there is too it. Arrogant little boss’s pet. He gets away with murder, why shouldn’t I? Asshole, asshole, burning bright, on the potty of the night . . . He’s going to ruin us. I’ve given my life to this company, ten years!, and inside of a month this pimple charms his way up, so they split up my division and give half to him! If I thought he had a single brain in his body, I’d suspect him of deliberately trying to sabotage us. But no, it’s even worse; he wants a free ride, and he’s found a sucker to hand it too him.
I’d suspect them of sleeping together, the way he’s buttfucking us. Happy as a clam, as long as you’re waiting on him hand and foot. But I’ve seen his real face – he knows what he’s doing! Had the gall to come over and tell my employees to stop goofing off! He hasn’t been in on time but once this whole week! And you could hear it in his voice, he knew. Just try to stop me, he meant. Little prick. He knows he’s the golden boy. Anything I try to stick him with is just going to drip off back at me.
If he hadn’t raided my staff for the best of the crop, he’d never get anything done. God, do I look forward to the quarterly report. “The drop in revenues can be directly assigned to the creation of the new division, and the loss of approximately one quarter-million dollars worth of stock, and attendant shift of customer base.” Got to include projected earnings. Blast the bastard with how much he’s costing us. “Sell-down” policy, my ass! He’s gutting us, reducing stock without replacement, just to make his bottom line look good. Can’t last more than a few more months; he’ll have nothing left to sell! I can’t let that happen. He’s got to die.
God, how I want to just strangle the bastard! Grab his throat, dig my thumbs into his windpipe, watch his eyes bulge out as I squeeze, watch his tongue turn blue. To feel the life drain out of his body! Better yet, beat him to a bloody pulp. I’ve got a length of copper pipe left over at home – make a great club. First shot to the head, the temple, to stun him. Then the body blows, thunk after meaty thunk. Break the ribs, tear apart the liver, let him suffer! Then, when he’s puking blood, start breaking his arms and legs. Gotta wear my hiking boots, so I can grind his fingers into the concrete. Break all his teeth, his jaw. Then just sit there, and watch him die. Coughing blood, every movement grating more bone against bone.
‘Course, that’s a bit risky. Leave lots of evidence that way. Maybe I’d just better execute him; one bullet to the brain. What did they say on that TV show? One to the brain, two to the heart. He’s got a girlfriend, and dogs. Guess they’d have to go too. Shame, she’s one nice piece of work. But no witnesses, no evidence. Catch him at home, just walk right up and shoot. Probably be easy to catch him while all his neighbors are at work. Then go bury the pistol up in the foothills. Gloves, long-sleeve shirt – no fingerprints, no powder burns. Bury those too.
Probably won’t help me much. Just get another guy to run the new division. But even a chimpanzee would be better. Hell, it’d do a fucking better job dead than this asshole ever did alive. Wonder if I could hit him with a car? Have to be fucking lucky, there. Poison? God, I’d love to see him writhing on the floor, while acid dissolves his guts into snot. Maybe one of those slow things, that turns a guy psychotic? Nah, nobody even notice. I could go postal, just not even care. Take out the whole office. Shitheads, every one of them. Nobody’d miss ‘em. Blow the place up. Take it all down at once.
Son of a bitch must die, that’s all there is to it.