Mandala Volume I Hardworlder | Book 1 - The Office Job Chapter 4: Death Threats
Did you put ketamine in the Coffee-Mate™?
The office park, four glass buildings brushed with sad oaks and box hedges, waited for him like jail time. There was nothing around but the same old paved over prairie land stacked with strip malls, chain restaurants, parking lots, clustered office buildings, and upper-middle-class housing units cranked out like thirty caliber rounds. The land was as smooth as if it had been created the same moment as the highway and the sky slid across it all without resistance. It made him miss the beaches of Thailand and the clubs of Ibiza. This kind of America felt like quicksand.
Paul had stopped by a liquor store on the way and poured a quarter of the whiskey into a coke with a few sips missing. He shoved the bottle into his shoulder bag and walked towards the tallest building. An armed guard watched him from outside the front door. They had beefed up security after some guy came in with a gun. He had waved it around in the lobby crying about something, then drove home and shot a few cars on the highway. He was watching porn in his living room when the cops broke down the door. Everyone at work was cracking jokes about it for a month until they sent out that email. "Can you blame him?" "A living legend." "I got one of his signed qualities. Think I'm gonna frame it."
Paul felt he was being watched and looked around. His Uber passed a black Mercedes SUV parked near the edge of the lot. The driver had that ex-military or current cop look to him. He glanced at Paul and then back down at his lap.
"Oh, what the fuck is this?" Paul muttered. After he was wanded, he saw another cop-looking guy in the lobby who made eye contact over a magazine. Paul looked away and got in the elevator.
"I'll just go in my office, tell them to fuck off and come back with a warrant. Then when they're gone, I'll get lost." The elevator climbed. Did they need a warrant to search his office? Had one of the workers called in a tip or something? Was there even anything in his office? Stupid! Probably just some corporate guys. The reports must have finally set off alarms higher up. Whatever. He could get another job.
He stepped out of the elevator and saw his senior manager, Todd, standing between the reception area and the call center floor with a man he had never seen. The man was shorter than Todd but filled out his suit like the god damned terminator. He looked like something out of an old mob movie. Short slick hair, sharp brown eyes, charcoal suit, and a striped wallpaper tie. Paul turned to go around the edge of the cubicles toward his office in the back, hoping they hadn't seen him.
"Paul," Todd called. Shit. Paul looked around for a bit like no one would ever have a reason to call his name before making eye contact and walking over.
"Hey, did you call the attendance line?" Todd asked.
"Uh, no, I had kind of a rough morning."
"Ok, no problem. I'll take care of it. This is Robert. Mind if we go talk in your office?"
Paul shook Robert's hand awkwardly, then led them both across the floor. He glanced around and saw Jeremy, his manager, watching like they were taking Paul to be executed and he was next. Paul glared but couldn't really blame him. This didn't seem like something three grand a month could take care of.
They all went into his office. Robert sat like the terminator too.
"Ok, Robert's with NFG." Paul almost ran right then. Nations First Guard was the security company brought on after the incident. They had good relations with law enforcement and hired a bunch of veterans. They were also the only reason Paul had been thinking of changing locations. Should have known this setup was too good to last.
"Sir, I'll cut right to it. We've received some threats against your person, which we have reason to believe could be legitimate."
"What? Like from the employees? What kind of threats?"
"Some kind of retaliation. Can you think of anyone that would feel like you wronged them in some way?"
"No. I'm just a supervisor. I've never even fired anyone," Paul said. Todd shifted in his seat.
"Well, we're going to be keeping an eye out,” Robert said. “I'm going to leave you my info and if you think of anything, or if anyone tries to contact you, just let me know." He got up, handed out cards, shook hands, everyone said goodbye, and he was gone. Todd turned to Paul with his hands up like he expected a freak out.
"Now before you get all excited, Robert told me they think it might be just some guy off his meds. Maybe related to that other guy. I think he said something about an incel website."
"Who the fuck called NFG?" Paul had forgotten himself out of panic, but Todd ignored it.
"I don't know, Paul, now just calm down. I don't think anyone called them, but this is serious. They said they might have to escalate the case to the cops."
Paul clenched his teeth together.
The case. Fuck me, I'm in a god damned file somewhere now. Notes being added. My picture in the corner. This Paul character, I wanna know everything about him.
"So, what? Am I just supposed to stay here for the rest of the day, waiting to get blown up or shot?"
"No, Christ Paul! Nothing like that is going to happen. They're all over the place and this guy is probably just some nut. They did say they would prefer it if you stayed in the building.”
“So I’m just supposed to sit here waiting to die!"
"No one's gonna die, Paul! They said it's just emails right now. Probably some kid in a basement in another state."
"How am I supposed to work like this? I can't leave?"
"They said they'd prefer if you didn't. Look, there's no reason to panic. Just sit and watch some videos or something."
"What?!"
"Well, I don't expect you to do any metrics or one-on-ones given the circumstances. But I did tell Robert I could get you to stay the rest of the day. It didn't look good for me when you came in late, I'll say that!" Todd had his hands on his hips and was red in the face. Paul wished he was in the mood to laugh.
"All right. Fuck!"
Todd wiped the sweat off his forehead and left. Paul heard him murmuring to some people outside in a reassuring tone.
He sat down and took out his phone. How was he going to get out of here?
Mandala Volume 1 Hardworlder | Book 1 The Office Job - Chapter 2: The Diner
Two killers walk into a greasy spoon. One says to the other-
What started as a sheet metal taco stand next to an auto shop was now a fully built restaurant, its wide windows covered in fluorescent advertisements for specials that never went away, and a small drive-through window punched into the side. Truckers and office workers sat side by side under humming fluorescent lights, pressed against walls covered in framed newspapers and fake memorabilia. Cheap cooking oil smoked on hash browns, and scents of coffee and bacon floated by in little pockets.
A blonde woman in a navy trench coat sat near the front window, arms folded, legs crossed, coiled like a snake. Her coffee steamed untouched on the table and she watched the door with prepared disappointment.
A black SUV pulled up to the fractured cement ramp out front. A broad man in a Burberry trench over an Adidas tracksuit got out of the center door and smiled like the world had rolled into his trap. He made it halfway to the entrance and remembered the cigarette dangling from his mouth. He took one last kiss-you-goodbye drag and flicked it away. The smoke clung to his head as he stepped through the door.
“Good morning sir. Table or booth?” the hostess called to him. He pointed and walked towards the blonde woman, who watched him with a look like disgust but less passionate.
“Morning,” he said in a low tone that told everyone around to stop listening. His SUV parked in a spot just outside the window and a tall thin man in a charcoal suit stepped out of the driver’s door and lit a cigarette. The blonde woman felt that if a bomb went off, he would just shrug and take another drag. She sighed and looked back across the table.
“Good morning. I’m Theresa,” said Lindsey, green eyes sharpened under thick brown eyebrows. She had a soft round face, held in a controlled pose of contempt, with a chin strong enough to make it work. The man took off his sunglasses and blinked his flashing brown eyes at her.
“Nice to meet you, Theresa. I’m Malachi,” said Philip, smiling.
Lindsey squeezed her coffee cup in a way that let him and anyone else still watching know she wanted to throw it at him.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Wait...”
He held up his hand and spun around as the waitress walked up behind him.
“Four scrambled eggs, four pieces of white buttered toast, four big ass pieces of bacon, and a pot, like the whole damn pitcher, of coffee. Thanks.”
He turned around and the waitress scratched on a notepad.
“Write while you walk, babe.” She grimaced and marched off. He smiled and reached over the table for Lindsey’s cup.
“You never drink your coffee.”
“I don’t see the point,” she said. He laughed and his bulging cheekbones jumped on his face.
“No fun at all. Here.”
He handed her a phone. She turned it on with her thumbprint and pulled up a file labeled Paul. It gave his home address, employer, favorite bars and clubs, work schedule, and friends (the smallest portion). There was also a black and white photo and some handwritten notes in the margins.
“What’s all this shit on the sides?”
“That’s my notes.” He leaned back in his seat proudly and stretched. His wide chest tested the zipper on the tracksuit.
“I can’t read it. Is she sure about his job? It doesn’t seem like he would go for it.” According to the file, he worked at a large insurance company as a shift supervisor. Usually, they were venture capitalists or something.
“They made sure,” said Philip. He grunted at the end of his stretch and brought his hands together on the table.
“They?”
“Yea, Mom and, uh, Rochelle. Went in together while he was out.” He finished the coffee and set the cup down at the edge of the table.
“So, he’s not up?”
“No.” He looked back towards the kitchen. A few people who had been staring at them looked away hurriedly and he smiled at the side of their heads.
“Then he’s being watched,” Lindsey said. Philip, seeing no sign of his food, leaned forward over the table.
“Probably. That’s what my notes said.” He pointed at the phone.
“Any clue who’s covering him?”
“No idea. I don’t think they’re anyone big time, though.” Lindsey was about to tell him what his assumptions were worth to her when the waitress came up from the kitchen. She set down the plate of eggs, bacon and toast, the pot of coffee, and a smaller plate with three pancakes.
“Pancakes?”
“They come with all breakfast combos,” the waitress said icily.
“Does it count as a combo? Thought it was, like, à la carte.” She was already gone, so he looked at Lindsey instead. “I guess since I ordered so much?”
“Was there something else or can I leave you to your food?” She had tried to get him to just leave the goddamned phone somewhere else, but he had said he was ‘already on the road’. She had been trained not to meet up unless absolutely necessary. The boss had told her Philip was old school, but every job so far had her doubting it.
He pulled his jacket off and let it hang on the back of the seat. A few of the truckers who had been watching from a booth started talking quietly about the obvious shape of body armor under his tracksuit. He unrolled the silverware from the napkin and cleared his throat.
“Have you seen Monkey? She hasn’t touched base yet.”
Lindsey let the silence grow before she spoke, low and sharp.
“Who?”
Philip realized his blunder. “God dammit, Beth, or whatever. Our driver?”
Lindsey stayed quiet.
“Fine, well, if you hear anything, just let me know.”
“Is that all?”
“Yea. No! You know where the new guy is on this?” he pointed with his knife and dripped syrup on the table.
She just glared at him, so he sighed and started forking his food.
“All right, whatever. It’d be nice to know. Like there’s microphones in the silverware or some shit.”
Outside the diner, Lindsey stopped next to the man in the charcoal suit and pretended to check her phone.
“The less words that come out of his mouth, the better.” She said just loud enough for him to hear. He smiled and flicked a butt on the ground.
“You haven’t seen him work,” he said to the wind. She glanced up at the sky and walked off across the parking lot. Last night's rain had broken into thin fragments of clouds, and a bright ring of silver morning reached over the banks and fast-food places like an explosion frozen in the air. It was one of those electric days where every sound carried for miles. What a day to die.
Mandala Volume I Hardworlder - Book I The Office Job
Chapter 1: The Gun
Gradie dreamed of being chased and a gun that refused to fire. As he awoke, the details of the dream faded like vapor, but the fear remained. He told himself it was the fear of being late again, another write-up, another meeting, but it wouldn’t fit. It was the fear of having forgotten something. A revelation given by the dream, slaughtered by the alarm.
Morning broke open as he hit the highway and the sky turned a sweet pinkish-orange, like the strawberry-banana drinks he used to get as a kid, glass bottle shining in the summer sun, dripping condensation like mercury. Thin clouds took on the colors and floated lazily above the grey concrete chopping by. Passing cars reflected the sky on back windows, chrome strips, and side mirrors. He tried to ignore it. There was something about it all that reminded him of the dream, of something forgotten.
He worked at an office park off the highway, in a water-stained cement and glass tower. The little gazebos that had seemed so charming during his interview looked like gargoyles two years later and the bowl-shaped cracked parking lot seemed about to fall through into something unknown. He walked across it, trying not to see, wondering how it would look to him in another two years.
He beeped his ID on the door and the noise found a thousand others in his memory, all singing that he’d be here forever. He rushed past the coffee gargling break room, already smelling of microwaved Styrofoam, into a cubicle maze of white noise and coaxing voices. A clock on the wall said 0801. He dropped his bag next to his desk and clocked in without sitting down.
After a few minutes of daydreaming, he clicked the icon that brought up accounts, like shooting an old friend. The first one had a long history of phone calls to an insurance company with nothing accomplished, each one spent entirely on hold. A small mercy. He opened his bag to pull out his book, a thick paperback fantasy, and locked up like he had touched a live wire.
He went through much of his day, especially at the office, in a series of automatic movements that slipped by unnoticed. (He would park his car at the apartment and be unable to remember anything about the drive home). But now that automata had encountered something unexpected, and froze.
The shape was familiar, but the familiarity was fleeting. Fluorescent light caught a textured matte-black grip and a mirror square of metal.
A handgun. His thoughts became a solid tone, like a piano key held down. He broke out in a full sweat and slumped over in his chair. When he could move, he reached back in, expecting his hand to pass through the gun like a hologram. He wrapped his fingers around it and lifted. It was heavy and real.
What the fuck?
Someone walked down the aisle throwing out good mornings and he closed the bag in a hurry. He pressed his fingers into his palm to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
