[Story] How to fall off a building and die, new stuff

[Crazy Elf]

Here's some more stuff about the building story. I'm wondering if it's snappy enough and if it holds your attention. If so, say so, if not, say why.

3


Melvin didn’t like cafés.

It wasn’t that they bugged him overtly, or he could actually pin down the specifics of exactly why the venues strung such a discord with him. Then again, ever since the war, most places did that to Melvin.

He sipped his coffee carefully while observing the rest of the room, who could, in Melvin’s mind, jump up running at him brandishing an assault shotgun with a bayonet on the end. Melvin had made the mistake of jumping at complete strangers who were carrying their umbrellas (which admittedly looked nothing like a assault shotgun) and started pounding their head into the pavement. That had happened on more than one occasion, in response to which Melvin would always state, “You never know when the real threat will show up.”

Nor did Melvin, for that matter. Melvin was under the impression that the “real threat” was due “any time now” and should be treated with “extreme prejudice”.

He also liked the phrase, “You can never be too careful”, which was very true for Melvin, because he couldn’t.

The China/America/Taiwan/Who-Else-Wants-A-Slice War had taken it out of Melvin, and he didn’t have the clarity of mind that he used to. He was, however, very good at pushing sharp pointy things through soft things that scream and bleed (if he was doing it the fun way), and making high-velocity-steel-jacketed-lead go very fast into things that moved before their introduction to the aforementioned high velocity object.

He also had a pet called Squishy, who was an overgrown maggot who sat on his shoulder and observed everything in conjunction with his owner. Squishy was a very long and complicated story.

Melvin drank his coffee, and life in the café floated about around him.

Timmy, a long time associate and accountant of Melvin, worked at his laptop while under the pretense of eating breakfast, which wasn’t happening. He was preparing a few tax invoices for Melvin’s services rendered as a criminal. Years ago, the underworld unionists had become quite antsy at him last time he failed to keep appropriate records of his activities and threatened to pull an audit. Melvin didn’t want an audit, so he shot some unionists, and when that didn’t work, he hired Timmy.

They’d been working together so long, that Melvin rarely pounded Timmy’s head into nearby objects when he carried an umbrella around. Rarely.

Timmy didn't like much of anything. Although it was true that Melvin hated a great many things very vocally and physically, Timmy probably disliked a lot more with more intensity. The only thing that Timmy really liked, was pain.

Timmy was a sociopathic sadist. This had been discovered early in his development, much to the delight of his parents.

He was going to be an accountant. He showed great promise in his studies, lack of socialization, and in showing the humanity of a robot as he slammed a kitten's head into a brick in front of a six year old girl in order to reap psychological damage tax benefits for a client. Everyone was most impressed, he was drafted by a major company at the tender age of 16. However, after he performed a hostile takeover of several small businesses that were operating at a loss, costing the company several thousand in investment, he was disbanded and forced to take up a life of organising disorganised crime.

Hence Melvin. Hence the invoices. Hence the lack of eating.

Timmy worked and Melvin ate at the café, and life floated around them.

Part of this life was a strange waiter who really seemed like he wanted to die. Melvin made this observation about a lot of people, but Timmy was by far more reserved about other people's perceptions of themselves, he just didn't like them enough to care. Still, even Timmy could see that the waiter in question wasn't a happy man, which is one of the reasons he made Melvin come here so much.

Squishy thought that the waiter looked like a happy giant red apple.


4


Turner served customers using the same default lines that he had to use. He also reeled off a good five minutes of disclaimers before every meal in order to keep he and the café out of any legal trouble, ranging from harassment to allergies. Turner once told one customer to read the disclaimers on the menu so that he wouldn’t have to crap on. The customer then complained saying that Turner was making fun of his ADD dyslexic past.

Of course he had called him Gerald rather than Turner.

“Hey, Gerald, I’d like to talk to you about the beverage report.”

Turner cringed internally. He hated the voice of the manager.

“Yes sir?” replied Turner, facing his vocal assailant armed only with a smile set on stun, but quite possibly faulty.

“Gerald, call me James, we’re friends right?”

“Of course, James,” his guard dropped, as did his smile.

“Great, now Gerald I’m here about the beverage report, this drop in efficiency is not like you at all…”

Actually it was very like him, but James wasn’t going to say that to someone on contract.

“… and myself and some of the management have become concerned. In order to set everyone’s minds at rest, I’ve suggested that you undertake another three weeks of therapy.”

Turner’s smile readjusted itself into a scowl.

“So if you could head off to the therapy chambers at roughly 4:13pm tomorrow that would set everyone’s mind at ease. Is that okay with you, Gerald?”

Turner screamed, “No,” at the top of his lungs and began slamming James’ head into the curry dispenser.

Unfortunately this came out as a, “Yes sir,” followed by the taking of another thirteen people’s orders. Not everything works out the way you plan it.

The talk with James, aka the strange devil man from floor 147, increased the amount of attention placed upon Turner. The other staff gave him strange jolly smiles that were far more sinister than the usual strange jolly smiles that they typically flashed in his direction.

They were all wondering how they could find out what the conversation was about without breaching any of the interpersonal staff relationship code of practices, a fete that could not be accomplished without two lawyers present and a three dimensional surveillance device. That in itself was an impossibility, as two lawyers could not be in the same place without issuing a decree to the head of the legal firms of the lawyers in order to have the security forces of the two familiarize themselves with each other.

That, and lawyers liked paper work.

Basically, there was no way to get the information legally. But it didn’t stop people from trying. These attempts were met with feigned stupidity, which came quite naturally. It’s easy to avoid veiled questions when you don’t read into what people say to you. Turner knew this.

“How are you today, Gerald?” asked Rachel, a cosmetically altered Barbie waitress of the times. Her smile was so fake, and her entire makeup so plastic, that she seemed right at home between the coffee machine and plastic cutlery press. She actually looked somewhat related to the plastic cutlery.

What she really meant to say was, “Why the hell was the manager talking to you, Gerald? Why why why? I have the more Barbie doll features and conform to the company’s height code by 11 mm more than you do. Why oh why does he talk to you, and can I get you fired?”

“I’m well,” said Turner, “thank you for your enquiry.”

“Oh good,” said Rachel, and she bounced away in a cheerful manner.

What she really meant by this, was, “Eat glass and die.”

Heated exchanges such as this took place for the rest of the shift.

“Greetings, Gerald, wonderful to see you!”

“I hope that you’re having a fine day!”

“It’s always wonderful to take place in these interactions with you, Gerald!”

“You make my day!”

“If only I could be more like you!”

Sometimes, people can be so cruel.

During the shift, Turner noticed a rather strange couple sitting in a corner booth. One of the figures, a strange man with wild hair and a strange slug on his shoulder, had his back to the wall and was looking wilding about the area, as though someone was about to explode. The other figure, a smartly dressed youth, calmly tapped the keys of his laptop and waited for his food to go cold. He noticed this pair often, since the other waiters refused to serve them. Having had no trouble with the pair, he leant later that the one with wild hair with bullet casings woven into it was Melvin, who was disputed to be either the greatest war criminal or war hero of all time. Seeing as no one could tell who won the Who Wants A Slice of Taiwan War, no one could say for sure.

One thing about him was certain, which was that he'd killed a lot of people. The official figure was, "More people than Ebola, less than Smallpox".

The other man, who could be called a boy if you wanted to have all your investments turn into Enron shares, was Timmy the Kid, the fastest accountant in the modern world, reportedly able to write out invoices for the individual bullets of a chaingun on full-auto as they exited the chamber.

Together these two individuals were unstoppable, both physically, legally and by liability. They left damage in their wake to rival Hiroshima after a nuke and an English football riot, and flawless records that rival the extent of the Vatican's porn collection.

Turner knew them as, "The guy who eats eggs, and the guy who doesn't but orders them anyway." He approached the table to clear the empty plate that Melvin had removed all foodstuffs from. Melvin looked at Turner as though he was trying to choose which of the thousand ways to kill him he would be forced to use should Turner be a kamikaze spy or simply be interested in seeing a technique.

"Good afternoon, sir" said Turner.

Melvin stared at him. Around two hundred killing techniques flashed through his mind. He then grunted what could have been a hello. The slug on his shoulder made a happy squelching sound and bounced a little.

Turner, not sure what to do, stared at the slug, which seemed to stare back even though it had no eyes. Melvin then grabbed Turner by the wrist as he went for the empty plate.

"Squishy wants an after dinner mint."

Timmy then grabbed Turner's hand, put in some coins equaling the exact charge of an after dinner mint and went back to typing.

Turner retrieved the mint, and cautiously returned to the table. He presented the mint to Melvin, who pointed to Squishy, who was in turn offered the plate. Squishy nodded, and the plate was placed on the table.

"Um... what is Squishy?"

Melvin rose an eyebrow.

"Long story, kid."

"Yes sir."

"He's a maggot."

"Yes sir."

"He's a maggot I pulled out of a dead gook's guts back in Taiwan."

"Yes sir."

"Now you're probably thinking, 'If he was a maggot all the way back then, he'd be a fly by now.'"

"Yes sir."

"But agent orange! It's a harsh mistress, boy, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Squishy bounced happily.

"Yes sir. Will there be anything else sir?"

Melvin grabbed Turner by the tie and pulled him down, eye to eye with Squishy and he.

"I like you."


5


“You see, Gerald, this café cares about your well being.”

Turner wasn’t listening, which seemed to calm him down far more than the actual therapy ever did. He’d once listened to what they had to say about all his actions within the café, and at the end of the lecture he felt far worse than ever before and had the oddest urge to take up tap-dancing.

After that, Turner had volunteered for more therapy, which a lot of people actually did after their first session. The tap-dancing apparently had something to do with his penis, which makes a lot of sense if you think about certain tap-dancers. This urge went away eventually, which gave the depression more room to bounce about.

Consequently, Turner didn’t trust therapists. He had a theory in which all therapists gave you more problems than they took away in order to keep you coming back for more, quite like many beverages that contained caffeine or illegal narcotics. This dependency on the therapists was something Turner did not want to have.

This particular therapist, whose name was Sharon Davies, had never noticed that Turner was not listening. She was under the impression that any male would listen and believe her regardless of what she was saying, as she was wearing clothing that drew attention to her cleavage, and a short skirt. Typically this dress sense drew men out of their shells, and also made the topic of Freudian sexual repression an easy one to approach.

These tactics did not work on Turner, so Sharon had come to the professional opinion that he was gay. She had stated as much during the session or at least lightly brushed upon the subject, and Turner (or Gerald as she knew him) had shown no reaction. He was obviously a very repressed, some heavy suggestive hypnotherapy may be in order to put him straight.

He would be gay at the end of it all, one way or another, which would help to fulfill the company quota.

Meanwhile, back in Turner’s mind, he was currently thinking about bananas and how yellow they are, as well as jumping from the 210th floor and achieving the blissful state of death in the public eye. People would finally know his name. The same results could probably be achieved by taking out a Tommy gun and filling little miss sexual repression here with lead, then moving onto the rest of the building ending with the patrons doing the chaingun cha-cha. That made Turner happy in some ways, but he didn’t want to take anyone down with him… well maybe the manager.

Besides, there was a lot of security on the way to the 210th floor. If he could get past it, though, he'd be dead. Dead dead dead. But how to get past the security? Turner didn't know the first thing about security, he only knew about talking to people about utter crap. Talking to crazy homicidal criminals at that, who would probably have a much better chance of getting through all that security than he did.

This gave him an idea.

“See, the thought of fluffy bunnies doing hopscotch makes you happier, focus on that for next week.”

Turner had no idea that he had been smiling, or what the hell fluffy bunnies had to do with anything, but he smiled and nodded all the same.

“See you tomorrow at 6:54.”

Turner pledged to be dead by then.

That night, Turner snuck out of his room by overriding the lock mechanism and sneaking out into the hallway dressed as a ninja, if a ninja wore a T-shirt on its head as a makeshift hood and had the agility of a retarded toothpick. He got as far as the lift as it couldn't be called after dark unless you had a manager's pass or the go ahead from security. The ninja mission lasted around five minutes, and around fifteen meters from where it had started. It ended with a flurry of fists hitting the elevator door, an alarm going off, and Turner legging it back to his room, missing the 210th floor by only 185 floors.

All in all, the therapy wasn't working, and his plan hadn't been the best of ideas. But the plan he thought of while sitting with his back against the door to his apartment was much better.

[Crazy Elf]

A yay or nay, that's all I'm asking for.

[Kai]

Oh I think its very good, the different perspectives on the world by the characters is fun to read I think that would be a good way to continue the story, bits and pieces from each of the cast.

[Ratoslov]

Turner screamed, ?No,? at the top of his lungs and began slamming James? head into the curry dispenser.

Unfortunately this came out as a, ?Yes sir,? followed by the taking of another thirteen people?s orders. Not everything works out the way you plan it.

This line had me laughing out loud. Yes, I really wanna see Turner succeed in killing himself, or at least kill Sharon.

[Crazy Elf]

Glad to hear that it's reached its audience. Thanks for the feedback. As it was enjoyed, here's the next little section from Timmy's perspective:

6


"They're all against us, Timmy, all of them."

"Eat your eggs, Melvin."

"They're coming, I'll fucking kill 'em!"

Melvin said this a little loud and the waiter who had been approaching to take away the dinner mint plate carefully smiled and backed away slowly before breaking into a run.

Timmy was working at the usual breakneck pace, avoiding tax, shifting stock, and downloading videos of firing squad executions. They were at the café with the unhappy waiter again, but it seemed that today the waiter wasn't as unhappy as usual, which made Timmy unhappy in as much as a sociopath could be.

Melvin seemed more at ease with this venue ever since the dinner mint incident yesterday, which was good because he'd killed around fifteen people last night, which typically wasn't enough for him to blow off steam.

"Can I help you good Sirs with anything?"

Timmy almost jumped. A waiter typically couldn't get into range of the table without Melvin pulling out a pistol and claiming he was taking control of the café in the name of Squishy. Timmy quickly checked to see if Melvin was dead, as it was the most probably cause for the current situation. Seeing he was wearing his perpetual scowl, he turned to the waiter in question.

It was the unhappy waiter.

He was smiling.

Typically the unhappy waiter was smiling, as it was a occupational requirement. People didn't like waiters scowling and crying in their soup, unless it was a French venue and the waiters were mimes. One of the greatest claims you could make in such a venue, was "Waiter waiter, there's a tear in my soup", to which the assembled yuppie clientele would golf clap. However, the charm of the unhappy waiter of this venue was that misery was quite evident in his eyes. But not today.

Timmy ran through the possibilities in his head. Either he'd been chemically altered to avoid depression, he was doped to the eyeballs or he'd actually killed himself last night and this was his clone.

This last thought made Timmy exceptionally jubilant.

"Nothing for us, thank you," said Timmy.

"Certainly," said the waiter, "now there's something I would like to discuss with you if I may?"

"Personal discussions are forbidden while on the clock, I believe."

"I'll put it into my break."

Professionalism, Timmy liked that. The waiter then turned to look at Melvin, who nodded, and Squishy, who bounced.

"I have a business proposal."

"We're awfully booked at the moment."

"I want to die."

Timmy was overjoyed.

"I think we can make space for that."