Revenge can be the most satisfying dish a man can serve.
But here in the Gutter our palate likes a little culinary creativity.
But here in the Gutter our palate likes a little culinary creativity.
A Hopeless Mess by Zach Wilhide
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Mark gripped a lead pipe as he watched the evening security
guard saunter out of the back door for a cigarette. Above the door, a small but
bright sign proclaimed “Nexus Pharmaceuticals.”
There was a small spark. Mark watched the smoke curl upward past the
single light on the top floor. He closed his eyes and tried to control his
rage. Nexus were the only ones who held the patent on the cancer drug that
would have saved his wife. It’d been six
months since Elizabeth had been lowered into the ground. Six months of an arrested grief cycle stuck
on anger. Six months of research and
planning.
The security guard turned his gaze down the dark alleyway,
distracted by some rodents fighting for food. Mark slipped behind him. There was a faint thunk as Mark smashed the pipe across the back of the guard’s
skull. The guard slunk to the ground and
Mark stripped him of his uniform and sidearm. Aside from the sleeves being a
bit too long, the uniform was a good fit; though, he had almost torn the pants
dragging the unconscious body into the shadows behind the dumpster. As he
scanned the stolen ID badge and stepped inside the building, he hoped the guard
wouldn’t get into too much trouble. Guy
was just doing his job.
Inside, the night lights reflected off the clean glass and
sleek metal. Must be a fucking nightmare
to clean, he thought. Cleaning was
something Mark knew; he’d been a high school janitor until several weeks ago. He
snorted at the memory. Fifteen god damn
years of wiping up dirt and vomit for $25K a year and a pitiful insurance
package. When it mattered it was all for nothing. Their valuables sold, their credit stretched
taut, they’d still failed to come up with the cash to cover the treatments.
He had grown sullen after Elizabeth died. The school was
considerate at first, but their understanding quickly came to an end as the
dirt began to pile up in the hallways and the alcohol wafting from his pores
became more pungent.
The elevators were in front of him. Once again, the ID badge provided access. The hollow ding of the elevator doors opening
echoed in the empty building. Mark pushed the button for the top floor executive
suite. A muzak version of “Mandy” played
above him. Elizabeth had liked Barry Manilow.
Mark pictured her dancing in the kitchen to his greatest hits, her smile
bright and cheerful, and her eyes full of laughter. The cancer had crushed her liveliness.
For a year he’d watched her wither away. Every day her existence was slowly replaced
by the monotone of machines beeping.
The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened to
reveal a large reception area choked with more glass and steel. Mark walked past the empty receptionist’s
desk straight into the office of Nathaniel Dillahunt, the CEO of Nexus
Pharmaceuticals and the man whose name was on the final letter denying charity
for Elizabeth.
Seated behind an expensive-looking desk, he was a slim man
in his mid-fifties. A tumbler of brandy
sat on top of a leather blotter. He
sensed Mark’s presence and looked up.
“You’re not Gerald.” Dillahunt
reached for his phone. Mark pulled the
gun out of his pocket and Dillahunt stopped moving.
“Alright, can I help you?” Dillahunt asked, leaning back in
his chair and forming a small steeple with his fingers.
“This is a nice office.
Pretty expensive, I guess.”
“It wasn’t cheap. Are
you an aspiring interior decorator?”
Mark’s eyes narrowed and Dillahunt self-consciously reached
for the brandy.
“My wife is dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s your fault.”
“How’s that? I don’t
recall killing anyone recently.”
“All of this killed her,” Mark said, waving his hands around
in the large office. “Your profit margin killed her. Christ, who charges that
much money for a drug that can save people?”
Dillahunt’s lips curled into a patronizing smile. “I understand your perspective, but you’re
not taking into account all of the people involved with a discovery like that. They don’t provide their services for free. ”
“How much do you make?” Mark asked, beginning to pace in
front of Dillahunt’s desk.
“Personally or as a corporation?”
“Personally.”
“I don’t like to discuss numbers, it’s impolite, but I’ll
say I’m well compensated.”
“How much did you make by denying charity for my wife?” Mark
threw the crumpled denial letter in front of the executive. Dillahunt sighed and smoothed out the paper. He took a minute to read it.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember this.”
Knuckles whitened as Mark tightened his grip on the gun. He raised
it level with Dillahunt’s forehead. The
executive met Mark’s unblinking gaze and leaned back in his chair.
“I commend you for this.
You must have loved her,” Dillahunt paused to choose his next words
carefully. “This doesn’t end with
me. You know that, right? I have ten junior executives who would slice
their mother’s throats to have this job.
Kill me and none of those bastards will have any heartburn over
condemning countless people to the same fate as your late wife. Of course, I
doubt much of this will matter to you; you’ll be dodging dicks in prison while
you wait for the needle to take you to her.”
Dillahunt sighed. “In
the end, you’re really only hurting yourself.”
Tears carved moist paths down Mark’s cheeks. His hand shook with rage. The gun lowered. Dillahunt was right. It was hopeless. He’d reached rock bottom on the top floor of
a Fortune 500 company’s headquarters.
Dillahunt’s fingers began dialing the cops.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“How are you with a mop?”
Dillahunt paused, the phone dangling midway between ear and
cradle.
“What?”
With a wry smile, Mark put the gun to his temple and blew
his brains out, all over the expensive furniture.
