Mr. Hyde is a real nice guy!
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day
"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison
"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
.
He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
.
As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
.
I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
.
Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
.
"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
.
He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
.
In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
.
On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
.
At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
.
"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
.
What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
.
Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
.
"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
.
He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
.
Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
.
"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
.
Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
.
The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
.
"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."
The End?
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day
"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison
"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
.
He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
.
As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
.
I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
.
Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
.
"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
.
He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
.
In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
.
On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
.
At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
.
"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
.
What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
.
Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
.
"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
.
He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
.
Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
.
"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
.
Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
.
The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
.
"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."
The End?
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