by Andrew Kozma
Sam was a company man. He drank the coffee provided. He used his designated parking spot. He always said yes to whatever was asked of him. For kicks, we asked him to kill the next person who walked through the door.
When George walked through the door, Sam killed him.
We were surprised. Not completely surprised, as Sam was a company man. He drank the coffee provided! But still.
After all, George was a big guy. He was the kind of guy whose muscle shirts had muscles. His moustache could stop a truck. His voice was so deep you had to get down on the floor to hear it. And he was nice.
And now he was nicely dead.
As always, Sam cleaned up after himself. Fifteen minutes after he punched a hole in George's heart with a fountain pen, all the blood was cleaned up, the body was in the storage locker resting on twenty reams of paper, and Sam was wearing a new set of spotless clothes.
To be frank, we were impressed. All except for Frank.
"He drinks the coffee provided," Frank said. "He drinks the coffee provided!"
We were impressed, but Frank wanted more.
We wanted more.
The workday was shot. We stood around the office like worker bees without a queen. Only Sam sat at his desk, efficiently moving papers from his inbox to his outbox. He drank the coffee.
Sam was doing accounts, just as we all should have been doing accounts. Names and numbers tallied up, cross-checked, added, divided, given notations, spreadsheeted, the results wrapped in comforting jargon, and the finished result set aside to be filed by the file clerks who were clustered around the doors to the room waiting for the fallout from George's death.