seemed to have his/her future mapped out. I wondered if it was good manners to ask him/her if he/she was male or female. This whole slash/thing was getting tiresome.
Not up to speed on Internet etiquette, uncertainty prevailed and I asked instead, “So, what are you doing hanging out with those low-life highbrows? Friends of yours?”
“I rarely join the chats. Mostly I just *listen*. You’d be surprised at what people say when they think they’re anonymous.”
It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t say too much about myself. I wouldn’t want to end up being misquoted in some checkout rag.
“Safe place to reveal secrets without getting caught?” I commented carefully.
“Exactly, *LOL* ;-)”
“Wait a minute! What’s this *LOL* and *grin* and what the heck is my Spell(C=heck?” I spluttered, my fingers stumbling across the keyboard. “And how do you ‘listen’ on a computer screen? I can’t keep up with them in the chat room. They write too fast, and if they aren’t addressing me then I feel they’re talking about me.”
“Simple!” said GQ. “The symbols are called e-motes. You use your keyboard to create them. It’s just Internet shorthand and you’ll soon pick it up. Put your left ear on your shoulder and use your imagination.”
We chatted for a while, mostly trashing the elite in the other chat room, which made me feel so much better. We agreed that it might be fun if we never shared personal information. Being anonymous would make our chats more interesting; add spice to our lives without the danger.
Exchanging ideas and experiences with GQ would be good. Since this person was a stranger, I’d have the confidence to share my writing without fear. GQ could never know me well enough to be disappointed in me.
“Want to give me your email address? Mine is [email protected]. I have to go to the — OOPS! Almost said too much. Well, I have to go now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, OK? ;-) PS, That’s me with a nose.”
“Ten four, good Buddy! [email protected] is my handle. Over and out.”
Good grief! Who knew I could be so lame? You should see me when I really try to be clever.
CHAPTER TWO
Driving to work the next morning, I sat idling at a traffic light and struggled in my mind with the details for poisoning my victim. Other than eating my cooking, that is.
The poison delivery was brilliant, but I couldn’t decide how my detective solved the murder. The light turned green while I played with the germ of an idea.
While I absent-mindedly gnawed my thumb nail, a teenager driving a newer truck than mine pulled up beside me. That obnoxious brat flipped me the bird and sped away, flinging gravel at my windshield. He reminded me of that twitchy two-faced kid at work who actually believed he was my superior. I thought that if I had the guts I’d fashion my killer after the twerp. Maybe I would anyway, just for fun.
I am a commercial artist, temporarily employed by a small monthly magazine. We search out discount tours around the world. The ones we advertise are inexpensive because these adventures take place in the off-season. Our readers often need to get creative to reach the point of origin for their tour. Some have even resorted to camelback and dog sled.
One reader complained when she had to fly a hang-glider to meet with her tour group. An unusually long dry spell had left the river too low for the boat to take her. I believe that’s the whole idea. It’s why they’re called adventures. If you’re looking for a cheap tour, you shouldn’t expect limousines and five star accommodations.
Anyhow, I design ads that pay for our glossy publication named Cheap Seats. I say I’m temporarily employed there because I’d rather write for a living. Anything would be better than working for that juvenile troll who mistakenly believes he has the right to order me around.
~~~
Speak of the devil. Conrad Twitchell waited in ambush at my desk that morning. His skinny rump pushed my blotter out of alignment while he rearranged bottles of ink and played with my valuable technical pens.
I paused beside Sam’s desk. I wasn’t hiding; I just needed time to extinguish the fiery heartburn I experienced every time I saw the kid.
While I studied his back, his busy fingers plucked at the bottle stoppers.
Slightly over six feet tall, his shoulders were prematurely rounded and bony shoulder blades created matching peaks in the back of his freshly ironed rose-pink shirt. Medium length, red-gold hair curled artistically around his collar. While I watched, he turned to face me; his pouty, bowed lips puckered as usual with disapproval.
Okay, if you like the type you might call him handsome in a dreamy, aesthetic sort of way. Handsome or not, his myopic, pale blue stare warned me that I was in for some bad news.
If I wasn’t so close to retirement I’d give him a lesson on respecting his betters. But I didn’t need the aggravation of looking for another job until I made it big as a novelist.
I wished he’d keep his hands off my things. I bought and used my own pens.
The cheap tools provided by management ruined a lot of my work, but the Twitch blamed me for the blotches and scratches then denied my request for better equipment to do the job right.
Yeah, he was going in my book, all right!
“Sam’s sick,” the Twitch announced as I reluctantly approached my work station. “You’ll have to pitch his ads today. Oh, by the way, that new client from uh, Build Your Own Computers or something, is coming in. Wants to see some ideas, so what can you have for him by three-thirty?”
“I won’t have anything if I have to take time with Sam’s clients.”
How did he do it? All he had to do was open his mouth and I’d grind another layer of enamel off my teeth. Every day I found new gray hairs and they were all named Twitchell!
He didn’t even have the courtesy to remember the name of a new client. And his attitude lately was getting worse. None of us could talk to him and it seemed he was on my case for everything that went wrong at the office. Too bad I didn’t care.
“Just do your job. That’s what we pay you for,” the Twit snarled back, his pale eyes turning hostile and dark. He hoisted his scrawny butt from my desk so abruptly that the skewed blotter swiveled, sending two bottles of ink tumbling over the side.
I fumbled and caught the cerulean blue, but the firecracker red hit the edge of the wastebasket, popping the loosened stopper. Blood red ink splashed the tops of my new running shoes; streaks radiated across the carpet. He sneered and walked away while I stood, open-mouthed, in the puddle of spilled ink. The desire to hurl the bottle in my hand at the back of his head burned hot in my gut.
Then I changed my mind.
He wouldn’t be the killer in my story. The Twit was gonna die!
I didn’t clean the mess, either. I let the janitor worry about it — after I drizzled
