The Motley Talents of Jonas Friendly

A quick note: The following work of fiction is a little more dark than the fare you may be accustomed to from your humble author, so I’d like to caution the more sensitive readers / listeners. Maybe skip this one if you’re squeamish, have problems with violence, or are nauseated by birthday cake. Otherwise, please enjoy.

Jonas made things go away. In his little cage in his little office in the massive basement for the engineering firm he worked for, things went under the little receiving tray, and from behind the green and wholly unnecessary mesh linked screen he sat behind, Jonas took what you had, and made it go away. Various designs of various little pieces from few actual products came down to where Jonas worked. The firm found this building nearly abandoned when it moved campus – what luck, all the vintage charm of of a hip and trendy law firm, with all the sharp and polish of a company that revolved around the creation of industrial cement mixers, or perhaps dog collars, hard to tell. Jonas was nothing if not for his routine. Up to work early, sit in the office, swivel the chair, and file away blueprints for various little pieces of various little somethings. The walk around the massive filing system was good exercise – comfortable shoes are so terribly important, comfortable shoes and comfortable laces.

Jonas constantly struggled with his hair loss and his weight, but looked up to the confidence of fictional characters that shared his particular shape, like Tony Soprano, Tony – neurotic, yes – always knew where he was in things. This kept Jonas at an arm’s length from self loathing. Green lunchbox, tan slacks, “At least I don’t need glasses,” he’d often say to himself. There were long days, there were short days. There was his downstairs and the terrible unfamiliarity of upstairs. There were ketchup stain days and there were mayonnaise stain days. There was Autumn. There were his little rubber thumb protectors, and there were still paper cuts. There was home, and there was work. There were also the dead bodies.

“Here comes David,” Jonas thought to himself. Always David first in the morning.

“Jon-ass, you gorgeous son of a bitch, my heart flutters,” said David, walking from the door to the stairs down the short hall to Jonas’s office. Tall, good hair, might have once been handsome. Thirty six, thirty seven years old. Needed to mature a bit. “There’s bear claws upstairs man, the goods. Just ate one, nearly got a semi.” David thrust his fists back, and his pelvis forward.

David was carrying a manilla folder under his left arm stuffed with various printouts and a top sheet with a blank line – the one Jonas would sign so David’s filing reports indicated a satisfactory job. The filing floor where Jonas worked in the basement always struck everyone as archaic, all these printed copies of digital things that were backed up, backed up, then backed up again. Nobody thought any less of Jonas for being stuck down here like a turn of the century bank teller, it’s just that nobody really knew him that well. Everyone sort of liked it this way, but did their best to include Jonas in conversation at company retreats and near the occasional break-room birthday cake. David liked to get his reports signed early in the morning as it made leaving in the afternoon all the more easy.

David liked Jonas, and Jonas found David… tolerable. Sure, David thought he was still twenty one and drank enough to pose for an alcoholism themed poster above high school lockers somewhere – but he’d made it a personal mission to get Jonas to cheer up, get out, and get to living whatever life that might await him in the to and fro. Jonas didn’t necessarily disagree, but life was relatively easy at the moment – if he could just get his severe social anxieties under control. That pit, the gurgling pit in his stomach every time something didn’t go exactly to routine. He’d forget to pack his Skittles for the afternoon. He’d spend his awaited vacation working. He’d let loose an unusually ripply anxiety fart when Autumn came down to get something signed.

“Yes, David,” Jonas replied, “I already had a bear claw. Quite good – indeed.”

“Well, I thought I’d let you know, your tubby ass loves him some beary clawsises – don’t we? Don’t we love us a beary clawsies?” David said this while reaching through the little paper-exchange under the mesh gate Jonas sat behind. David’s fingers wriggled as he pretended to tickle Jonas’s belly, straining and stretching to reach the bottom buttons of his short-sleeved button up. Jonas chuckled, quickly pawed through the papers in the manilla envelope and signed the top-sheet for David to take back to the brightly lit accounting department, wood panels, green lamps. Hip. No, old. Jonas handed the form back to David, who paused, then hesitated before his question.

“Hey, man. Do you, I mean I know you guys, Autumn is just upstairs, why don’t you…”

Jonas looked around the room, then fiddled with his jar full of blue ink pens. David sensed that tomorrow might be better, and bid Jonas a good day. More files, more small talk, more signatures – lunch. Lunch over. More files, more signatures, paper-cut. Jonas liked to use his time walking amongst the rows of large filing cabinets to reflect on things. Tomorrow night his favorite television show would be on, and there were two mexi-style television dinners in his freezer, and it just wasn’t going to get better than that, was it? Maybe. Can it? No unwelcome calls tonight, that would be nice too. There’s the whistle. Well, there was no whistle, but Jonas liked to imagine a large red cartoonish steam whistle in his head, and he had an impeccable sense of timing, so as soon as this large whistle blows and says with it’s large cartoonish mouth, “Time go home Jonas!” he smiled and told himself that everyone did things like this when it was time to go home.

“You are totally normal. Everyone has cartoons in their head.”

David liked to show off this little trick of Jonas’s any rare occasion they crossed paths in the break room. “Hey Chef Boy-are-fat,” David would shout. “Give it to me, give Davie what he likes.” Jonas would tilt his head back, close his eyes, smile, and say, “Two thirty six.” Everyone would look down at their watch, and then Jonas would conduct a dramatic bow with the little comedic timing he had, and return to his domain with a piece of birthday cake. Favorite.

Grabbing his jacket, Jonas took the long way to the parking lot. The stairs up, a quick pause to stop sweating, then a casual walk through the accounting department, head tilted towards Autumn’s office several feet before he was there. Autumn waited for him, it made her laugh. He passed, they exchanged awkward smiles, then Jonas quickly drove home and awaited her call. This is how it was with them. Jonas would never consider Autumn his manic-pixie-dream-girl, but women mousy and cute like Autumn usually didn’t date anyone for more than a month before they’d inexplicably end the relationship. They both reveled in the mutual lack of courage to personalize their evening chats, and for now, this was okay. The two were nearing the magical age of forty, a topic of constant phone conversation late into the night. Always courage on the phone, never courage without – and everyone who worked for JCN Engineering knew of this love connection.

The staff would watch their soaps, their prime-time, and imagine passing that final rose to Jonas or Autumn, or however those bullshit shows work. Smile. Door. Parking garage. Drive home. Jonas opened the front door to his tiny little house, hung up his brown and white Windbreaker jacket, and sat in his favorite chair. The brown recliner was old, sported it’s share of silver repair tape, and it’s cold psuedo-leather was smooth against Jonas’s forearms. He let the cool of the central air wash over him, breathing deeply it’s chemically induced comfort. The sun was setting, painting warm hues over his old carpet and carefully arranged little living room. He unfastened his pants and let his bulk relax into the open air. A little more unzipping – “There we are,” he’d think to himself. “Let those balls breath. Dammit. Whew.”

Jonas really didn’t watch much television. He had his favorite shows, but he liked to sit and reflect on his various thoughts of his various talents and the various things he liked about Autumn. She might call soon, one of their evening chats, and simply waiting by the phone was something that brought Jonas great comfort. He wasn’t that pessimistic loner with no social skills – rather Jonas was well liked by his co-workers and neighbors, however he liked his privacy and Jonas wasn’t one to jaw for too long, preferring to be left to his various thoughts of his various talents and the various things he liked about Autumn. Cold room, quiet, hum of the central air. Feet up on the recliner. Cold iced tea. The day would wash from him soon. Dusk, dim, dark. Evening gave way to night, Jonas still sitting in his chair with his eyes closed, next to a glass of ice cubes. The phone barely opened it’s mouth with one ring when Jonas, his eyes still closed and still leaning back in the chair, swooped with one hand and answered the phone – as if only his arm was aware that the phone rang – or more precisely, was about to ring.

“Hello?” Jonas began.

“Tubby. It’s me,” the gravely voice said. “We’ve got one. 198 Telivue, Apartment 6.”

Jonas hung up the phone.

His smile retuned to normal lips, and Jonas slowly opened his eyes. He pushed himself from the recliner with audible grunting, then let his unfastened pants drop to the floor. His shirt followed suit as Jonas plodded across the house in his white underwear toward the garage. Light switch. Fluorescence. Jonas approached a large set of white cabinets, each door taller than himself. He opened one of them and removed a pair of dark blue sweatpants, a dark blue sweatshirt, a dark blue baseball cap, and put them all on his considerable person. He’d always liked the big white van in his garage more than his little red Toyota, but he just didn’t need a big white van for his daily life – “How would that look?” he’d ask himself. “I’d look silly. That’s what I’d look like. Silly.” Jonas grabbed a set of keys from a hook near the door from the house to the garage, and started the van. He pressed the little button above his head to close the garage door behind him, and Jonas started to make his way to 198 Telivue Apartment 6. He hoped Autumn wouldn’t call his house tonight, he really didn’t like missing her calls.

The white van pulled up to every apartment building in every city, everywhere. Jonas put the van in reverse and pulled back about twenty feet as to not be illuminated by the street light painting everything near the block. He peered over the steering wheel, and observed the building from inside the van, squinting up to where he imagined apartment number six might be. Across the street were three expensive looking black Audis – a commonplace when he was called at this time of night. Jonas walked around to the back of the van and opened it’s large double-doors, then pulled out and down a ramp that touched the street. He walked up the ramp, then carefully led a large blue cart with magnetic double-doors on either side down from the back of the van, similar to a housekeeping push-cart you’d see in any hotel. It’s thick plastic wheels made little sound, and only a clip-board sat on it’s top. Jonas closed the doors of the van, and made his way to the apartment building.

A small dimly lit lobby with no attendant greeted Jonas as he entered the building with his push cart. Thirty feet inside he spied a large metal door and it’s tiny summoning button. “Thank God, an elevator,” Jonas thought to himself. He pulled the cart back into the elevator, found the button for the sixth floor, and pressed it with one of his thick fingers. Jonas used the free moment to think about how red Autumn’s hair was, and lifted his ball cap to wipe the moisture from his mostly-bald scalp. “Really red, really quite red,” he thought to himself. The elevator door opened, and cap reaffixed Jonas took a quick survey of the hallway in front of him. Of first and foremost note, two men – one blond and one bald – wearing black Brooks Brothers suits were standing toward the end of the hallway near an open apartment door, and while painted in it’s yellowish orange light he saw they were both pointing AWC 1911 threaded .45 caliber hand guns directly at him, a chest shot if they wanted to take it. “At least I don’t need glasses,” Jonas thought to himself. The two men lowered their weapons, and waved Jonas to the area.

He wheeled his cart down the hallway and as he arrived to where the two men were standing, Jonas looked to his left and observed briefly the scene inside. Blood, everywhere. Some guts, too. There was a young man in a white suit standing in the middle of the room holding a large golden knife in his left hand, and what appeared to be a human scalp in his right His suit was wildly splashed in blood from head to toe, and his spiked and frost-tipped brown hair reflected the light in a new and slimy way, the way only blood could refract the evil of his fresh deeds. Feathers and fluff from two large pillows were stuck to little bits of everything, including the dead man at the killer’s feet. His abdomen had been brutally carved this way and that, as if the man in the white suit had not only a diseased mind, but was currently overdosing on some sort of popper and thought he was unwrapping a birthday present. The man in the white suit turned toward the open doorway where Jonas and the two men in black suits were standing, observing what the insane looking man in the white suit might do next. “I wanted to watch his heart stop beating,” the man in the white suit said with a devilish grin and nothing behind his eyes. “I wanted to eat his last moment.”

Jonas nodded, as if to say “of course you did” to the man in the white suit, then turned and handed the clip board from the top of his cart to the blond man in the black Brooks Brothers suit. The blond man signed the clip board, nodded to Jonas, and the two armed men headed toward the elevator with every effort to leave the building as fast as they could do so without outright sprinting. Jonas wheeled his cart into the bloody scene, closed the door behind him, and silently locked it. The man in the white suit turned to Jonas. “So, you’re here to clean up my spill, yes, yes?” Jonas nods. The man in the white suit showed Jonas the golden knife he’d been gripping. “Killer, right? Is that irony – ha!” He pointed the tip of the blade to his own chest in gesture. “Killer blade, and killer – ha!”

Jonas walked over and looked down at the dead man with the haphazard and brutally opened chest cavity. He was standing next to the man in the white suit, and together they observed the corpse in pose. Jonas turned and bent down on one knee, opening one of the magnetic doors on the blue plastic push-cart. The man in the white suit put the tip of the golden knife between his front teeth and began to mutter to himself. “I didn’t get to eat his last moment, but I saw it. I surely watched it leav-” he was abruptly cut off mid sentence by Jonas, who’d kicked him firmly behind his left knee, causing the man to levy his body weight directly on it as it thudded to the floor. Before the man in the white suit could say another word, Jonas grabbed him with his left forearm in a headlock, and with a silenced Beretta in his right, sent a bullet cleanly through his brain. Jonas let the dead man in the white suit fall in a heap over the other corpse. With a deep breath Jonas thought to himself, “Only two tonight. That’s good. I should be home before sunrise.”

The first time Jonas knew he had an unusual talent was at age nine. Rather, the first time he was forced to use this talent was at age nine. His father favored mental twisting as opposed to the more physical retribution – indoctrinating the family with words and philosophy his father barely understood himself, things learned from fact-less lecture and fear mongering television. As fathers go, Jonas thought he was one of the luckier ones, as ice cream and family vacations usually kept things a yard or two away from a broken home. On one sunny ancient afternoon, Jonas was playing and wrestling with his dog at the end of the yard, and the childlike fervor found it’s way into the middle of the street. When he looked up Jonas realized the busy street was likely a bad place to be for continued play, so he stood up, and told the dog that they’d better head back towards the house. Jonas did, but the dog did not. A rapid Cadillac clipped the dog and with a dramatic cry, it’s pelvis was shattered. With tearful eyes Jonas carried the dog into the garage and lamented his friend’s pain as he brought the massive garage door down to a lock, and then lamented his own pain that was sure to come once his father returned home and found the family animal mangled. Sitting and crying together, Jonas itched the dogs chin – then slowly grabbed the dog’s throat with his finger tips and squeezed until the dog stopped moving. It’s muffled whines ceased, and as the animal went limp he gently kissed it on the head, and quietly worried if this was how the super villains he read about in his comic books were born – with pain, tears, and gruesome.

First things were first. Mother was sure to call for lunch within the next forty minutes, and her watchful eye missed little to nothing. Jonas nabbed three cans of his father’s Sterno gel fuel he liked to use on fishing trips, set them on the ground next to his dog, and nabbed the largest of the four skinning knives from the wall. He then walked to the side of the garage, turned on the water and brought the running hose into the garage with him, pointed so the flow went directly into the drain in the middle of the floor. His tears made his work all the more difficult but he moved his mind to other things, like the good times he had with his furry friend… and cake. Jonas clipped the dog top to bottom across it’s body, from ass to throat, and opened the abdomen as wide as he could. Facing it’s carcass to the drain, he used the water and hose to send down the most liquid of things inside the dog, as to insure it wouldn’t drip blood or any other tissue when he prepared to move it.

After he felt he’d washed his friend as much as one could, he turned the dog to face him, and opened the jars of Sterno gel fuel. With his tiny little sausage fingers, Jonas scooped up every last bit of the blue gel and wiped it over the dogs fur while tearfully muttering “good boy” over and over, then packed globs of it inside the corpse proper. He washed his hands with the hose, returned outside, turned the water off, and took a breath of fresh air. Jonas slowly looked down to his pants and his shirt. He’d managed to wash the insides of the dog without a single stain, a testament to the care he’d exerted for the process, but he wasn’t finished yet and he knew it. Jonas returned to the garage, grabbed a jar of transmission fluid off of his father’s work bench, and walked to the back door of the house. He could hear his mother – eternally cooking or vacuuming or doing something motherly inside the house, and snuck into the living room. Jonas approached the television, solid, stoic, and quiet – then slowly turned the volume knob as high as it would go. Taking a runners pose and careful to not drop the bottle of transmission fluid, Jonas pulled the one other knob to activate the television, and as it began to shout loudly all over the house, he sprinted out the back door and rapidly headed for the street.

With his mother distracted, Jonas calculated he had roughly sixty seconds before she would turn off the television and start calling around the house for him. She would then likely look to the street for evidence of her misbehaving child, so time was – as they say – of the essence. Jonas ran to the street where a small blood stain was drying in the hot sun, popped the top of the jar of transmission fluid, and started pouring it over the evidence of his poor dog’s accident, the one he’d caused. He poured it on the blood, then poured it in a spastic and random stream back to a few feet in front of the family’s mailbox, forming a large pool of dark fluid that appeared in front of their house and drifted off into the street. With roughly half of the jar expelled, Jonas ran into the garage, and made two solemn trips. On one trip he disposed of the Sterno jars and the half empty bottle of transmission fluid. With the second, he gave his dog, carried by the tips of the paws, his final resting place. Jonas’s mother found him moments later, playing with a tiny metal truck in his room. “Did you play with the TV?” she asked. When he shook his head, she gave him a sideways glance, but left the matter largely alone.

His father returned home around 6pm. Jonas came down to the kitchen amidst his father mid-rant to his mother about how “they can’t seem to repair the mail trucks worth a damn” and how “they leak shit all over the streets.” The irritable father spied the young boy. “Jonas, good, come help me with the garbage before dinner,” he said. Jonas and his father carried a few bags of garbage to the large metal barrel in their back yard, and with half a cup of gasoline and a few matches he and his father lit the garbage. Jonas’s father would later comment on how long and dim the garbage burned, unaware it was helped along by an old friend of Jonas, and a few flammable cans. I guess that dog just… ran away.

“Only two tonight, should be home by sunrise,” Jonas kept repeating in his head. There were steps to be followed, and distraction or adaptation leads to mistakes. It was all a matter of basic math to Jonas. Two corpses meant four buckets, two for each body, and roughly sixteen garbage bags to act as a canvas for work. A grid of garbage bags on which to lay the bodies, then proper space in which to arrange the tools. Three saws, two large-toothed and one fine. Two little bottles of water, two medium bottles of hydroxide, and one large bucket of hydrofluoric acid. One box of powdered lye. Dish soap. Detergent. The tackle box of tiny tinctures and various compounds. Steel wool. Grill brush. Wet-dry vacuum. Everything in it’s place, only what’s needed for now.

The chemicals and the various little stages of the various little viscosities in Jonas’s buckets of human miscellany were carefully watched. There was only so much one could turn their mind from one’s work, no matter how brutal or thorough. Yes, Jonas would slice the eyeballs to prevent them from popping when in the dissolving solutions even though it only happened that once, but he preferred to think of funnel cakes and wondered about the easiest way to acquire one instead – when is the fair in town? True, the teeth were pulled individually and the roots sometimes made a sloppy sound, but Jonas preferred to hum that Top 40 tune he’d heard on the radio last weekend – how did it go? Indeed, Jonas would use a large-toothed hand saw to separate the body into seven pieces – the largest cut across the abdomen releasing a horrible stink as he cut into the bowels, but Jonas preferred to think about how Autumn always smelled like vanilla – do women just smell like that?

While Jonas was waiting for the larger tissues to dissolve in the buckets so he could strip the bones out and put them in their own horrible bucket, he started his more refined work – the work that sometimes made him think about things the most. It was always much more difficult to erase someone from the planet, Jonas often thought, than it was to simply lose them in the fray of life. A murder was a report and a case, a missing person was a just a form and a lost cause. Jonas wandered the little apartment and found pictures identifying the corpse that had once lived there. With a clean set of gloves he slowly and carefully pawed through records and files, looking for the regular materials. The wallet was on the body, and the passport was an easy location, top left drawer of the computer desk. A few selected clothes, underwear here, socks there, and Jonas collected these all into one of the pieces of luggage he’d found in the closet. He packed the clothes, the passport, the wallet, and the remnants of what the dead man was wearing before the man in the white suit tried to perform what looked like a living autopsy. Jonas closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Not quite sunrise – yes, almost done,” he said to himself. He walked over to his little buckets, peered over them, and decided another hour might not be a bad idea.

Usually this is when he liked to have a cup or two of lukewarm coffee from the thermos in his push-cart, but in this particular hour, Jonas took the two sliced up pillows and after applying a special green compound of his own alchemy to a fine wire brush, started scrubbing the droplets of blood he’d found on them, as well as the ones on the couch the pillows came from. The same compound would be used on the carpet as well, and Jonas sometimes wondered if he should market the powerful stuff. “No,” he thought to himself, “that would just be silly.” He was glad he didn’t need glasses, since a large part of his night involved crawling around on his hands and knees looking for blood or other unpleasant particulate. The trick wasn’t to fool a crime scene investigator, but to prevent the request for one. After the pillows were scrubbed, Jonas gathered each of the individual feathers into one pile, then shoved them into the luggage he’d filled with the dead man’s clothes, wallet, and passport. A little stitching with white thread is all it took to turn back the clock a little, and Jonas placed the pillows back on the couch with the stitched side facing inward. Bones – the bones are ready – dust to dust – the bones are now jelly. Jonas returned to one of the four buckets, and decided the two dead men were ready for burial.

The hydroxide was tolerable, but the hydrofluoric acid was a brain beater, so he liked to work quickly with it as to avoid vomiting, or worse, cardiac arrest. With his elbow length gloves and respirator mask, Jonas slowly emptied each bucket of many colors into the bathtub of the apartment while it’s water ran and helped wash everything away. He unplugged and coiled up the little suction device he’d used to transfer blood directly into the running bathtub hours ago – the bathtub would usually run all night long for Jonas – so he saved the hot water for the burials. He gathered his garbage bags and the few rolls of paper towels he ran through all into a large body-sized fold-out canvas bag he’d produced from his push cart. The dead man’s luggage full of clothes he’d never wear again went into the large fold out bag, and with this, Jonas took one last survey of the scene. “A clean happy house,” he’d thought to himself. “I wonder if Autumn called.” Jonas sprayed some aerosol freshener into the air, closed up his cart, and excused himself from the now pristine apartment with the large canvas bag on top of his supply cart. He locked the door with the keys he’d pulled from the dead man’s pocket, and headed back toward the elevator. Once inside, he slowly looked down at his dark blue sweatpants and his dark blue sweatshirt. Not a single stain.

Jonas returned home and pulled the large canvas bag from the back of his van. He carried it down to his basement, and fired up the large incinerator he’d installed not without it’s own challenges. The large canvas bag went in with minor folding, and as Jonas’s incinerator sent the bag to hell, Jonas took off his ball cap, dark blue sweatpants and dark blue sweatshirt. He threw them into the incinerator, and let the warmth of the fire wash over him as he stood there in his white underwear and made sure everything turned to the appropriate texture of ash, the kind he only knew from experience. No messages, no call from Autumn, good, good. A large sigh accompanied his slow sink back into the aged recliner in his living room. The cold pseudo leather felt good on his legs, and he leaned back and tried to get an hour or two of sleep before he awoke for work – something he’d found he needed no alarm to accomplish. Jonas leaned far back in the chair and closed his eyes. “Four fourteen,” he thought to himself, “almost two hours before I need to wake up.”

Work was a little easier when you’ve had a full night of sleep, and Jonas often explained away his slower demeanor after an evening of moonlighting as due to insomnia, which was also partially true. Kung-fu movies were an invaluable resource for Jonas, as he’d often watch early seventies classics like Heroes Two to lull him to sleep. Something about the violence quieted his mind, and Jonas didn’t like to reflect on why exactly that might be. Settled at work, Jonas checked his ancient green desk drawers for supplies. Rubber thumbs – check. Jar of blue ink pens – check. Was it someone’s birthday today- ah, no. No birthday cake today – check. Soon he’d be folding and folding and filing and filing, finding ways to keep his mind busy.

“Here comes David,” Jonas thought to himself. Always David first in the morning.

“What’s up, you orca son of a bitch!” shouted David from the door to the stairs. “I brought doughnuts today – and I’ve saved the funny cinnamon one for you.” Jonas’s belly gently lifted up and down, up and down with his hefty chuckle at David’s words.

“Ah, how nice,” Jonas replied, “Always thinking of me.”

“Hey I get a hard-on when I think of your big ass my friend,” replied David, “I just wish I didn’t have to give you this like we were in prison. Seriously with your office man, this is cruel.”

Jonas took the large doughnut from David as it was passed under the little teller window Jonas sat behind. He set it aside, gently wiped the sugar dust off his desk with one of his large paws, and took David’s stack of papers. As Jonas signed David’s form, David leaned in close to the mesh gate with an ear-to-ear grin as if he were to recount a wonderful secret.

“So… did you have one of your little chats with Autumn-Summer-June-Spring last night? I didn’t see her in today, you’ve got to let her be on top once in a while, buddy.”

Jonas looked around his desk, and started to fiddle with his blue ink pens. David rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed, then said, “Never mind man, I didn’t ask. Any-who, if you get the fatty shakes or something there’s more doughnuts upstairs. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eye-ball that black Audi in the parking lot. God Almighty the buffet of ass I could snag with one of those little darlings.”

Jonas fiddled with his blue ink pens until David left, and then started to move his rubber-tipped fingers through the stack of papers David gave him.

Wait.

Jonas stopped. He suddenly looked straight ahead, and felt himself start to test the claims on his can of deodorant. The giant red steam-whistle was blowing harder than usual, and it was only forty six minutes past eight o’clock.

To be continued.

 

 

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