Into the Mind of Pennywell: Plight of the Fallen

By Paul Besancon

Thomas Pennywell, a malcontented mail room clerk, is drifting through life with contempt for society and its inhabitants. Putting on what he calls 'the mask,' just to get through each day, he finds it slipping as his thoughts slowly become more and more disdainful toward his fellow humans. Eventually, he starts having increasingly dark fantasies of wanton violence and destruction. But he also starts seeing things, in the shadows and out the corner of his eye. It seems he is slowly going mad as he trudges through his mundane existence.

Then there is a catalyst, a sexual encounter with an infatuated coworker that pushes him a little further into darkness. Soon after, he becomes intimate with a beautiful married woman who herself feels as an outcast from society in her own way. As the relationship ensues, his coworker takes the new affair with poison and envy. The outcome can only be one of pain and suffering.

But unbeknown to Thomas, all these circumstances were carefully influenced and brought about by a supernatural being that has watched over him since childhood, a demon of unknown origin that wishes to use him as a conduit to usher in its people from another realm. As Thomas slips further and further away from his connection with humanity, he begins to push away those close to him and come to terms with his demonic observer, leaving him with a choice that may forever change the entire fabric of the universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Besancon
• Release date: Jun 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736552315

Paul Besancon

Paul Besancon was born and raised in Northern California. He spends his leisurely time hiking, playing video games, watching shows with the love of his life Jara, and writing books that usually involve some form of demons and angels duking it out. When he’s not constantly chasing after his receding hairline, he’s usually on his computer furiously working away. His goal as a writer is simply to entertain. Although his work may have a (hopefully subtle) message or point here and there, he doesn’t wish to change the world, preach to the masses or push some sociopolitical agenda; he just wants to bring a tear to your eye, a smile to your face and a laugh to your belly. We all need an escape every now and then, hopefully he can bring one to you.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Forty minutes on the freeway and the off-ramp finally came into view. Thomas Pennywell slumped in his seat as if the mind-numbing drive was pulling him into the earth. He was in downtown Ghetti now, with its ominous skyscrapers packed into several square miles—monoliths of the damned. The concrete and asphalt fields were filled with pedestrians, one-way streets, homeless people and other suit-clad drones all making their way to their prison cells. All trudged along to the beat of a mundane existence.

The coffee shops and tea houses made a fortune off these drones. They needed foreign substances just to get through the day, and even more to come back the next. Caffeine was an accepted and much needed drug of survival in this world; without it, the drones would succumb to the daily decay of their souls or even turn on their masters. Pennywell didn’t need it, however. His drug was observing and contemplating the suffering of the rest. His own suffering served as a counterbalance, so he never felt too guilty at the odd pleasure he got in watching these poor creatures slowly die inside.

As he drove along First Street, his destination finally came into view: Archman Tower. The glass plating reflected the sun, blinding all who looked on its east face. Another mechanism to make outsiders feel uninvited; they couldn’t even look at the building let alone inside. Apparently, even the sun owed something to the black tower.

Thomas pulled his simple car into the parking structure that burrowed underneath the metal and concrete monstrosity. Like every morning, there was a long line of cars waiting to grab an empty spot. It usually took him ten minutes to find an opening. Today, Thomas was behind a green Volvo whose driver was texting away on her phone, oblivious to her surroundings and the fact that the cars in front of her had moved on. Thomas gave his horn a quick tap. She didn’t even look up. He angrily pressed it down fully until she finally realized it was for her. In embarrassment, she dropped her phone and gave an apologetic wave as she jolted forward. At least she had the decency to acknowledge she was in the wrong, he thought.

As he moved closer to the front of the line, he scanned for a parking spot. Bingo. He would have preferred one closer to the elevator, but he took what he could get. The silver Corolla slid into its new home for the next nine hours. In the rearview mirror, he watched all the drones, coffees in hand, make their way to the entrance. Being several levels underground, the structure was illuminated by ghastly florescent lighting that seemed to fill the area with a cloud of yellowish poison, if such a thing were possible. It distinguished all the scars, moles, blemishes, and bad makeup on a person’s skin. It pointed out all the flaws in the mask. What did they see when they looked at his?

Thomas Pennywell wasn’t anything special, he knew, just another man trying to find himself in the world. There was one thing going for him however, his compelling hazel eyes: two pearls of goldish-brown and light, forest green. He would occasionally get compliments for them. His father claimed it was from his Irish side; naturally, his mother claimed it was from her Italian genes. The lifelong feud was never settled since there were members on both sides of the family with hazel eyes.

He grabbed his brown leather satchel from the back seat, then headed to the escalator. Walking with the other drones made him feel exposed, as if they were all watching him, slowly peeling away the layers of his own mask with their inquiring stares. They were probably wondering why he wasn’t holding a coffee. How did he survive? What was his secret?

Hi Tom! a familiar voice called out from behind. Sighing, he turned around to the sound of clicking heels and the sight of his coworker Ashley jogging up to him. Good morning. Isn’t this weather great? She was always so positive; he didn’t know if he should be envious, irritated or impressed.

Yeah, it’s nice, he replied as they walked to the escalator together. Getting a little chilly, but I like the cold. It represents my soul—too much?

Really? Cold makes me feel sluggish.

I could say the same about the heat. They stepped onto the escalator heading upstairs. The smooth, endless steps rose up the corridor and past brick walls covered in a large painting of a sunrise, meant to give the sheep hope as they made their way to the slaughterhouse.

Have you heard the new Feona song? Ashley asked with bright brown eyes. Feona was the latest pop queen everyone would forget in a year or so. I already have it as my ringtone. I can’t get enough of her. Neither can every other conformist in a three-thousand-mile radius.

Yeah, I heard it. Couldn’t help it considering it’s played on every speaker and radio station on the planet.

I love her stuff, Ashley continued, oblivious to Thomas’ indifference. Her song ‘Sky Dive’ is so amazing, oh my god.

They arrived on the first floor of Archman Tower. The escalators led up to the back entrance of the lobby, an enormous spectacle representing the building as a whole. The floor was brown marble, and the walls a soft brown color with bronze framework every few feet. Pillars were placed a few meters apart with a bronze base and top. A couple medium-sized, golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Sofas and lounge chairs were scattered throughout, accompanied by coffee tables that housed a few magazines, all current issues.

The main entrance was a wall of glass that allowed diffused light through the tinted panels, giving the lobby a natural, soft luminance to make the guests feel warm and comfortable. Despite the disgust he had for this enterprise, Thomas loved the lobby. He often took his breaks there. Perhaps the browns and sunlight made him feel closer to nature than the excessively bright, florescent-filled, white tiled breakroom.

They passed the reception desk, a large, curved bronze counter that protruded from the west wall like death’s sickle. In an hour or two the client traffic would start pouring in, but for now, the three receptionists sat discussing their evenings: basketball, movies, dinner, books, music, bars and booze. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one had committed murder or taken part in a jewelry heist, much to Pennywell's disappointment.

Thomas and Ashley nodded to the veteran receptionists and arrived at the elevators. There were four on either side of the corridor. Six serviced the first forty commercial floors; the last two were the private residential and executive elevators. The higher up, the more exclusive until you finally arrived at the penthouse where some tech mogul resided. Today, the lines for the elevators were average, perhaps a three to five-minute wait, nothing to get worked up about.

Pennywell watched his reflection in the bronze elevator doors. His eyes locked onto himself as Ashley continued talking about who knew what. He had tuned her out long before they reached the elevators. Last he noticed, she had transitioned to some party her friend was throwing that weekend or a concert or something. He could care less. He liked the girl, even considered her to be a friend. But what he focused on now was how mundane the next nine hours were going to be. The reflection agreed with him.

With a ding, the elevator doors opened and inside they stepped with six or seven other people. Then the doors slid closed, trapping them for the next minute or so. Thomas already felt someone’s breath beating on the back of his neck. It smelled of salami.

The steel box quickly filled with warm, moist, coffee breath. Everyone was silent—even Ashley was no match for the power of the steel box. They tried their hardest to avoid eye contact. Each chose a button on the panel or a screw on the wall and locked on to it until they arrived at their destination.

They lost a few fellow inmates on their way to the thirteenth floor. Newlwart and Bailey leased the thirteenth through sixteenth. Thomas was stationed on the thirteenth with the basic office drones: customer service reps, file clerks, that sort of thing. Ashley worked as a receptionist on the fifteenth floor of the accounting department, Simon’s territory. Her phone skills, and friendly, outgoing personality made her a decent pick for the position.

Only four passengers left. Unfortunately, the mouth-breather behind Thomas was still there, bathing his neck in a humid, acrid mist. Pennywell closed his eyes and imagined turning around, grabbing the skull of his assailant and bashing it into the elevator doors. Maybe even pushing it through so it would be severed as they reached the next floor. Red on bronze, not a bad combination.

Ashley was talking again. His eyes opened to her distorted reflection in the bronze doors. She was waving her free hand around while her phone sat firmly in the other, and he noticed her mouth moving, but he didn’t hear the words she was saying. His mind wouldn’t allow it.

They finally arrived on the thirteenth floor. Thomas stepped off, waving goodbye to his jolly coworker. She smiled and waved back as the door sealed her back inside. A deep sigh left his lungs in simultaneous relief and anguish; relief to be out of that steel cell, but now he looked down the hallway before him and could already hear the sorters shuffling through the new arrivals. The dreaded sound of paper and cardboard fluttering about filled his thoughts.

The mailroom was at the farthest end of the menacing hallway. To his right came the satellite filing room. Most of the main filing room on the fifteenth floor was being downsized to hard drives. Everything was going digital and staff were being laid off to make room for more tech savvy employees, but there were still secret files that the brass kept in paper form, rarely to be seen. Those were sent down to his floor. Thomas passed the archive and nodded hello to the file room’s head clerk, an elderly woman who’d been with the business for decades. Smiling, she nodded back. She knew how to do her job and when to keep her mouth shut, hence her success in the company.

Eventually, he arrived at the employee breakroom, which was large enough to accommodate the entire floor. It housed multiple round tables and a few vending machines. There was no cafeteria down here for the lower level drones—that was on the fifteenth floor. Along the far southern wall was a row of lockers. Thomas walked up to number 17 and put his bag inside, sealing it with a combination lock. Vibrating florescent lighting bombarded him from all angles, bouncing off the white tiled floors, white walls, and white ceiling. He could already feel his head throbbing.

Inside the mailroom, Thomas’ eyes and ears were assaulted by ’70s rock music and the sight and sounds of his coworkers hustling about with hopelessness smeared across their faces. All except Daren, his chubby boss; he waved hello to Thomas from across the main conveyor belt. The man always maintained a positive demeanor no matter how mundane his job was.

Thomas nodded hello and turned to the computer on his left to clock in. They owned him for the next nine hours. There were only five of them, including Daren. Trish, Danny, and Christian were the main sorters. They spent most of their time digging through the mountains of paper envelopes, incoming and outgoing.

Peter and Thomas were the go-to guys: Go here and deliver this, then go there and pick up that. If things got backed up on the sorting line, they might be tasked to that, but not if they could help it. Sorting mail was a one-way ticket to insanity. Trish, however, seemed to thrive in it. Danny and Christian? Not so much. You could see the life slowly being sucked from them with every envelope they handled.

Thomas put on his work gloves and waited for the freight elevator to arrive. The gate was made of mesh steel much like a chain-link fence which allowed the passenger to observe the odd entities lying between floors; a dead mouse here, a spider’s nest there. Cockroaches were abundant behind the scenes.

Thomas stepped inside and pushed the button labeled B1 for the basement floor where the receiving dock awaited him. With a jolt, the steel cell began a slow descent. Thomas noted the familiar markings and the scars the freight elevator had taken over the years. Old, dried up chewing gum was stuck in one corner. Who sticks gum onto walls? Have we not evolved enough? Large scrapes covered the grey walls at various heights as if the drones were trying to claw their way out. The ceiling was the only thing that was remotely unscathed. This is the pinnacle of my life, staring at a cage and concrete wall.

A shriveled dead spider hung from a web between the ninth and eighth floor—hung from one thread like a chandelier. Its legs curled toward its body, giving it a diamond shape. It had been there for weeks. It had lasted longer in death than it had in life.

Soon enough he would reach the ground floor and load up his cart with mailbags, possibly waiting for the mail carrier to find his packages amid the oceans of letters and parcels. Then he would return to the thirteenth floor and dump the mail on the conveyor for sorting. Then he and Pete would load up the sorted outgoing pieces onto their separate carts and head to their floors.

The metal cage creaked along. An unfamiliar shadow appeared in his peripheral vision, but no, it wasn’t a shadow—it was as if something was in the elevator with him. As he looked in that direction, it vanished. There was just the same tarnished concrete wall. Probably more of those damn cockroaches, he thought. However, in the back of his mind, he knew that it was far too big to be a cockroach. Perhaps it was a rat. Sometimes even birds got indoors and would nest in the shafts. Then again, maybe his eyes were merely playing tricks on him. And the world keeps on turning.

Chapter 2

Such a fascinating creature. All this time I have waited, watched. Thousands of their years. All this time and I may have finally found one worthy. In him.

Chapter 3

Traffic wasn’t too bad that day. Maybe things are looking up. Driving on, Thomas looked out at the coffee shops and the tea cafes, burger joints, wedding dress boutiques, flower stores, Thai restaurants—four on this block alone—chicken places, pancake houses, handbag and accessory shops, shoe stores, cellphone providers. This is the true heart of America. Buy, buy, buy! Work all day, every day, for pocket change just to throw it all back into the pot. Stand in line for six days to get the next generation of cellphone/GPS/computer/camera/floatation device. God forbid you pick it up a few days after the electro-addicts get their tentacles on it.

His neighborhood was alive with kids and parents greeting each other after a long day of school and work. All the rush hour drones were arriving with him. He cringed at the fact that he was one of them—in his mind, the others did what they did because it was built into them. He complied because, at the moment, he must survive. He watched as the husks of men and women, young and old, arrived in their Volvos, Hondas, Prius Toyotas, and the occasional BMW; these people didn’t buy American cars. Their smiles were fake. Masks for the whole family. Can’t let anyone see the emptiness of their souls.

Thomas pulled into the driveway of his rental home, a reasonable price for the size. The neighborhood was decent; no problems with crime, drugs, or domestic violence—that he knew of. All the violence here was done to oneself through emotional torment and self-medication. They bottled the negativity inside for fear of what the neighbors might think. Then, sometimes, the cap popped off and that’s when the police and news stations would show up to cover the latest murder-suicide. He was such a nice man. She always seemed so sweet. They looked so happy. How could this happen in a neighborhood like this? Oh, it happens. It always happens. It’s a matter of time. But, so far, this neighborhood had been stable. Of course, Thomas’ roommate wouldn’t have settled for anything less.

Simon Krauff had been Thomas’ best friend since sixth grade. They’d became instant companions, two creatures of destruction out to conquer the world. They went to the same high school but parted ways when it came time to leave for college; Simon was able to afford Cornell due to his parents’ money and influence while Thomas attended a state school partially supported by his parents, financial aid and his own part time job. He wasn’t about to graduate tens of thousands of dollars in debt. He would not become a slave.

And yet here he was, twenty-eight years old, working the same pathetic job for the past five years. Thomas held a degree in library science, useless by most standards. Worst yet was he had known this for quite some time now. Just an errand boy, a delivery man, a messenger. Nothing.

Despite their separate paths, the two friends had always stayed in touch. And the relationship was a blessing. Simon, ever popular, had no shortage of friends. But those friends tended to be nothing more than social leeches who used him solely to gain social credit. Thomas, on the other hand, was someone Simon surely knew he could trust.

He stepped inside his house; it was surprisingly clean, for a place inhabited by two young bachelors. The entranceway held an umbrella and coat rack, mainly for Simon’s guests. There were no dishes in the sink, no crumbs on the countertops, no magazines and mail scattered on the dining room table. This was mostly the work of Thomas. If one went into their bedrooms, they would see the tidy organized sleeping area that was Thomas’ room, but also the disaster that was Simon’s. Magazines covered every flat surface. Dirty clothes littered the floor and a computer desk was drowned in a sea of old receipts and manuals. His room represented the upheaval of a carefree mind.

Dear Simon, the epitome of social squalor. If you were to throw him into a room filled with Starbucks chugging, mainstream music loving, bar-hopping, reality TV watching iPhone fanatics, he would soon be lost among them. Not to say he was a bad fellow; he treated others as he wished them to treat him. He never intentionally harmed another soul, except for that time in Greece. He paid his taxes and his bills. And most importantly, he was a good friend to Thomas, and Thomas needed his friend.

Thomas was a loner and had been one his entire life—going to clubs or social gatherings was of no interest to him. Most would see this as a negative trait. Antisocial was the word they used. But Thomas simply preferred his own company over the company of others. He was much more satisfied staying at home reading a book than being surrounded by acquaintances. He didn’t bother putting forth the effort to engage, maybe because he saw others for what they were. Simon was the only person he trusted, and that was all he needed: one true friend.

This afternoon, Simon was sitting at the table working on paperwork while, like a starving chimp, he stuffed a muffin into his mouth. Thomas cringed at the crumbs sprinkling onto the papers below. The papers looked to be some sort of account manifest, perhaps a complex inquiry of client accounts. Either way, they looked important. Simon simply brushed the crumbs aside and continued his work. He nodded to Thomas as he walked by, and his straight, freshly showered blond hair flicked around with the movement of his head. Thomas scoffed and shook his own in mockery of Simon’s table manners. The blue-eyed man snickered and took another large bite from his muffin. They knew each other like one knows themselves. They spoke with their eyes because each knew what the other was thinking.

Simon was one of several managers in Newlwart and Bailey’s accounting department. He co-headed the cash collection department. Overseeing the movement of millions of dollars a day might have been stressful for most, but not for Simon; he never let it get to him. It wasn’t because he was strong willed or an expert in his field though. He simply didn’t care. He didn’t care if he lost millions due to a misplaced decimal. He didn’t care that he was in charge of over thirty employees. He didn’t care if he was fired. For Simon, there was always something new around the corner, so why fret? In a few moments the problems would be in the past.

This carefree attitude always made Thomas a little envious. He wished he could turn his brain off and simply take each day as it was. But his mind wouldn’t allow it. Every instance of every day was filled with criticism, worry and subjective observations. There were no moments of Who cares for him. In his mind, that was merely a luxury of the elite or homeless. Not for those in between.

Thomas grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and headed to his room. Off came the shoes; he placed them in their designated area in the closet, an organized cubby space with each pair lined up like little soldiers. Lying down on his bed, he stared at the ceiling and took an occasional bite from the red-yellowish fruit. Honeycrisp were his favorite. His gaze focused on the same spot of the ceiling that they focused on every time he lay there: a black speck that hovered directly over his pillow. It was as if it was there just for him, although he’d never taken the time to investigate it. A hole? A spot of mold? It was a mystery, yet the answer was right there. All he had to do was stand up. But then what would he concentrate on while lying in bed?

As was his routine, his mind wandered. He contemplated his past, present, and to his horror, his future. The unknown. Was there even a future for him? He might break out of his prison one day, but when? Was he at the mercy of society or did he control his own destiny? Does anyone? Is there even a destiny to control? Perhaps he was meant to be nothing more. The windows to his mind closed.

On the ceiling above, the speck watched over him.

Chapter 4

Thomas woke to the dreaded sound of the blender. His gaze darted to the clock on the nightstand: 7:43 p.m. He had slept for two hours. It wasn’t like him to nap. The sound of the blender meant Simon was making one of his protein shakes. Healthy body for a healthy, carefree mind. Another zap echoed throughout the house.

Thomas sat up in his bed, looking out the window. His room had a view of the backyard, with its lone tree in a pond of grass. Squirrels loved it, birds loved it and bugs loved it. It was their own private sanctuary. The lawn was well cared for, courtesy of Thomas—he had to have some contact with nature, even if it meant cutting it up. Simon rarely did chores, but he paid most of the utilities and rent, so it balanced itself out.

The yellow poplar stood proudly among its shorter, bluegrass cousins. Thomas admired its beauty and stoicism. It staved off insects, animals, snow, wind and the occasional lightning storm. Yet it needed them too. Insects and wind helped it pollinate. Animals made sure the insects didn’t get out of control. Snow caused it to go dormant, protecting itself from the cold while still growing its roots. A fascinating beneficial codependence. Too bad people can’t share that same codependence without destroying it.

Nature didn’t need seven-million-dollar houses or fifty-thousand-dollar cars. It didn’t need sixty-four-inch flat screens or the next generation phone or gaming console. Nature only needed nature. And it outlives us all.

Another buzz from the blender snapped Thomas back to reality. He sighed, pulled himself off the bed and dressed for an evening jog.

The brisk night air enveloped him as he stepped out of the house and onto the front lawn. Despite the hour, the neighborhood was active. Kids kicked a soccer ball around in the street. A man set out a hose for watering his bushes. Housewives talked on their lawn as they watched their seed play.

Thomas finished his stretches and began jogging down the darkening street, passing all the boring houses with their boring occupants. Hi, I’m Ted. This is my wife Mary and our children John and Ashley. Oh hello. My name is Bill. This is Sara, Britney and my wife Joan. Hey there! I’m Theo. This is my lover Heinrich and our children Sarafina and Mikail. Heinrich and I met during a rock-climbing event. He was above me when he slipped. I caught him by the arm and saved his life. When our eyes met, we knew it was meant to be. Fat chance. Not in this neighborhood.

On the other hand, how many of the housewives were fucking the mailman? How many so-called patriarchs were fucking their secretaries or better yet, the other housewives? Probably the same ones talking to their wives this very moment. How many househusbands were fucking the housewives? Or perhaps they held other secrets. How many of the more loyal couples wore black and red latex after their kids went to sleep? Did they whip each other? Blood play maybe? Did the wife secure a strap-on and remove the husband’s blockage from last night’s pot roast? Did the kids sneak out at night to a friend’s party and spend their time doing ecstasy, drinking whiskey and trying to get laid?

Or perhaps this was their true identity: boring, mindless churchgoers with white picket fences and a dog named Max. Maybe they didn’t put on the mask. Or maybe they were like Pennywell. Perhaps they were merely observers who mocked the entire social enterprise. Thomas waved at one of the housewives who’d spotted him. She waved back with a big smile on her face. Is it real? He couldn’t tell. Most of them had perfected their masks over decades. He himself was a master of it. If they could see his true face, he felt he would immediately be shunned. But if they were like him, all just wading through the ripples of life, then perhaps they would accept him, make him one of their own. Would that be something he would want? He couldn’t say.

Thomas turned the corner at the end of his street and headed to the neighborhood park which soon came up on his right. A teen couple was straddling each other in one of the swings, whispering face-to-face, thinking it would last forever. So young and naïve. Poor creatures. He paused his thoughts for a moment, his eyes focusing on the cracks in the asphalt as each step sent him forward. Who knows. Maybe I'm the naïve one. Maybe their little tryst will result in a lifetime of happiness, grandkids and success. But that never seems to be the way it works out for most of us. I've seen it too many times over the years: people lying to themselves, lives dashed against the sharp rocks of reality, mistakes never teaching, only creating victimhood. No, they made me like this.

Passing the young couple, he headed through to Riverstone Parkway, as was his routine. Why it was named Riverstone, he’d never know. There wasn’t a river for miles. This area was separate—it held more upper-class denizens, unlike his lower to regular middle-class neighborhood. There may have been a few CEOs here, but most residents were lawyers, executive types and board members of decent sized companies. The lower-upper class, if such a thing existed.

More masks, but not as abundant. Many of these could afford to be blunt, honest even. A boss doesn’t have to pander to their pawns after all. They sat in their massive houses with gated fences. Their vehicles were different from those found in Thomas’ neighborhood: Porsche, BMW, Tesla, Lexus, Mercedes. Every now and again a Bentley or Ferrari could be seen. Mostly they sat in the driveway, rarely used. The cars were trophies, giant metal penises and tits. If they could do it, the men would put their sexy young wives on the lawn for all the world to see, maybe keep them in a glass case so their hair didn’t get disheveled by the wind and rain. In turn, the women would showcase a trunk full of jewels and gems, comparing themselves to royalty.

Thomas wondered what they did for fun. The Riverstone Parkway elites didn’t have barbecues; they didn’t want to get their hands messy. They played golf like any other upper-class hive leader, except not for fun. They used the golf course as their second office. Meetings were held, deals were made, and kings and queens were overthrown. More destruction had been caused on the golf course than on the battlefield. What else did the elite do with their free time? Thomas had no idea. Perhaps they went on their yachts and held black-tie parties. Maybe they hunted lions in Africa. They might hold orgies where all their business partners wore animal heads while choosing which underage prostitute they wished to spit roast while inhaling miles of cocaine. No, they can’t all be that bad.

As he jogged through the rows of excess, he noticed a woman getting out of her SUV. She must’ve been in her early to mid-thirties, another trophy wife no doubt. But as Thomas passed her driveway, she looked up at him from the driver’s side of her green, metal monstrosity. Despite her fashionable sunglasses—at night, no less—Thomas felt their eyes connect when he ran by. A sudden jolt hit him. Her eyes held a longing, almost sadness it seemed. It were as if she were calling out to him without parting her lips. But they also held a glint of intrigue when looking into his.

She had dark hair, brown or black, he couldn’t tell. Her pale, white skin accentuated a small mouth that sported bright red lipstick—just the right amount of sensuality, not blatant. A form-fitting black dress clung to her lithe frame, stopping just below the knees. Probably costs more than I make in a month. Her body was lean, yet curvy. Her black high heels gave her hips an alluring angle and caused her posterior to protrude ever so slightly. She’s beautiful.

All this happened in an instant, mere seconds. Then he passed the woman and the house and headed farther into Riverstone Parkway.

Chapter 5

Thomas headed down the long bright hall of the fifteenth floor. The day was still early, and the offices fairly empty. The squeaking of his cart’s wheels echoed off the therapeutically painted walls as he passed human resources, housekeeping and maintenance. The bigger departments of this floor were filing and accounting, where the money and information moved like a raging river.

His first stop was the filing department at the end of the main hall, a long and treacherous journey that held the risk of office gossip and the occasional story of one’s weekend. It was a dreadful trek; luckily most of the employees had yet to arrive, so he would avoid most of the small talk.

The filing room housed thousands if not tens of thousands of files filled with customer names and account information, forms, legal documents and a few top-secret papers that certain executives didn’t want out in the ether. Thomas started his rounds there because it got the most mail. When he emptied the filing department’s load, his cart was much lighter.

As he pushed through the filing doors, he was immediately greeted by Agnes, the energetic filing administrator. She always arrived before the clerks so she could get things started and do some dirty work, very hush hush. A seasoned veteran of Newlwart and Bailey, she was entrusted with its most sensitive information. Agnes was genuinely kind to her peers and employees alike, but her greying hair and wrinkled cheeks at the age of fifty-six showed signs of relentless stress, probably due to overseeing cover-ups and misinformation that conflicted with her ethics. If these shelves could talk. But she remained true and loyal, something that Thomas admired, even if she did it for the wrong reasons. He genuinely liked her.

Hi Tom, what’d ya have for me today? She spoke in a southern accent with a soft smile, looking at him from behind cat eyeglasses.

Oh, the usual. Bunch of legal crap, some audit results probably, nothing fancy. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed envelopes into the filing department’s mail slots. There were several of them, each with a different function.

Well let me have ’em! Also, I got a few things from last night that are ready to go out, she said, pointing to a stack of sealed manila envelopes. "And there’s more where that came from. Your buddy Simon is hounding me to get these asset reports to Seattle ASAP. I’ll have more for you