Herman Mildew, the devious bastard who hung a match, blazing with life above a manuscript that took me five years to write? Yes, I know him…and yes, I remember the remnants of his jealousy, a pile of ashes left smoldering. Years of work just gone.
I can recall that evening like it was yesterday…
The sweltering July heat hung over me like a scalding blanket. My mouth was dry with a parched passion as my hands worked diligently curving the pen as I wrote the last words, the last sentence…the last thought of my manuscript that would waft me up to the stage in front of thousands of people where I could proclaim my genius.
I slid the stack of papers into the slick, black briefcase and secured the locks before I hefted it up and headed for the elevator, my way out of the steel cage.
I stood before the large, metallic doors; a putrid, sickening odor scratched at my nostrils. Damn, I thought. Before I was able to turn around to face the vile being, a voice that was just as pleasing rang in my ears; Herman Mildew.
He’d wanted me to go into his office where he offered to edit my manuscript. What was I going to say? No, and be fired? His office was in complete disarray; stacks of papers and books lined the small room from floor to ceiling; melted chocolate stained the cheap fabric of his office chair and half-eaten fast food sat in various locations on the imitation mahogany paraphernalia-
The point is that he burned my writing, five years of my work dissolved into thin air…well, more like a dark, toxic plume of smoke. Did I kill that arrogant, greasy, sack of lard? No. I cannot describe how easy it would have been for me to sneak into his rat hole of a house and jam a dull knife into that large barrel that sagged below his hips.
I’m confident that everyone who worked under that narcissistic prick would have been overjoyed to see him die within their hands. Does this make me sound guilty? As much as I would have loved to kill that son of a bitch…I didn't, someone beat me to it.
As if his actions didn’t make me hate him enough he had the audacity to demand me to pick up the mess. What the hell? As much as I wanted to tell him where to shove it, I swallowed my anger and did as he said, whimpering in the process. While hoping for the tiny fragments of paper to somehow magically mend together, I swept up the pile of ash.
Have you ever had someone that you know, work close with, tolerate but secretly or outwardly despise? Several times I caught myself imagining slamming his square head into the corner of my desk; I wouldn’t mind the blood and brain matter or the screams of agony. The only reason I never followed through was because I was scared I might actually enjoy it; the last thing I need is to add killing to my already busy list of things to-do.
Wait! I must sound guilty as all get-out but I swear it, as much as I envy the person who murdered that slug I would never stoop low enough to waste the rest of my life on ending his. It isn’t worth the risk.
Herman Mildew will rot for eternity; friendless, unloved and despised as his greasy skin decays off his thick bones. The last thing to touch his barren corpse will be the maggots who feast off of him as he slowly disintegrates until he becomes part of the earth. Held beneath a wooden tomb, his tongue will cease to degrade any one of us ever again.
Thank you, Mr. Mildew for being a rotten bastard, no pun intended.
All Rights Reserved. (c) 2013 Samantha Lynn.