when Woody’s voice ripped through the counting room, it happened too fast for Hatchet to translate any miscarriage of his already feeble bravery. He’s only got one real job to do, Hatchet argued with himself as he worked his stiffening legs aslant and aside, he can’t fuck it up, no way, just stay cool, Woody. He wished in vain for some inscrutable telepathic breakthrough but instead he shook his head and made a grudging yet successful dismissal of the fear and looked at his watch.
Woody gyrated to his post, the desk in the adjacent room populated with nothing but a computer and scanner. He sat down, shaken by his gauntlet run through the already inflated rumors of destruction. They broke every piece of glass, they shit in the bathroom sink, there was a dead cat, they spray painted an upside down cross on the ceiling, they tried to start a fire, they left semen in the ladies handicapped stall, there’s blood, lots and lots of blood. Alone, he just then realized the lights were out. He shuddered with his bottom lip venting like a neglected fish in a dirty bowl and he could feel the presence of the greasy water all around him. He recalled Hatchet’s insistence, Don’t call me, don’t text me; probably the only thing you’ll have to do is go downstairs into that garage and move that big gray trash can across the floor on the dolly; just get it closer to the sally port, if it’s not there already, got it? I can't spend that much time lugging that heavy fucking bag on camera; I need to look like cleaning staff for as long as I can get away with it, you got it?
He did get it. He was sitting in the dark and although disheveled to his core, something snapped in that core and he left his desk and dumped several stacks of printer paper into a trashcan. He removed the trash bag filled with paper, carrying it at arm’s length as he left the room. The service elevator took him to the garage filled with a faint stank of exhaust. In a virid fluorescent haze, his entire body wiggling as if someone were behind him shaking his shoulders, he found the gray garbage can and the dolly and he dropped the trash bag into the can for the benefit of the camera then he moved can and dolly across the floor, leaving them at the sally port. As soon as he found an assumed blind spot in the camera’s view, underneath it, against the wall, he let out a frightened yelp that couldn’t have sounded more foreign to the world as it reverberated against the tall fat brick and he scrambled for his drugs. Woody shoveled three or four bumps into his nose then straightened himself and made his way to the elevator where, as soon as the door closed on him, he suffered a acute myocardial infarction. Woody Hightower grabbed at the disruption in his bicep and then he died. The glistening eyes in his tilted head frozen in caustic recognition of what had just happened.
Woody gyrated to his post, the desk in the adjacent room populated with nothing but a computer and scanner. He sat down, shaken by his gauntlet run through the already inflated rumors of destruction. They broke every piece of glass, they shit in the bathroom sink, there was a dead cat, they spray painted an upside down cross on the ceiling, they tried to start a fire, they left semen in the ladies handicapped stall, there’s blood, lots and lots of blood. Alone, he just then realized the lights were out. He shuddered with his bottom lip venting like a neglected fish in a dirty bowl and he could feel the presence of the greasy water all around him. He recalled Hatchet’s insistence, Don’t call me, don’t text me; probably the only thing you’ll have to do is go downstairs into that garage and move that big gray trash can across the floor on the dolly; just get it closer to the sally port, if it’s not there already, got it? I can't spend that much time lugging that heavy fucking bag on camera; I need to look like cleaning staff for as long as I can get away with it, you got it?
He did get it. He was sitting in the dark and although disheveled to his core, something snapped in that core and he left his desk and dumped several stacks of printer paper into a trashcan. He removed the trash bag filled with paper, carrying it at arm’s length as he left the room. The service elevator took him to the garage filled with a faint stank of exhaust. In a virid fluorescent haze, his entire body wiggling as if someone were behind him shaking his shoulders, he found the gray garbage can and the dolly and he dropped the trash bag into the can for the benefit of the camera then he moved can and dolly across the floor, leaving them at the sally port. As soon as he found an assumed blind spot in the camera’s view, underneath it, against the wall, he let out a frightened yelp that couldn’t have sounded more foreign to the world as it reverberated against the tall fat brick and he scrambled for his drugs. Woody shoveled three or four bumps into his nose then straightened himself and made his way to the elevator where, as soon as the door closed on him, he suffered a acute myocardial infarction. Woody Hightower grabbed at the disruption in his bicep and then he died. The glistening eyes in his tilted head frozen in caustic recognition of what had just happened.
Edit 11.11.2018