PLEASED AS PUNCH

Source File Information:

Transcription of microcassette found in Sony M-200 voice recorder on deceased suspect Wallace Flint. Evidence cataloged by local police station TX20-78032

[Microcassette #7 Time: 00.00.00 – 00.03.47]

You people—yeah, you know who you are. Always hiding in the facelessness of your function, using your tiny administrative roles to thwart an honest-to-God individual. Y’all are so quick to disregard the needs and desires of those you’re supposed to help, ain’t you? Whenever you feel a little impulse to exert some misplaced power—that’s when you strike from your scummy holes. Your crummy little cubicles. To soothe your wounded egos, your miserable vanities. To make yourselves feel better about the vast inconsequence of your lives…

Oh yeah—I’m on to every single one of you people.

Me? I make things, real things, things I shape with my own hands, and it’s this—the making things—that’s made me into the man I am today. But whenever I think of y’all sad suckers out there with desk-jobs, but no real honest-to-God work—holy hell, it’s enough to make me sick!

[sound of harsh coughing followed by heavy breath]

What sort of idiot’s paradise do we live in anyway?

Today, for instance, all day today—not to mention yesterday—trying to figure out where my latest disability check is, just trying to figure out where my money is, why my goddamned money hasn’t appeared in my bank account, and having to spend what felt like an eternity on the phone getting nowhere! But really, how could any of y’all know what it’s like wasting what’s left of my life maneuvering multiple voice-machines—press 1 if you know your party’s extension, press 2 if you want to smash your head into a goddamned wall!—then hearing one of your equally automated voices click in to mumble the same mechanical apologies between hold-music so loud in comparison it’s like, it’s like—like being pummeled to the floor by a pygmy horde of staticky smarmy eunuchs!

[voice rises in shrill falsetto]

I’m sorry, but I see the payment made electronically on my end—have you talked to your bank?

I’m sorry, but I don’t see any payments pending in our system—have you talked to your insurance company?

[voice drops to previous timbre]

Really though, you bastards act like it’s my fault I’m disabled, like it’s my fault the cut-off wheel shattered at Tech Tool & Die. I’d worked there 18 years, 2 months, and 7 days—a loyal employee on the verge of retirement! So how could it be my fault the wheel’s blade shattered in old Bomford’s gloves? My fault it burst hot shards across the factory floor and riddled my right thigh and waist with molten shrapnel? I’d even warned management about the blades before it happened; I’d written a request for new ones, I’d told them they’d grown brittle, had lost their tensile strength, were no longer in compliance! I still have copies of the letter I sent HR—bet you jackasses never thought I’d make copies!—but of course no one listened. None of y’all did a goddamned thing. But—of course—as soon as I was injured, boy did you little monkeys go to work, clamoring to deny my disability claim, impede my Social Security, argue I was somehow to blame, was masquerading as a victim to get a handout.

Me!

[unintelligible words followed by inaudible noise and distortion on tape]

And in the end, really, what else can I think of in all this but Rose? It’s been 7 years now, ever since the leukemia got her, spread from her liver and spleen to kill her right there in my arms. My sweet, lovely Rose, wife of 32 years, reduced to nothing but skin and bones while you, you fraudsters delayed her claim—all you bastards in cahoots, raising prices for experimental drugs with your stocks and bonds and mutual funds, just check the prospectus, right? And I know, I know Rose would’ve defended you. I can hear her now, even after all these years—the standard psychiatric term for this is projection, Wally—but she’s gone now, 8 years in November, while I, I’ve lived to stand witness to your criminal negligence.

So I talk to you people on this recorder, I talk even though you can’t hear me, and I accuse you—every one of you—I find you guilty, I condemn you. But really, I’m just talking to myself as if I’m talking to you, talking to myself just to talk really, ‘cause—let’s face it—who else do I have to talk to? [recording ends]

[Microcassette #7 Time: 00.03.49 – 00.12.07]

[recording begins again with ambient noise of a vehicle’s motor, wind, and occasional traffic]

Guess who swung by like he does sometimes, knocking on the door to surprise me? I’d grabbed my CZ from its drawer when I heard the knock, but looking through the peephole it was only old Bomford—who else?—Bomford and what was left of a Budweiser 6-pack. I put the pistol away, unlocked the door, and watched him shuffle in and offer me a beer. I shook my head and he just nodded, cracking one for himself and gazing ‘round my makeshift shop—the metal shelves crammed with molds, clamps, ladles, cores, and junk metal—but then his eyes focused on the small black-and-white TV I’d recently installed. I could see him watching the rotating footage of my house up the street, the views shifting from my front door and side-yard to the toolshed in the back.

You got security concerns? he asked, to which I said, It’s a dangerous world right? He just nodded, sucked foam from his mustache, and watched as I leaned over to open the molds I’d poured that morning. Naturally—knowing how inept you corporate jerkoffs are, how much time y’all’d waste fumbling with your stupid computers—I completed the pour before making my usual round of calls. I’d preheated the molds at dawn, assembled the halves and cores, fired the furnace, set the crucible in the trolley, then filled the cavities in the molds and sprue with the liquefied metal. Once assembled, it’ll all form a replica of a 19th-century mechanical coin-bank, an antique toy I copied from a defective original. Most of the castings are iron—the body, the hinges, pins, screws, not to mention the central figures, Punch and Judy. The two’ll stand in front of a theatre curtain attached to the bank’s exterior once it’s done, and when you insert a coin in the slot, they’ll exchange blows—Punch popping Judy with a slapstick, Judy whacking Punch with a frying pan.

Violence and money, money and violence—oh how the two go hand in hand.

I set the molds’ halves atop my workbench, opened them to inspect the castings, then rifled through my toolbox for my trimmer and deburring tool to trim away the excess metal and smooth out the rougher edges. As I worked, I told Bomford how I planned to paint the whole thing just like the original—red, yellow, and blue. What I didn’t tell him was how, after the paint dries, I’ll begin destroying what I’ve created, applying stripper to the bank’s surfaces, sanding and striking them with a ballpeen hammer, applying vinegar and hydrogen peroxide so the chips and dents rust faster. And only then—once I’ve got it just right—I’ll post a picture online and sell it as an original, another of which I sold for over 500 bucks last week.

When Bomford asked if I use Ebuy or eetsie, I didn’t have the heart to correct him, telling him instead how the grass is always greener, ‘cause it ain’t easy operating an independent business online. Not only because of my leg and health issues, but also—just being an independent seller—it’s almost impossible to afford metal from the scrapyard, so I’m often left with no options but to make night-runs on the dumpsters at the mini-mall’s loading docks, snatching tossed-out plumbing fixtures and sheets of scrap metal—shit like that. And don’t get me started on the customers online, half of them just bidding and buying but never paying, either that or leaving negative feedback out of spite or because the post office can’t get shit right.

It was then Bomford asked if I felt okay. Said I looked shaky. He must’ve noticed my trembly hands, my short breath, my wincing at my recent chest pains. I told him I was fine, never better—better than clever, actually—‘cause what old Bomford don’t know or anyone else either for that matter is what Dr. Metcalf told me last June. That I suffer from cardiomyopathy, an overgrown heart muscle. But then, what else was it Rose always used to say? Your heart is just too big, Wally.

Jesus in heaven—that woman was a prophet!

[a 5-second pause ensues, followed by deep breaths in and out]

Not just too big now, Rosie baby, but hard and stiff too. Calcifying into scar tissue.

[another brief pause]

Anyhow, old Bomford told me how he’d just come from Mendel’s, where he had drinks with the other guys who work his shift at Pliable Plastics, the new factory in town since Tech Tool & Die burnt down a few years back. But really, ain’t it a shame to think of all the craftsmen and machinists there now, all of them cookie-cutting and assembling plastic shells for the computers and phones that hold all the real precious metals, all the gold, silver, and zinc? Old Bomford ain’t one for shame though, no sir, ’cause he told how the boys at the bar have been speculating about Billy’s whereabouts, wondering where he ran off to after I found my granddaughter Olivia all banged up. He just kept shooting the shit, telling how—the day before Billy didn’t show up for his last shift, he almost drowned in one of the factory’s silos. One of the pipelines feeding the plastic microbeads into the factory—they call them nurdles—got jammed up somehow, so they opened the silo’s hatch to stir them, but Billy’s dumbass fell right in. Sunk plumb to the bottom, old Bomford phrased it, and told me too how he’d been the one to fish the shit-heel out, holding the stirring rod with Aldo at the other end so he could climb down with a mask over his nose and mouth to keep from inhaling the nurdles. Me, I would’ve left his dumbass down there. It probably would’ve been more merciful, seeing how that doped-up idjit is bound to end up in a far more dangerous situation.

Bomford just stood there after telling his story, staring at the top of his Budweiser for a good minute while running a finger around its circular rim, apparently having to work up the nerve to ask me where Misty was. When he did, I told the truth—that I’d checked her into rehab. Olivia’s at Billy’s mom’s, I added, and—still looking at his lukewarm beer—he finally asked if Misty knew where Billy’d gone. Asked—finally looking up at me—he ain’t tell her where he was going?

Guess you’ll have to ask her, I said, when she gets back.

Old Bomford caught the hint, starting in about some of the girls Aldo brings by Mendel’s instead, saying how easy it is to pick them up after buying them tequila shots, though I doubt he’ll ever admit what the other guys say about Misty—but of course I don’t need to hear Bomford say it ‘cause I know what the drunk bastards say. Hell, I worked with most of them for years, before Tech Tool & Die closed, even drank with them at Mendel’s before Metcalf told me to cut back. And it’s not like I give a rat’s ass what they say about Misty, it’s just upsetting to think how I haven’t even told her—my own daughter!—about my heart. But then, it’s not like she’s happy to see me when I visit the clinic to see her—even though all I’ve done is try to help her, even set up this here e-business in her name to help raise Olivia, knowing how useless Billy is, how all he’d planned to do was keep her whacked out on junk so he could use her.

But why would Misty act happy to see me? She’s one of you too now, isn’t she? Debased, divided from herself! Dehumanized, puppetized! Another specter in your goddamned hologram!

[sound of sustained coughing, followed by sound of vehicle window being rolled down and someone spitting]

Good God, but the thought of my little goose having to make extra money dressing in cheap lingerie to film her painted toenails with an iPhone for perverts online, with all those little ghostly dollar signs fluttering up from the bottom of the screen with each wiggle of her toe or filthy thing she coos—and all this just to keep her and Billy high all day—is it any wonder you faceless perverts make me want to puke?

[a brief silence ensues, followed by the clicking of a turn-signal]

Sometimes though, I can’t help but think it’s better Rose is gone, otherwise she’d see what Misty’s been up to. Hell, what we’ve all been up to.

Just as I was putting away my tools, I heard the tinkling of Misty’s old music-box and turned to see Bomford squatting to watch the little dancers circle each other on their gear. A certified master of the obvious, he pointed at the female figure’s head dangling from its shoulders and said, She’s broke. I didn’t tell him I’d only fixed the box a few weeks ago to give Olivia, after replacing the dampers on the comb—only Misty’d thrown it at me after she got sick with the shakes and accidentally broke the dancer’s head. It was right after I’d come by and found Olivia with her leg broken at the bottom of the stairs. Misty’d demanded I tell her where Billy was, what it was I said to make him go—as if there was anything I could say to make his dumbass go. Which is what I told her.

Bomford looked confused when I told him to save his last beer because I had to go to the post office before it was too late. I nodded at the boxes stacked by the door—all of them already weighed and labeled—but he tried to argue with me, saying I had plenty of time. I told him no, I didn’t, because I had to go all the way to Fairview where they stocked better supplies. Then—before I could say another word—what does the dumb drunk do but lift the 3 smaller boxes from the top of the pile and shake them back-and-forth like, ah hell, like some damn kid on Christmas morning!

I snapped at him to be careful, saying it was an antique collectible and fragile as all hell. When he asked what exactly I said a set of lead soldiers, 50 total, your standard Roman legionaries with javelins and shields, centurions with swords, a few legionaries slain under shields and another blowing a horn. Julius Caesar—the only one on horseback—wears a red cape over his armor and has his hand clasped at the hilt of a sheathed sword, as if about to pull it loose and point it forward to order his men across the Rubicon.

I lied, of course—the boxes below these contained the replicas of the toy soldiers. But I couldn’t tell Bomford the real truth, now could I? I wonder though, how much he already knows? He must suspect, in the very least, I’m pawning these replicas off as antiques, right?

I mean, he can’t be that drunk all the time, can he? [recording ends]

[Microcassette #7 Time: 00.16.44 – 00.21.19]

[recording begins again with heavy breathing and uneven footsteps, followed by a slamming vehicle-door]

Holy hell, you people! Whenever I encounter one of you in the real world—in the actual flesh-and-blood—it’s obvious you’re all afraid to look an honest-to-God human being in the eye!

I wonder, is it my disability that bothers you? The fact I have to drag my right leg? That I have to lean sideways, walking like a crippled turtle ‘cause of the steel pins holding my hip together? Or is it my heavy breathing, or the fact I’ve gained so much weight since the accident? Or—more likely—is it ‘cause I can actually see you asshats for what you really are? Unlike that brain-fart squatting outside the post office right now, baseball cap on backwards as he sucks a cigarette, eyes glued to his phone’s screen, brains practically oozing into it! Why, the ugly turdling didn’t even glance up when I approached the door carrying all my packages, much less think to hold the door open for me! And what about all the lifeless drones in the lobby crammed in line, every one of them pretending to be alone, brains dribbling into phones with the glow reflecting off their faces? And let’s not forget the sneaky 20-something who cut in front of me when I realized one of the address labels didn’t print right on one of my packages—the little ratfink slipped past me while I was looking for a pen on the table that wasn’t missing from its chain or already out-of-ink!

I swear, if you want to ruin a perfectly fine day, a good way to do it is to visit the post office.

[sound of tinkling keys, then a vehicle engine’s cranking and turning to idle]

And it’s not only how rude everyone is, or how cut-off they act from everybody else, it’s not even the long lines we’re herded into—it’s the smell, like a goddamned diaper disposal! But then, when I was a kid, the post office smelled real nice, like the ink toner from printers, or the fresh stationary of envelopes. And of course the phone just kept ringing, ringing and ringing even before I walked inside. The postal workers naturally ignored it, seeing as there were only 3 of them to work the 8 windows anyway, and all of them snappy and good-for-nothing, occasionally even making customers who didn’t have their envelopes or boxes filled out perfectly go back to the end of the line. Those who tried to argue were shouted at by the manager, a squat little dragon lady who kept sweeping up to the counter like a doll on a rack-gear thrusting her arm out, practically hurtling her finger at the back of the line—and shouting Go! Go! Go! like some broken animatronic doll.

I mean, what the hell kind of service is that?

After nearly half an hour, I finally got to the front, so what else does the fat boy in the middle counter do but decide to reach out, press a button, and finally answer the phone. Of course! But tired of balancing the boxes in my arms, I stepped forward and set them on the counter, where—would you believe it?—the fat boy had the nerve to wave a hand at me and nod at the tape on the floor behind me.

He said, I haven’t called you up yet, and held his hand over the phone—but I didn’t move, not an inch. No sir, I just stood there, even leaned forward, looking him in his beady little eyes, basically daring him to touch the packages. He didn’t like that but didn’t say a word, instead putting the phone to his ear again. I waited and tried not to focus on the Mexican-looking couple to my right, the man staring embarrassed at the floor as a tiny woman beside him shouted at a black lady behind the counter—something about their wedding invitations getting returned to their address because the postage wasn’t enough to cover the shipping. The more her voice rose, the harder the man beside her stared at his sneakers, no doubt reconsidering his bride-to-be. To my left, a small kid threw a temper tantrum in his mother’s arms. He flailed his arms, nearly hitting her in the neck. Apparently, he just received a birthday gift from his grandmother, but since it was sent to his name and he didn’t have a photo ID, the grim-faced foreigner working this window wouldn’t release the package. And—as you might guess—the kid’s hissy fit only got worse, prompting the dragon-lady manager to whip out from nowhere again and shout No! No! No! till the poor kid—eyes wide with terror—burst into tears.

At last the fat boy behind the counter set the phone back in its cradle. I didn’t wait for him to address me—just told him I needed all my packages stamped and shipped express. I watched as he weighed the packages and stuck on the stamps. He asked if I wanted tracking, which of course I did, because I know express comes with tracking. Boy, did his forehead knot up like a dumb animal’s when I said that! Then he tells me my total—like I can’t read it on the register’s screen. I just paid him, watching in surprise as—right in front of me!—the fat boy picked up the top package and tossed it carelessly into the canvas bag behind him.

Can you not read? I said, pointing at the word FRAGILE stamped all over the packages.

But the cherry came when I walked out the door back to my truck here, and that same goon with the baseball cap—still puff-puff-puffing his cares away—squinted his ugly mug up at me from his phone. Squinting through all the smoke floating ‘round his head, he asked, Hey, ain’t you Misty Flint’s dad?

I didn’t say anything, just gave him a look and kept on walking. But now, sitting here, I wonder, how does that chainsmoking turdling know my little goose? What’s he been gawking at on his phone? Why’s he just standing outside the post office here? Wonder if he’s one of Billy’s friends? Or one of them that sold Misty heroin after she got hooked on pills? Maybe I should—

[sound of muffled explosion, followed by fire alarm and people shouting]

Holy!—

[sound of tires spitting up gravel]

I told that fat boy to not throw the packages, didn’t I? I told him to be careful! [recording ends]

[Microcassette #7 Time: 00.21:25– 00.24.04]

[recording begins again with a momentary silence, then the sound of a deep exhalation]

It’s been a couple hours now since I left the post office, since one of the surprise packages I mixed in with my sells must have inadvertently gone off. I drove straight home, left my Forerunner in the driveway, then headed out here as quick as I could to take care of a few last things. Dark has fallen. I guess I’ll never finish this coin-bank, huh? Well—no matter. I’m sure they’ve identified my truck—it was the only vehicle that drove off, right? Plus, I listened to the last hourly radio report: they’re already reporting the explosion, describing its cause as a pipe bomb, and they say they already have a strong lead, but won’t say more…

[laughter, followed by sustained coughing and labored breathing]

I’ll say!

At this moment, there’s a nice little movie unfolding on the black-and-white security screen above my worktable. Just before I started recording, it toggled to my side-yard’s camera and I could see police cars blockading the cul-de-sac, and the McFarlanes and Dooleys scurrying out of their houses in their jammies to skulk behind the barriers. I could see the bomb squad too—a few of them behind a shield and remote-controlling a robot, just rolling it up beside my Forerunner. Crazy to see, and this close!—but then, my cameras in the front yard went white, then black. Now nothing.

I wonder: do you people have some sort of EMP weapon to knock them out? I guess it doesn’t matter. I can still see the exterior of the toolshed. It’s the only camera still working—and it’s the only one that matters.

How much time would I have left if I ran right now, considering my heart condition? And, really, I reckon, deep down, I already knew this was coming, knew—after I sent the first packages last Tuesday to all your corporate overlords, your CEOs, CFOs, and CDOs—I’d be caught eventually. Still, I didn’t expect it so soon. Did I make the triggers in the bombs too sensitive? Or pack the materials too tight in the pipes? If only that fatty hadn’t thrown the packages! But seeing all the people running out of the post office—I can’t stop thinking about the birthday boy. I just hope the kid wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t my fault if he did get injured—it was the negligence of the fatty! I just hope that—when the bomb went off—he caught enough of the shrapnel I packed into it so it didn’t spray everyone else in the lobby.

I have to make this quick though.

What was it Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon? The die is cast into the hazard!

[laughter, followed by mixed coughing and more laughter]

Even now, I can see flashlights in the footage moving around the perimeters of the toolshed. I imagine you people already have your little drones buzzing overhead, have probably already used your remote-controlled motion-detectors to realize no one’s inside the house but someone—likely me—is sitting right there in that toolshed. Those devices are strong enough to detect something as slight as a breath. I know—I do my research. And, maybe, maybe I should make a run for it—I’ve already loaded the AR and my extra clips—but instead I’m just gonna hold tight with my own remote-controlled device…

Jesus, hell, there’s a few of you now—right there! Local cops—so close! Shit, this is it…

[laughter followed by more coughing, then unintelligible noise and distortion on tape]

That’s the way to do it, as Punch would say! This TV controller I adapted worked perfectly to set off the explosives I’d rigged in the toolshed! I can’t believe how careless you cops are!

[a 2-second pause]

I guess I should leave the security tapes here for your viewing pleasure, eh?

[another brief pause]

Y’all probably won’t even have to rouse old Bomford from where he passed out to say where I’ve set up shop, huh? I’m sure word’ll get out quick enough that Misty’s been staying here at Billy’s, or at least was until I took her to rehab. And once you make that connection… you people are stupid, but not that stupid! At least I took care of Billy, though—tied up in that shed nearly a week now, ever since I came here and found Olivia bruised up after she’d fallen, her right arm broke and her just crying and crying, and Billy and my little goose upstairs zonked on all the junk they’d been shooting and they’d got hooked on thanks to—who else?—you bastards at the pharmaceutical companies conniving with the banks and insurance companies and politicians—

[sound of something metal crashing to the ground, then more labored breathing]

At least Billy got what he deserved. All things considered, I guess it all worked out for the best, huh?

Still, I sure wish I’d had that last beer with Bomford. Guess it’s too late for that now.

[sound as of phlegm being cleared from throat]

I reckon I’m going. This is probably my last recording—but I’m gonna do my best. I promise. If I don’t record anything else, I hope my Misty hears and understands one day. Maybe she’ll understand what I was trying to do. But I don’t think I want Olivia to hear.

Likely I’ll be seeing Rose before sunrise—but God, how I would like that! Just to see her one last time. Even if, even if she’s the one who damns me to hell forever—but who knows?

All I know is, the more of you people I kill before you kill me—well, I’ll be pleased as Punch!

[a brief pause]

Before I forget, I’m looking at the music-box. After I got back from the post office, the first thing I did was reattach the dancer’s head and set it with glue. And—right now—I’m thinking of Rose and Misty, back when I first gave her this music-box. Easter Sunday it was. Misty was—what?—6 years old? In a pink dress, and her hair in matching bows. Rose smiled as I showed Misty how to use the wind-up key and how to turn the lever, and Misty squealed at the dancers spiraling. That counts for something, right? And I, I remember I bent down, bent and hugged her, my little goose, and I said, If you take good care of it [voice breaks], one day you can give it to your own daughter.

[heavy breathing, followed by sound of turnkey cranking, a faint tinkling melody, and the voice concludes in a gravelly singsong]

[melody slowly ceases, followed by final 2-second pause, and recording ends]