The return of the master of disaster, our old friend the Wile. E. Coyote killer is up to his hopeless tricks again... (To read previous entries, enter PIE in the 'Search blog' bar)
PIE = MC SQUARED
Three months ago I killed my wife Roxy. I panned her over the skull with an iron bar then parked her car on a level crossing which resulted in the derailing of the 07.25 West Line train and thirty five more murders. All of their deaths were inconsequential when really I was trying to kill my business partner, Robert of the red hair and the nasty habit of dipping his fingers in too many pies. Robert thwarted my plan by not boarding the goddamn train ‘cause his perpetual finger-dipping meant he was off visiting his latest conquest, Charmaine, instead. He’d decided to leave Roxy alone that morning out of the goodness of his heart – seeing it was our wedding anniversary and all.
Two months ago I’d tried again. This time I slipped the handbrake on a truck and sent it through the window of the hairdressing salon ‘Hair of Superiority’ flattening everyone inside, only to find out that the queen of bleach actually ran her business from a store three along at ‘Superior Hair’. Robert and his ruby locks had survived yet again. The driver of the truck is awaiting his day in court where he’ll be lucky if he escapes prison.
I was getting to wonder that Robert was one of those lucky bastitches that have a guardian angel watching over him. If that was the case, that goddamn angel must have been sick of watching his pale butt bounce up and down over the latest woman he was dabbling. Either that or said angel was of the fallen variety.
My days had become filled with plans for doing away with my work buddy. I’d considered and discarded the usual ideas of guns and knives because...well, quite frankly I didn’t want to end up in prison for the rest of my days. When he went he had to go in a fashion that looked entirely accidental.
Being half-decent businessmen – in the correct sense of the term – we were occasionally requested to attend conferences. I hated the blooming things, but Robert being Robert, he always seen them as ways to hook up with new women. He booked us into at least three or four a year. I usually made my apologies being a happily married man but this time I had no excuse.
Roxy wouldn’t want you to stay single all your life, Robert told me. You have to get out there. Start dipping your fingers in a few pies and see what comes of it. Knowing me I’d pull out a plum.
He was surprised when I agreed to attend the annual get together at the Hoxley Annual Trade Emporium (HATE for short). Not that I wanted to listen to big-mouthed Alan Sugar wannabes all weekend, but the building was a lovely old place with a working stage where some of the local amateur dramatics groups still performed. Under my unassuming exterior I am quite the dramatist, I suppose.
We got there on a Wednesday morning, and by lunch time Robert had pulled with a woman called Angie whose hairspray arrived three steps before she did. Under the make up she was ten years older than she admitted to and I guess she was flattered by the big red-head’s advances. She even agreed to a threesome until she saw me. Then there was a lot of whispering and screwing up of faces. I saved her the trouble, saying I had work to be getting on with. I had the onerous task of writing the thank you speech that Robert was due to give later in the day. After that they disappeared off for a little lunch together. I supposed that pie was on the menu - unless it was past its use by date.
Two hours later Robert returned, hiking up his trousers. He was grinning and looking exactly like a ginger tom. He smelled like one too. He accepted my mumbled congratulations, then took from my hand the idiot cards I’d prepared.
I joined the applause from the side of the stage as Robert stepped out to shake hands with Master of Ceremonies, Burt Wigglesworth, who announced Robert the Red then relinquished his post at the podium and stood grinning up at him like a sycophant.
Robert’s speech went down a treat – he was such a clever orator apparently.
I didn’t go there with the intention of killing him. Far too public for that. But I couldn’t help myself. The opportunity was staring me in the face while I stood in shadow at the side of the stage. I was such a non-entity in the room that no-one would swear afterwards that they saw me standing there where the ropes for the sand bag pulleys were rigged. It would simply be a tragic accident at a most inopportune time.
As Robert drolled on, I tugged at knots; calculating angles and the rate of velocity when propelled by gravity and the subsequent impact force generated, those kinds of things.
The sandbag fell.
Seems I never was very good at mathematical problems.
The sandbag hit Burt Wigglesworth the MC square on the crown of his head, flattened his skull into his neck, then squished him like a bag of suet across the boards.