CUSTARD PIE By Vallon Jackson

Part six in the ongoing endeavours of our feckless and anonymous Wile E. Coyote killer's attempts at ending the days of his nemesis (to read the previous slices type PIE in the search bar)...

CUSTARD PIE



The times I’ve wanted to smash the sanctimonious prick over the head with the heaviest thing to come to hand...

But, the problem is, I know that Robert will swat me like a fly, so I always bite my lip, let it go, then continue plotting to do away with the wife-dabbling son of a bitch in a more elaborate scheme than indenting his skull with my laptop. All my previous attempts had failed, but how long could it go on?

Derailing a train, smashing a delivery truck through a building, cutting the ropes on a sandbag, pushing him off a cliff, tampering with his parachute during a charity jump...all had failed miserably to kill him. Mind you, I hadn’t enough fingers or toes to count on to tally up the others that had died. Good job I worked at an accountancy firm, where the spreadsheets allowed me to keep up.

I’d made my own Pie Chart to record my failures. Jeez, it was a big pie, with not a sliver missing where I’d had any success. I’d need an awful lot of custard to serve that beast up with, but I supposed I’d enough of the yellow stuff trickling through my veins to do the trick.

I had to stop being so cowardly. I had to man-up to Robert The Red, tell him what I knew – that he’d been dipping his dongle into my wife’s input slot – and that I was going to kill him for it. Of course, doing that would also mean manning up to everything that I’d done in the meantime. I wouldn’t get another chance at him if I was locked up in prison for mass murder.

There’s always a get-out isn’t there? That’s what I told myself. I couldn’t have at him the way I wanted to, because then I’d have to own up to killing my wife, as well as all the others. So...I wasn’t a coward; just being a pragmatist.

I once told Robert that.

Hey, Robert, I’d said, are you a pragmatist like I am?

Dunno about that, he’d replied. Me...I’m more the grabmoretits type.

He had that right, the arsehole.

Lately he’d been pawing the breasts of the latest temp, a skinny little thing with silicone–augmented assets and she seemed taken with the fiery-haired Lothario. She was sensible enough to recognise him for the creep he was, but also dumb enough to think it would get her a permanent position. The only permanent things that Becky would get from a dalliance with Robert were a tick on his conquest list and a dose of Chlamydia.

I thought about warning her, but knew that she’d mention it to Robert. If he thought I’d spoiled his fun he’d likely kick my butt from one end of the office to the other. So I let it go. Decided instead to try something different. I’d tried all the inventively-violent ways of killing him I could come up with, now for something a little more...not cowardly... sneaky. My Pie Chart had got me thinking. That afternoon I Googled certain sites, making sure that all trace of my surfing was hidden just in case anyone pried later. It’s surprising what you can purchase over the internet. Seems the buyers market extends somewhat to those who wish someone dead.

My stuff came in an anonymous package to an anonymous PO Box I’d set up. Mr Anonymous, that’s me.

The next day I put my scheme in place.

Robert was bent over Becky, supposedly checking her work for the purposes of a job appraisal, but I could see his gaze was down her top, and there was a lot of injudicious guiding of her hand on the mouse going on. The old elbow-titting trick Robert had perfected over the years. Sick perverted git that he was.

The delivery bloke walked right into the office.

Package for someone called Robert, he called out.

The red-headed stud perked up. That’ll be me, he announced, Robert with the huge package. He smirked at the looks we all gave him, then eyed the package like maybe the guy was delivering a decree nici and Robert had been named as co-respondent.

You’ve a secret admirer, mate, said the delivery bloke, handing over the beautifully-packaged custard tart I’d slaved over.

You got that right, matey, Robert said with a wink towards Becky. Becky flushed red, but didn’t deny it. I hid my shark’s smile behind my palm as I ducked down to my own work. One thing I did know: almost as much as he liked filling wives’ holes, he also had a penchant for stuffing his own pie hole. He bragged to the girls that his huge muscles required the sustenance, as did his stamina. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Greedy git would eat the lot and not offer a slice around.

I left the office on my lunch hour, grinning like a maniac, knowing full well that Robert wouldn’t be there when I returned.

True enough, when I got back there were a few white faces, and a hush over the office. It was a bit like the reaction that seeped through our work-place when poor Jim Bunk jumped from the plane with his chute strings undone. They were a sensitive lot at our firm.

What’s happened? I asked.

Ben Butler – who Robert called Ben Butt-wipe to his face – leaned over from his desk to whisper conspiratorially. Looks like there’s been a little problem for our pal, Robert, he said.

Oh? I hope he’s OK, I said, feigning concern.

You know that pie that was delivered...?

Yes. YES. YES.

Ben said: Well, Robert has this nut allergy, you see.

Shit...I hadn’t known that.

What about it? I demanded.

Well, Ben whispered, Robert said it smelled like almonds and wouldn’t touch it. He gave it to Becky, said she needed to get her strength back after they spent an hour in the stationery cupboard.

He gave it to her...

Yeah, apparently she was gagging for it, Ben leered.

Not that! The pie?

Yeah. Ben shook his head sadly. But Becky must’ve had a nut allergy as well. Or she was severely Bulimic or something. We could hear her puking all the way out here! By the time Rob got an ambulance here it was too late for her. Poor girl was dead.

How is Robert? I kept the expectation out of my voice. But I already knew: my wonderful pie scheme had failed to kill him ‘cause it friggin’ smelled like almonds. That’s the downside of arsenic, the internet had warned.

He’s fine, Ben said. He didn’t touch a crumb, remember. In fact, he followed Becky to hospital ‘cause he got his eye on a pretty paramedic. Knowing him, he’ll come back with another story for the boys, eh?

Yeah, and we’d have to listen to it. Over and over and over...till I went even more nuts.

BIO:
 
Vallon Jackson is the alter-ego of a published thriller author who sometimes also goes nuts and comes up with another entry in his PIE saga.

PIE IN THE SKY by Vallon Jackson

This is the latest in the PIE series following the feckless Wile E. Coyote antics of our nameless narrator and his quest to end the days of his philandering nemesis, Robert the Red...
(To read previous episodes, put PIE in the search blog bar above)

Pie in the sky

I wish that Robert had just kept things to himself, but he’s always the braggart and couldn’t help sharing the sordid details about his latest conquest.

I just happened to know that Miriam was married, happily or otherwise, to a guy at my squash club called Jim Bunk, and I happened to like Jim.

I thought about tipping Jim about his wife’s illicit rendezvous with Robert, but in the end I let it go. Robert’s dalliances had already made a killer out of one man and I didn’t want to send poor Jim down the same dark path that I’d trodden these past few months.

When I discovered that my red-headed work mate had been dipping my wife behind my back, I’d made it my mission to send the bastard screaming into his deserved place in hell. It was just a pity that I was pretty useless when it came to murder; that or way too good for my own good. My tally up until now?
My wife. check.
A train load of commuters. Check.
A hairdresser and her lunchtime appointment. Check.
The master of ceremonies at a corporate gig. Check.

It took me that long to realise that I was just being too grandiose for my own good. I had to keep things simple. My next attempt on Robert the Red was while we were out on a team building exercise. Split from the rest of our workmates, high on a cliff-side, I’d seen my opportunity. A quick shove and that would have been that. Robert would have been even redder than usual.
The problem was that my inherent bad luck had kicked in, I’d stepped on a slimy stone and it was me who went over the cliff-side. Only Robert’s quick thinking had saved me. He grabbed my ankle and held me dangling there over the chasm while I almost wet my pants. Blissfully unaware of how I’d ended in that precarious position he reeled me back to safety.

Against my better judgement – and eating humble pie - I felt I owed the prick my life. And by that very virtue, I now owed him his.

Except when he came into the office telling me all about his night on a pool table with Miriam Bunk, well, my old hatred returned ten-fold. It was all I could do not to attack him there and then, but I didn’t think that the staple-gun I was holding would be enough to finish him with; the cheap bit of office tat had a habit of sticking after every third click.

Robert had noticed my red face, but he’d misread it.

You think I did a bad thing? He asked.

I nodded. She’s a married woman, Robert, I said.

Yeah, but by all accounts, the only thing Jim Bunk serves up these days is a half-arsed volley at the squash club. I was doing both of them a favour. I keep telling you, he’d said, you have to dip your fingers in as many pies as you can, to stop them growing stale.

Was that why my wife had turned to Robert? Wasn’t I showing her the attention she needed? Maybe that was because I was working so hard to keep her in the nice things that she needed. Exactly how Jim did for his ungrateful wife.

I walked away from Robert before he could read the murder that had returned to my eyes.
I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
I was too busy plotting.

Next day, at the office, I announced my idea for a charity event. Knowing that Robert would leap at the chance to impress the ladies with his idea of derring-do, he signed up immediately to take part in the parachute jump.

For my idea to work, I needed to up the numbers, and I sent round a memo to drum up as much interest as possible. We ended up with twenty people in total, plus a couple others who unfortunately missed the deadline.

That meant two planes, because to keep any suspicion falling on me, we had to go up separately.
Of course, there’s always a buddy system in operation and I paired up with Robert, checking his harness and chute was properly secure.

I was on the first plane. Robert waved me off and up we went, ten of us in the back of a plane.
I was papping in my jumpsuit, but I had to go through with the jump. How couldn’t I do it when it was all my idea? I did notice that mine wasn’t the only white face among the first group, or of those left on the ground that would follow us up. The only ones looking brave were those who’d been late in answering my memo and didn’t get a chance to take part. Even my friend Jim had turned out to wave us off.

Coming down was joyful, and I almost forgot what was about to happen.

But then I saw the second plane take off and soar into the milky blue sky and a grim smile pasted itself across my face.

I alighted at the designated landing zone, then with my nine elated work-mates and the others who’d come to support us, we all stood around watching as a string of black dots were flicked out of the bowels of the second plane. We were all oohing and aahing, as you do. Watching as the black dots blossomed chutes and began the slow drift to earth.

Then the murmurs began, then a swell of panic as everyone became aware that one of the black dots was having trouble, its chute tangled in a funnel of cloth that did nothing to slow its hurtling decent. I hid my smile behind my hand, as I rolled my eyes in feigned horror with the rest of them.

The black dot grew limbs, and they were flailing wildly at the air as if trying to grab at the fabric of heaven.

It plummeted like a rock and hit the ground a hundred yards out. I swear I heard the crunch of bones all the way across the airfield.

People screamed and began running towards the puff of dust that marked Robert the Red’s less than salubrious downfall. I didn’t know why they were hurrying, because there would be nothing anyone could do for him. But I was in more of a hurry to get there and I overtook the lot of them. I pulled out my penknife and started cutting away at the cloth and lines that shrouded the steaming mess beneath (in truth covering up the fact that I’d already snicked through a couple of the guide-wires while doing the final check of his chute) as though I was trying to offer emergency help.

People finally arrived around me, and I felt hands tugging me away from the splattered wreck of humanity. It’s no good, someone cried, he’s dead.

Robert, oh my God, Robert, I moaned to add some validity to my fake grief.

Then, at my shoulder, my nemesis said; Jesus, I’m glad I pulled out at the last minute, otherwise that might have been me.

I turned around and squinted up at Robert.

How? I asked him.

Well, after we spoke about it, I felt a little bad about doing Jim Bunk’s missus. I knew it was his lifelong ambition to go sky-diving, so I let him take my place. I feel sorry for the poor bastard, but I’m glad that I found another pie to dabble today.

He nodded over at the jump instructor’s girlfriend who appeared at the door of the office looking flushed and a little rumpled.

BIO:
Vallon Jackson is the pseudonym of a published thriller author who likes to have a little fun with his imagination when he isn't writing his latest book.

HUMBLE PIE by Vallon Jackson

This is the fourth in the on-going series following the anonymous Wile. E. Coyote killer and his hopeless attempts at murdering his nemesis, Robert. For previous episodes, put PIE in the search blog bar.

Humble Pie

I’m not really the physical type, so the idea of a weekend spent building rafts and scaling gorges while wet through and thoroughly miserable isn’t my idea of a good time. Add the discomfort of sleeping in a tent pitched on rocky ground to the fact that I had to share the damn thing with the red-headed lothario, Robert, and you’ll get a good idea of how peed off I was.

Bad enough that Robert is a gobshite who loves the sound of his own bragging, and he stinks like a donkey’s armpit after a couple pints of stout, but the git was also responsible for knocking off my wife, Roxy, for months.

I put a stop to that.

I skulled Roxy and drove her and her car in front of a train.

Since then it’s been a mission of mine to send Robert to a similarly gruesome fate.

The problem is, three times now I’ve failed to kill the self-proclaimed God’s gift to womankind.

My only saving grace was that Robert had pulled with Becki – a temp who thought she’d extend her contract if she sucked up to one of the bosses. So I had the tent to myself for most of Friday and Saturday night. Free from Robert’s farts and the homicidal thoughts I had every time he lifted his leg and let rattle. (I wondered what the police would find most unusual: the tent peg rammed through his skull, or the carabiners clamping his butt cheeks together?)

Sunday night was going to be different though. Becki had a christening to attend, and it was unlikely she’d come back to our moorland base for the final night. Unless Robert found another pie to dabble his fingers in, I was going to have to spend about the worst night imaginable. The only other female with us was Big Jan, and I doubted that Robert’s charms would win her over. Not when her partner Fifi was waiting for her at home. Robert wasn’t one for crew cuts, baggy football tops and jeans strung with chains, but he’d even bragged once that – if he so desired – he could turn even Jan.

I thought about telling Jan his plan. Let her snap his neck for me.

But I hadn’t. I didn’t want Jan to get in trouble for killing the son of a bitch.

No, Robert was my problem to deal with. I owed him big time.

We were out on the moor, orienteering.

While Jan and Craig, and Billy and James, went off following a map and compass, hunting for the coordinates our ‘team leaders’ had marked out, me and Robert went the other.

To hell with that for a lark, Robert announced after about two minutes. I’m off down the village for a pint.

We’re not going to pass the course if we go AWOL, I told him.

Like I care? There’s a hot bit of crumpet serving behind the bar. Gonna try my luck. Are you coming or not?

I looked fondly at the desolate hillside that led all the way down to Bilgefoot. It was sufficiently craggy, full of loose rocks with sudden drop offs. It would be a great shame if poor Robert just happened to slip, fall of the cliff and splatter on the rocks below. No way could I allow him to attempt the treacherous path alone.

Of course I’m coming. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.

See, Robert said as he smoothed down his copper wire hair, I told the others that you had hidden depths. For such a wimp you've a real sense of adventure.

Robert shoved me in the shoulder. Good pals us.

I get the bird, you get the collie dog, he laughed. That’s the only other hot bitch in Bilgefoot.

Ha-frickin-ha!

We set off, rucksacks lightened by dumping all the unnecessary gear.

We’d come so far in Land Rovers, hiked in the remainder. Bilgefoot was a good three miles off and it was a long time since either of us had walked that far on level ground, let alone over hills.

We’d barely made it a mile when the rain came down in torrents. The rocks underfoot grew very slick, but Robert went over them like he was born to the mountains. I huffed and puffed to keep up, swearing I was going to take up my gym membership again.

Cold pint, hot fire, even hotter barmaid, Robert cajoled me along. And if you’re up for it, you can stroke the hot dog. Bet you’re good at that seeing as you’ve abstained from women since Roxy died.

Very funny you sick heartless pig!

We were on a narrow path over a hundred foot drop off.

What a tragedy if Robert slipped now. There would be nothing I could do for him. He’d fall all the way down, and if he didn’t smash himself to pieces on the rocks, the exposure would kill him while I spent the afternoon in the bar. Stroking the dog.

I was just about to shove him in the small of his back. Send him into space.

But the guardian angel that looks after Robert was working overtime. How it managed to jam that slick stone under my own boot had to be divine intervention.

Aaargh, I yelled, slipping.

My arms wind-milled, grabbing at air but found nothing. Off the cliff I went, with a tuck and a roll, then I was doing a swan dive through the sky.

As I flipped Robert grabbed me by my jacket collar. I dangled there with my heels over space, but then Robert yanked me up and set me back on the trail.

Excitement getting to you, me old mate?

Good God Almighty, I stammered, you just saved my life Robert.

Aah, it was nothing. You’d do the same for me.

God damn it if I didn’t have to eat humble pie.

For now...

PIE = MC SQUARED by Vallon Jackson

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.

ANOTHER SLICE OF PIE By Vallon Jackson

Back by popular demand (at least one person asked), the further adventures of our feckless Wile .E. Coyote killer...

Another Slice of Pie

My wife, Roxy, died in a head on collision with a speeding train.
Actually, she probably died a couple hours earlier when I smacked her round the head with an iron bar because she didn’t come round during the time I parked her car on the level crossing and waited for the train to arrive.
Then she was dead and so were about two dozen others on the train when it derailed and went to pieces all along the line. Sadly, I missed killing my work mate, Robert, who should’ve been on that damn train. He out-foxed me, but he wasn’t going to get away so lightly next time.
I’m not a bad man by nature, but it was Robert and Roxy’s affair that tipped me over the edge and turned me into this killer. Turns out they’d been having an affair behind my back for years. I heard the whispering after Roxy’s funeral, the little nods and winks from the congregation when Robert stood next to me at her grave and laid his arm over my shoulder. The facetious, smug son of a bitch said he was sorry for my loss. He’d lost too, but his were crocodile tears.
He wasn’t bothered by her passing; he had his fingers in lots of little pies.
Latest little sweet pastry he’s been knocking off is Chantelle down at the hairdressers on the high street. He even has an appointment booked in: regular as clockwork. 2 pm every other Thursday.
Today’s Thursday and it’s 13.55.
He left the office earlier than normal. I gave him a few minutes so that he wouldn’t spot me following him, then I made my way into town and stood on the steep incline opposite Chantelle’s salon, ‘Hair of Superiority’. I couldn’t see inside but I didn’t really have to. The Closed for Lunch sign had gone up but there was movement behind the smoked glass window. Him and Chantelle getting jiggy with it.
I didn’t plan to kill him today but I was offered an opportunity I couldn’t ignore.
The huge UPS van was left idling on the hill while the driver ducked out and headed off with a bundle under his arm. Them guys are in and out so fast that they never bother locking the door.
I leaned in, pulled my sleeve over my hand, and then disengaged the hand brake.
I watched distractedly as the van began a ponderous roll backwards. Then it picked up speed and it was a rolling battering ram. I stepped back into a doorway even as a brown streak shot past in pursuit, the driver shouting out in dismay.
He didn’t get to the truck in time. It crashed right through the front of Chantelle’s and didn’t stop until it rammed right through to the back wall. There’d only been a couple of brief shrieks but they’d curtailed the moment the truck had come to a halt.
Down on the high street the driver was holding his head in his hands. Ohmigodohmigodohmigod...
Poor bugger, I could almost feel sorry for him. He was going to catch all the shit for this. But I couldn’t help smiling as well.
Other people were descending on the scene.
Some braver souls went inside the wrecked shop, but came out almost as quickly, faces ashen. One of them was sick on the pavement. I walked down and stood beside the vomiting man.
What happened? I asked him as I patted his back.
They’re dead. Flattened. God help ‘em. Then he was sick again.
I muttered consoling sounds, to him. Then turned away.
Just as Robert came out of Charmaine’s Salon, 'Superior Hair', three stores along.