X-D has a minion!

Whispers the Mimic Demon

Charles Bukowski once said "Find what you love and let it kill you." I guess that's the only reason I'm still alive.

My hands work the tie through the last loop and tug it into place. The tie is grey with no distracting pattern, a compliment to my suit. In my line of work, standing out is not a good thing.

In my right pants pocket are coins from various countries. It started with some Canadian pennies I was given accidentally by a vendor with too many customers vying for a newspaper. The rest of my collection was acquired by chance. Several rubles from a shady-looking man with horn-rimmed glasses unaware of a hole in his pocket. A drachma lying beside a park bench. Three yen I found on a walk past the Japanese sushi bar that opened last year. There is one quarter minted in 1975. The year has no meaning to me.

My apartment is small but not cramped. My furnishings are chosen for function, not fashion, and there are no picture frames or display cabinets to mar the uniformity of the walls. I prepare two slices of dry toast, picking them apart to eat them so I will not soil my clothes.

“How nice -- to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive.” -Kurt Vonnegut

I always stand for the duration of my subway ride to work, even when there are open seats. I'll never understand why people have to make such a big deal out of claiming a seat. The eyes of the other passengers slide over me and away, leaving me free to ponder. What is the connection between the dark-skinned man with arms layered in muscle and the Asian girl who has painted her hair and eyebrows pink? Why does the old lady with the faux alligator purse never blink? Why does the woman with three children not notice that her youngest son is about to pop a dirty orange peel in his mouth, despite the fact that he is shooting looks at her? The boy's older sister slaps the rind away, causing him to cry. A collective groan rises from the adjacent seats.

“When you consider things like the stars, our affairs don't seem to matter very much, do they?”- Virginia Woolf

The office is a large grey rectangle but it really isn't high enough to be called a skyscraper. The tint of the windows is the same uninspiring shade as the tie tucked into my jacket.

Three of my co-workers stand in front of the entrance, chatting and enjoying their morning smoke break. Cigarette smoke is repulsive. I keep my eyes forward and keep moving, pausing to open the door for a pair of women coming out.

My mother raised me to be polite. There are days when I've been forced to stand there as a makeshift doorman for a full two dozen executives who chanced to leave as I was entering. Fortunately, the ladies are in a hurry.

My fellow stock brokers are sitting in their cubicles making calls to clients or listening intently to the presenters whose exuberant speeches are muted by closed doors. They are timid by nature, keeping their eyes on their screens or on the contents of the day's priority file. Being too observant could get you fired in a place like this.

The assassins are mostly gathered around the cooler, sipping from paper cups and talking softly. Their manner of speech and careful looks are too staged, too like the perfectly timed cues followed by high-rated actors. Sometimes I catch snatches of conversation about cocktail parties and weekend plans. The words are scripted. It's all a cover.

My co-workers and I know what goes on outside of normal office business, we just know better than to talk about it. Since stock exchange is their cover, they can get away with little errors here and there without the notice of the higher ups. It's only if they screw up big that they won't have to worry about the contents of the next resume.

Take the man and woman standing beside the potted palm tree. She reaches out her hand to touch his arm, soft lips parting as she speaks a string of words I cannot hear. The touch is phony. It is undoubtedly a signal. Perhaps the pressure of each finger designates a location or a time for the man to strike. I do not know their code well enough to interpret.

I don't care that they kill. Some people live long lives and some people barely get the chance to live.

“The meaning of life is that it stops.” -Franz Kafka

Decorations are allowed within our cubicles. All around me are bobble head cats and tiny fern plants littering my coworkers work space. I want no adornments. My computer serves as clock, calendar, and calculator. Plants are a nuisance requiring water and knick-knacks only create clutter when large portfolios demand the space they possess. The only item I've brought from home is a Bartlett's quote book I picked up at a garage sale. The sale price sticker is still on the cover.

I always skim messages before attending my other work. The line which reads "Strong Tips" is from one of the higher-ups. Someone is going to die which is going to affect the price of stock for the company of the deceased.

I am strictly forbidden from using the tips for my own gain but that hardly means I cannot put it to use. Larry was a co-worker who used a Strong Tip to his advantage. At the ripe age of 53 1/2, he was the subject of a retirement memo. Two weeks later, he was a listing in the obituaries. This one I will pass on to Max. No particular reason. His just happens to be the name that comes up when I start typing.

My three-o-clock meeting is in the third office down from the elevator I prefer not to use. The woman preparing for a presentation wears a red skirt two shades lighter than her lipstick. She greets each of us as we enter, treating even strangers as if they are friends. I wonder if her lipstick is poisonous.