Happy Face
by Everette Bell

The man sitting in the leather office chair behind the desk was a testimony to the sloth and greed of the modern capitalistic machine. His balding head rested atop a flabby torso, and his large bottom made him look like a bowling pin in a white shirt and tie. He looked at the designer watch on his chunky wrist,* five more minutes.* His heart began to pound vigorously. The man was so out of shape excitement was aerobic activity for him. Mopping the sweet from his forehead with his tie, the CEO licked his lips in anticipation. His free hand trembled on the desktop.

Since Melody lost her figure after delivering the twins, James had sought his companionship among the ranks of disillusioned middle class working mothers. Their detached husbands were to busy working in order to stay a few
steps ahead of the next credit card payment to be bothered with date nights or talking before bedtime. He was good at finding out which women had troubles at home, and with these women, he took special care in laying down the crap about his door always being open because he was a friend as well as an employer.

One of the perks of being in the administrative wing of the hospital was that most everyone was gone by four o'clock. Their work made none of the hospital's money, yet their wallets were the fattest. Organizational meetings, long lunches, and, whenever possible, the groveling displays of career advancement thoroughly exhausted the numerous toadies that walked the halls. Since it was Friday, everyone had slipped out.He expected Nancy any minute.

The door was one of those heavy ones with a turning lever rather than a knob. It stood silently at the end of a white hall with well-trafficked seafoam carpet.

The footsteps were silent as the breath of death. A black-gloved hand reached out for the lever, turning it slowly. Leather sighed as the hand gripped firmly.

"Come in." the voice on the other side of the door brimmed with eagerness.

His arms flew up in the air, open palms shaking. "Oh my God!" James sputtered in a state of panic. "Don't hurt me, please," he gasped. The shock had drained the color out of the man's bulldog face.

His gaze was fixed on the single black eye of the pistol pointed at his head. It was clasped in the hand of someone wearing a black sweat suit and tennis shoes. The gunman's face was covered by a rubber clown mask, complete
with big red nose, bright red lips, and a mane of blue hair. On the clowns back was a black canvas backpack.

A distorted male voice came from the motionless rubber face like the unsettling calm before a storm. "Not a word, do you understand?"

James nodded.

"Good," the clown said as he unshouldered his backpack. "And don't worry about Nancy. Good thing for her I've always been a sucker for a pretty face."

Placing the bag in his lap, the gunman sat in the vacant chair across the desk from James. "We've got a little business to attend to, and here are the rules. One, you will answer every question I put forth. Not answering or answering untruthfully will get you cut." He unzipped the bag in his lap and pulled out a hunting knife with a serrated blade. With an exaggerated arm movement, he placed the knife on the desk.

The barrel of the gun remained leveled at James' face. "Any attempt at calling for help," the man spoke coldly, "will resort in you regretting the day you were born."

Dread hammered away like a savage drum in James' heart as he watched the clown rise to his feet. Leaning over the front of the desk and bringing the gun to the man's forehead, the clown mask echoed with heavy breathing. Three
inches separated the men. At the uncomfortably close distance, the innocent mask dredged up an unidentifiable fear. James' felt his stomach sink. Pounding thunderously, he thought his heart was going to explode.

The clown retook his seat.

Sarcastic words reverberated from the rubber mask. "If I'm not mistaken, this is a hospital. Hospital's are supposed to take care of people when they are sick. Correct?" Without waiting for a response the clown plowed on with his monologue. "At a hospital nurses and therapists take care of the patients, am I right?"

There was silence.

"Yes," replied James hesitantly.

"Good, I'm glad we agree." The clown placed the gun in his lap and leaned back in his chair. The only sound was the enclosed breaths filling the mask. "Now, I want to know what administrators do for the patients of the hospital?" The garbled voice hardened without warning, "What do you do for the patient?"

James felt his breathing accelerate. *What does this nutball want me to
say?* He just kept silent.

The clown released a disturbing chuckle. "That's your free one. I'll ask it another way. If you were sick in a room, and in front of you was a nurse and an administrator. You have a gun. There is only enough air in the room for two? Now, remember, you're sick. Tell me James, who gets it?"

"This is absurd!"

The room filled with an explosive voice as the clown bolted to his feet.

He grabbed the fat man by the tie and pressed the barrel of the gun against James' throat. "I want to know who you would shoot! The nurse or the administrator!"

Swallowing his fear with a loud gulp, the CEO responded slowly, "The administrator."

"Doing well, James." The clown let go of the tie and sat down.

"Now. . .Again, what does an administrator do for a sick person?"

"Nothing."

The clown nodded. "Now we have established that nurses and therapists do something for patients. We have also established that administrators do not. My question to you is simple. Why did this hospital fire one fourth of the
nursing staff, and half the therapy staff?"

Fearing another outburst, James set in quickly with his answer. "The health care climate of today demands that facilities streamline expenses-"

"Shut up!" the clown barked, "and pick up the knife!"

"Pick it up now!" The gloved arm extended the pistol.

James slowly picked it up, holding it nonthreateningly.

"Cut your chest," the clown's words were like a twisting blade. "If I don't see blood, I'll do it, and believe me, you don't want that." The threat was ice cold.

James knew it was deadly serious, but fear froze him. He could not will himself to move the knife. The man's bottom lip began to tremble, "Please, please, I-"

"One," the clown cut him off.

James felt terror climb him. His throat was bone dry, and his pulse hammered.

"Two."

*He'll do it too!*

The serrated blade lifted and dug into the man's soft chest to the left of his tie, tearing through shirt. A crimson stain appeared.

"Why did you fire them?"

Tears ran down the terrified man's face. "We wanted to increase profits."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, James, but a better way to cut costs, thereby increasing profits, would be to get rid of nonessential employees, like you. Instead of one nurse being responsible for fifteen patients, you should be responsible for the paperwork of five people."

James sat in silence, beads of sweet dripping down his reddened face. Blood soaked his shirt.

A dangerous growl rumbled from the mask. "Let the worker suffer while you get fat!" James' eyes lingered on the gloved hand as it clenched tightly on the grip of the pistol.

"If this is," the man blubbered placing the knife on the table, "about you losing your job, we can work something out."

"Money." The clown spat like it were a dirty word. "You think everything is about money, don't you! Numbers, fucking number is all you care about!"

The anger dissipated into a foreboding silence. James felt a rage in the room, radiating from his silent captor.

"Let me run another scenario by you, James." All the anger was gone, replaced by a sense of thoughtfulness. "What if I still work here? What if, James, I care about something besides the bottom line?"

Then the clown veered down a tangent. "Did you ever notice how people like yourself always think the guy who goes ape at work was fired or as they say, disgruntled. Why can't the guy care so much that he makes people
listen."

The clown locked his gaze on his silent prisoner. "Question number two, why doesn't anyone listen to reason, James?"

This time he knew what he was expected to say. "They are trying to get all the money they can."

"Good, your learning, my boy. Now, since nobody listens, to get someone's attention you have to demand it. So, here I am."

Reaching into the backpack on the floor, the clown removed a single sheet of paper and handed it across the desk. Unsteady fingers released the knife. James took the paper. When he looked up, an unspoken question shown in his
eyes.

"You can see by the condition of the memo that I didn't have to dumpster dive to get it." There was a brief pause. "We come to question number three. When did you plan on telling them?"

He let the paper drop to the desk. His words came in a flood of anxiety.

"A definite date was not set, but we were going to let them know at least a month prior to the lay off." His palms rose to keep the fury of the radical away. "But I don't know. Corporate has not informed me, I swear."

Sighing loudly, the clown shook his head. "Pick up the knife."

"No, I swear. I don't know," the man's head shook fervently.

" 'We will get maximum productivity from each and every one of them. No one will be informed of the next wave of lay-offs until the day of. This hospital must remain profitable for the company.' Does that sound familiar?"

"I ask you again, when did you plan on telling them?"

"Ok," James hovered on the edge of a total break down. "We weren't going to tell them."

"For that, you bastard," the clown's voice was deadly calm, "Cut your face." Tears flowed uncontrollably from the man's tightly closed eyes. His head shook like a child in a tantrum. The click of the clown cocking the hammer of the gun jerked the man back to his senses on a cord of fright. James opened his eyes and stared at the eye of the barrel like a beaten dog.

"Since the dawn of the industrial world, the common worker has been at the mercy of the boss. Employers have never known anything but total control. You now know what it's like to be at another's mercy."

"This is the last time I will say it. Take the knife. . .and cut. . . your. . . face."

James raised the knife to his face. His spirit was broken. He did not want to test the crazed man before him. The edge of the blade filled his face with a burning pain. It pressed into his cheek, blood spilling from the long cut.

"Tomorrow," the clown reached into the backpack again and pulled out a second sheet of paper, "you will circulate this memo to all employees."

James took it.

"It tells how they are all viewed as expendable. You will also notice I have included some quotes from your speeches at upper management meetings."

James laid it on the table. His head fell into his hands and he began to sob.

"If it is not circulated tomorrow, I swear to God, you will be dead in one week." The even words rang like a bell tolling in the night. Standing, the clown picked the knife up from the table. "Lay your hand on the desk."

James just stared with fearful eyes, his face smeared with blood.

"Now!" The harsh command was followed by the uplifting of the gun.

His bloody hand extended. He rested his palm to the side of the memo.

The clown slammed the knife down on the man's thumb. A scream of agony twisted James' face, but before it tore free from his lungs, the clown's other elbow pounded the man in the face. He flew backwards, crashing into the wall.

Clutching his blood-gushing hand, the petrified man sobbed as he staggered to his desk.

Upholding the severed thumb like a trophy, the clown laughed an evil cackle. "You reap what you sow." He placed the thumb in his pocket and left

James walked in his office. He couldn't help looking over his shoulder before he closed the door. The fear of the unknown intruder had not left him for a single moment. This morning he had circulated the memo as instructed,
and now he was cleaning out his office. He had provided no explanation for his action or his missing thumb.

Laying in the center of his desk was a legal sized envelope. His name was written on it in red ink. He jerked it up and tore it open. In his frightened haste he tore the note. With shaky hands, James held the two pieces together.


*Well, how does it feel to know you did the right thing for once in your filthy life? I'm proud of you, man. But, a little bit of advice for you, eat your favorite meal tonight. Don't forget to tell your wife you love her before you go to bed."

                                                                                                                 *Happy Face*

© Everette Bell

Everette Bell's stories have appeared in or are scheduled to appear in 22 American and UK publications. Within the next year his work will appear in the "RARE" as well as "New Traditions In Terror" anthologies. His novella, "The Deadlands" will be published by Eraser Head Press. Next year Hollis books will publish his anthology, "Tales From The Drive-in". Currently he is working on an e-serial for The Miss Lucy Westerna Society Of The Undead tentatively
titles, "Portrait Of a Bloodstained Hero".