The "Expletive-Deleted" Case - Entry 16

I approached the monolithic structure that housed the bottling factory of Whiz-Key Inc. with trepidation; the hovering darkness of the sky directly overhead gave the long walk up the twisting staircase a distinctly daunting feel. The twelve-foot steel-doors provided less obstruction than the appearance of such, but once inside I saw peripheral scurrying, like cockroaches exposed to light; quick movements that left only echoes of sound in the cavernous warehouse-like bottling-plant.

I found a door that read "manager" and sharply knocked twice before allowing myself entry; the wall-hung corkboard message-holder affixed behind the sparsely-adorned desk held many a newspaper clipping that, upon closer inspection, were from no newspaper I had ever seen, and I read newspapers with the same lust as a condemned man has for a last supper ribeye steak. I examined the office as best I could without getting myself in a position that would look to be too suspicious; I had turned away from the desk when I heard a pleasant, "Can I help you?" that startled me enough to turn me back around like a fresh head of romaine in a lettuce-spinner. A beautiful blond-haired woman was sitting at the desk now, smiling and radiating a helpfulness that was all-too uncommon in this world of betrayal and hypocrisy; the corkboard was missing, somehow, and a nameplate had been placed front and centre on the desk that read, "Ms. Nihs".

I frowned and slowly leveled my gaze at the suddenly squared-off jaw of the would-be helpful blond; there was worry in her eyes, and a darkening around the mouth that seemed to deepen the more I stared; her rapidly blinking eyes were losing their femininity with every bat of her heavily-mascaraed eyelash, and I eventually found myself staring into the blank face of Randy in a blond wig.

There was a brief look of recognition before his eyes rolled back into his head; his body went limp and he fell behind the desk with the dull thud of head colliding with the faux-tile of the office floor. I quickly jumped behind the desk to find Randy being dragged through a hole underneath, into the ground, to the sounds of wind-swept tunnels and far-off cackling...I paused to consider the ramifications of describing the be-wigged Randy as "beautiful", but plowed ahead in the underground anyway, knowing that I would have time to confront myself later over what looked to be a pretty good indicator of why my dating career was stalled like a ‘95 Ford Contour in November...Randy was technically alive, yes, but I had a feeling that, for his sake, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

Entry 17