012

12.  Grey Eminence

Grayson Lee sat cross-legged in his simple black swivel chair in his simple white office. Grayson had tried it out numerous times, and found that the swiveling ability of the chair was not to be questioned. It was one of those things that did exactly what it was supposed to, nothing more, nothing less. Grayson had a smug appreciation for these types of things. They had achieved a state of perfection.

Humans, however, had not. Time and time again, he witnessed them doing more than they needed to, less than they were supposed to, or something in-between. It was such a farce. They seemed to believe that they were above the rules somehow, in their own little worlds where they could do as they please. They all needed such extensive correcting.

Patrick Sherman was a prime example. Patrick worked in the cubicle directly outside of Grayson's office, no more than five steps down the hall. Grayson saw him every day, which unfortunately meant that they also spoke with one another almost every day. Patrick was a short, skinny man with fuzzy blond hair that fell on his fair-skinned forehead, just above his bullfrog-esque facial features. After Grayson first met Patrick, he was soon able to predict which clothes Patrick would wear each day so accurately that he became intensely curious about how exactly Patrick’s closet was organized. But it didn't really matter one way or another if, on every Monday morning, Patrick really did reach into his closet with the intent of pulling out the baby blue shirt and white tie that he always wore on the day after the sabbath, because Grayson was going to kill Patrick Sherman.

Patrick had been afraid that due to the HQ relocation and the downsizing, he would be demoted – or worse, fired altogether. Thus, he came into Grayson's office with his arms hanging uselessly at his sides and his face in a twisted grimace, no doubt trying to hold back tears as he told his sad, sad story to his boss.

It could have been anyone, but Grayson had his sights set on Patrick. It might have been a result of the grotesque display of groveling Patrick had demonstrated in front of him. Overcome by disgust, Grayson had been tempted to kill him right there, but didn't feel like spoiling the moment that would eventually come. He wanted to make it sweet.

"I-I-I have three kids, sir," Patrick whimpered, nearing the end of his sad spiel. "One of 'em's entering college this year. I gotta support ‘em! You understand, don't you? I know a wise person like you has to understand, sir."

Had Grayson not already met Patrick's wife Lauren, he would have had his doubts as to whether this whimpering pile of flesh had ever had the spine to talk to a woman, let alone marry one. But surprisingly, Patrick's wife was not ugly, and Grayson had eyed her many a time at the bi-monthly cocktail parties for his division's workers. He realized that after he eventually slaughtered Patrick, Lauren might be next. He just wondered if she was as much of a crybaby as her husband.

"You can look at my status reports, sir," Patrick continued. "I mean, this is just my humble opinion, but I really don't think I'm doing poorly in any areas...certainly not enough to merit being fired!" He said that last line with a bit of desperation.

"I agree with you," Grayson said flatly, pulling apart crossed fingers. And it was true, Grayson really did agree with him. In fact, there was no reason for the man to be fired...which made the fact of Patrick bringing it up all the more pointless.

"Really?!" Patrick cried. "R-really, sir? I knew I could count on you! You're the man!"

Grayson hated being called the man almost as much as he hated being called sir. At that moment, he could have easily leapt up from his desk and strangled Patrick then and there. No one would have heard a thing. The door was closed, and Patrick would have been dead in an instant. But it was simply not the time.

"You must do one thing, though," Grayson said, standing up. He flicked his thick braid over the shoulder of his grey pinstripe suit, adjusted his thin silver glasses, and stepped out from behind his desk. Then, he gestured to his feet. "You must lick my shoes."

Any of Grayson's other employees would have looked at their boss in shock, and he would have broken into fake laughter coupled with a fake smile. He would falsely tell them that he was joking, give them a hollow slap on the back, and then wish them years of pain and suffering translated as "have a nice day."

But this was Patrick Sherman. And what did Patrick Sherman do in this situation?

"Y...yes, sir..." he whimpered, kneeling down onto his wobbly knees, camouflaged well by his baggy brown slacks. He lowered his head and began to lick Grayson Lee's white shoes, as if he was a five-year-old girl eating strawberry-chocolate ice cream on a hot summer day. By the time he was finished, Grayson's shoes were covered to the brim in Sherman's saliva. It made him want to laugh, and so he did. He broke into loud, high-pitched laughter. If someone outside heard him and wanted to make something of it, he'd just have to kill them later. It didn't matter to Grayson right now – this was too unbelievably funny.

"You're done, Mr. Sherman!" Grayson shouted down at Patrick. "Now get your ass up off my floor!"

Patrick stood up, wiped a bit of dribble from his chin and stared at his boss, blinking as if he had just come out of a trance.

"Erase yourself from my office, and don't ever whine to me again."

But of course, Patrick had continued to whine, and Grayson had lost his patience. Thus, the events that would eventually lead to Patrick Sherman's demise were set into motion.

Grayson Lee had just finished his morning swivel and was feeling quite energetic as he opened the blinds and looked out the window of the Zexaron Headquarters. At night, when employees drove home from the oil fields, they would find themselves staring back at the neon enigma, wondering if the strange place ever shut off its blinding lights.

The Zexaron building could have done well without twelve floors. It would have been fine with six, but Grayson was a man who embraced symbolism. The first few floors were public, the next few storage-related, while the final few were administrative offices and meeting rooms. The top floor was the President's. Of the current partners, only Grayson, Frank Arazia, and the newly-promoted Edward Darcouver were stationed at this office. All the other key members were far, far away, controlling Zexaron's other branches and ventures.

But that was beside the point. The matters concerning Patrick's death were not even going to take place within the building, although they were connected to it. The plan was perfect, really. It was the sort of plan that someone like Patrick Sherman would fall for without hesitation, as quickly and smoothly as a knife through skin.

Grayson approached Patrick's blue cubicle, his white shoes echoing softly on the tiled floor. Patrick was hunched over his computer screen, arms gripping the chair's armrests as if he was in some sort of horrible pain. A few minutes ago, the company-wide notice of all staff changes had just been sent out.

Patrick was just getting to the part regarding Edward Darcouver's recent promotion when Grayson put his long, bony hand on the man's shoulder. Patrick gasped, nearly jumping out of his seat, and quickly turned around to face his assailant.

"Mr. Lee!" he shouted, lips trembling. "Is...is something wrong, sir?"

"Come with me. This is important," Grayson spoke, waggling his finger and exiting Patrick's cubicle.

As he walked swiftly down the hallway, he took long strides and moved as fast as possible to see if Patrick would follow in time. Reaching the south end of the hallway, Grayson called the elevator. Patrick was staring at Grayson with a wide-eyed expression of horror. Sweat ran down his face, and not just from the brief sprint he had run to follow his boss.

Grayson entered the elevator speechlessly, and Patrick followed obediently. The two stood in silence as the elevator made its way down to the first floor of the building. Soon, they walked out along bright turquoise tiles and traversed the first floor lobby. Lush azaleas and rock gardens lined the main pathway up to the glass entrance doors.

Grayson excitedly shoved open the door and breathed in the dusty Bakersfield air. After a moment, he exhaled with a pleasant hum, stretching his arms upward and ruffling his jacket's sleeves. "Feel that fresh air, Patrick. Breathe it in, breath it in like it's a part of you."

Patrick eyed his boss nervously, then sniffed the air. "You're right, sir, no bad smells here. It's really a miracle, considering all the oil rigs surrounding this place."

"Do you always have to be so damn negative, Patrick?!" Grayson shouted. "Stop ruining the moment."

Patrick was silent for a bit, and then spoke again. "S-So what did you call me out for, sir?"

Grayson looked back quickly to make sure they were unwatched. It was lunchtime, just as he’d planned, and the coast was clear. After a few seconds, he turned to face Patrick. Grayson’s face was surprisingly solemn, eyes piercing deep into Patrick's own. He raised his arms and set them on Patrick's shoulders.

"Patrick," he whispered, "You're one of my best men in the building. Possibly even the best. That's why I’d like to take you out to lunch today."

Patrick was speechless and continued staring at his boss, afraid to say anything more.

Grayson waited a moment. "Would you be so kind as to accept my offer?"

"Y-yes, of course, sir," Patrick’s face looked red with fear. "It’s just that, um, I left my car keys back in my cubicle!"

"You idiot!" Grayson shouted." What kind of a fool leaves his car keys in his desk?!"

"I'm sorry, sir!" Patrick shouted back.

"Well," Grayson said with a smile, "we’ll just have to take my car then. Hey, why don’t you drive?"

Grayson was trying so hard not to smirk at this point that it truly hurt his face. He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and tossed them at Patrick. Of course, Patrick missed the catch, and they tumbled to the ground with a foreboding clink. Patrick reached down quickly and picked them up, turning back to face Grayson one last time before dashing to his boss's car.

It was a sleek black Lexus, sparkling clean as if it had just been washed and waxed by a professional. It shone against the morning sun like a black diamond as Patrick approached it. He slid the silver key into the front seat door and pulled it open quickly, accidentally slamming it into the side of a red Volvo. He cringed and looked back at Grayson, ready to be berated.

Grayson shrugged. "No harm done, right?"

And so, the two were off. Grayson directed Patrick to drive up along the long road that led out of the barren oil field and closer to civilization. However, instead of heading straight into downtown Bakersfield, he made Patrick circle around a large cliff and park the car in its shadow.

"Why are we stopping here, sir?" Patrick asked.

"Just get out," Grayson said, "and you’ll see."

Patrick obeyed his boss and stepped out of the car. It was early afternoon, and they were surrounded by dust and oil rigs as far as the eye could see. Grayson got out as well, straightened his suit, and approached Patrick.

In the next moment, Grayson’s hands were around Patrick’s neck. He grit his teeth in a sadistic smile, crushing flesh and bone like a soda can. Patrick’s dead body fell to the ground, and then Grayson held up his hands and did something to ensure that no one would ever find any remnant of Patrick Sherman.

When he first thought of his plan to kill Patrick Sherman, it hadn't been anything like this. He had modeled it on his classic method: slow, deliberate torture. After thinking about it for a while, however, the truth of what killing Patrick Sherman would be like began to dawn on Grayson. Usually, listening to men and women blubber and scream as he inflicted pain on them was pleasurable, but with Patrick, it was a completely different matter. He realized that whatever sound would come out of the man's mouth during the torture would only remind Grayson of the maggot's weakness, his complete uselessness, and that would drain all the fun from the act. Therefore, he had decided on the good old-fashioned method of strangulation: short, but oh so sweet.

Unfortunately for Grayson, there had been a small bug in his plan – a bug that was perhaps a bit craftier than Grayson gave him credit for. This little insect had noticed Grayson leaving the building with Patrick, so he had waited a bit before following the two at a distance. The insect saw Grayson strangled Patrick, then watched in horror as Grayson somehow vaporized Patrick’s body.

And so, Frank Arazia's fear became a reality.

Next: Unity by Antagony