Rush

Chapter 1

I'm dripping with sweat while battling a bug in the code. It's not the bug that's too hard-it's the broken air conditioner turning the room into a furnace.

I'm about to shut down my computer in frustration when suddenly Marlene, my ugly manager, calls me on Zoom.

Her face fills the screen as the call connects, making me want to puke. She greets me with, "Hey, Matt. Hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

I imagine reaching through the screen and choking her. "No, Marlene, just dealing with your fucking face and wanting to smash it in with a crowbar."

Marlene fidgets through her files, pulling out a laminated sheet and shoving it in front of the camera. "Matt, you need to work on the design and logic for this chart right away. The client needs it in an hour or two. I don't have the mockups yet, but I'll send you scans of this sheet."

Why the hell is she dropping this on me now, in the dead of night? I wonder. I keep my annoyance and contempt from creeping into my voice and face as I say, "Marlene, I'm already... I've got a task. Trying to fix the bug found on the landing page this morning... I-"

Before I could finish my sentence, she held up her hand and gave me a weird, off-putting smile. 'Look, Matt, the client wants this done tonight. I know you can handle it. It's easy. You'll get it done,' she said, gave me a thumbs up, and ended the call. The rage inside me was indescribable. My mind wandered to all the ways I could make her suffer, but I remembered I had to finish the task in an hour. I dive into coding, determined to finish early.

——————

I wrap up the client's request and push the code. If management finds problems, they can scream all they want; I don't care.

I get dressed quickly; some colleagues just called and said they'd be here soon. I can't wait to hit our favorite club, Vertigo, and do some drugs.

——————

As I sit in the car, I see Lyman Warren, a software engineer at my company, snorting cocaine from a small box he brought with him.

"I want to fuck a blonde tonight man, a smart one, not one of those dumb bitches." he mumbles, before going back to snorting.

Another colleague, Troy Harris, stares out the window and chucks a soda can at a homeless man walking by. His face twists with disgust.

He screams at the man, "Fuck you, motherfucker!"

Then he turns to me and says, "The government wants to give my hard-earned money to these assholes for their rehabilitation. Fuck them. Look, Kilman, our money should be used to build more places where we can have fun and do drugs-more nightclubs, more brothels, more luxury watch stores. I want the government to bring more designer clothing brands to the city, maybe from Europe."

I snickered and took a snort of Lyman's cocaine. I said to Troy, "I feel sad whenever I see homeless people. They should be given jobs and other support. They need help, Troy."

Troy laughed at me and said, "Oh Kilman, are you fucking serious?"

We reach Vertigo around 1:30. The guy at the door lets us slide in right away-he knows who we are. Troy slips him a hundred, and the guy tucks it away into his jacket without a second glance.

Inside, it's like a different dimension. This place is essential for my sanity, maybe even my survival. It's the only refuge I have after a day of work that makes me want to scream. Coding's fine, but I can't handle the ceaseless meetings with the vile, repulsive people in my office.

We start dancing with a few girls we just met, some Depeche Mode track pulsing through the speakers. Dave Gahan is a legend in his own right, his voice is something you can't help but admire.

After a while, we sit down with the girls and try to make conversation. It's a struggle to care, but I make an effort not to seem too uninterested.

One of them puts her hand on my shoulder. A wave of revulsion washes over me as I wonder where else that hand has been-on some guy's dick, inside her own dirty vagina, or maybe even probing her own ass. The thought of what damage her touch could do to my expensive jacket makes me shudder. I carefully lift her hand off.

"You don't like it when a girl touches you?" she asks, smiling.

"I'd prefer it if your filthy hands didn't ruin my jacket, you whore," I tell her.

She smiles back, seemingly unfazed. "You know, I've heard you IT guys are supposed to be really smart. I like smart guys, never dated an engineer before, especially one as good-looking as you."

After a few more rounds of drinks, I wave down a cab and take her to my place.

——————

As I struggle to rip the flesh off her thighs, a thought nags at me: ‘I should have cooked it first’. With a primal urge, I tear off fragments of her tender muscles and eat them greedily. 

I had killed her after having sex with her, half an hour ago. A single stab to the head ended her life instantly. I abhor prolonged suffering; it’s repulsive. Yet, the abrupt end of life fills me with an indescribable pleasure and satisfaction.

I observe her calm face and beautiful, lifeless eyes. Removing the knife from her head, a small stream of blood follows. I drink some blood from the wound and also lick the knife, savoring the taste of her brain matter. It was better than the one I tasted a couple of days ago, which belonged to a prostitute I picked up while returning home from Vertigo.

I lie down beside her, my body coated in her blood pooling on the floor. I pay it no mind as I place my hand on her face, caressing her cold skin. With closed eyes, I command, 'Alexa, play yesterday's playlist!' The sound system responds with Spandau Ballet's 'True,' filling me with joy and beauty. Opening my eyes, I grasp her jaw and turn her face toward mine, attempting to coax a smile from her lips with my fingers. I long for us both to find happiness in the song's embrace. Despite my efforts, her expression remains unchanged.

I grew bored, so I took a knife and started prying her eyeballs out.

To be continued....