How to Kill You Boss
And Get Away With It
by
H.B. Berlow
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
H.B. Berlow on Smashwords
How to Kill Your Boss
And Get Away With It
Copyright © 2011 by H.B. Berlow
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For the record, let me just say that I am not now nor have I ever been in management. I suppose there was a time when I was in my twenties that I thought it might be “cool”. The idea of being someone’s boss, someone’s supervisor, being able to make decisions regarding their workplace habits. But then I realized how much extra meaningless time is wasted in the form of paperwork and filing. And the idea of being on salary and being at the complete disposal of your employer gave me a shudder, especially coming on the heels of my recent graduation from college. I was still in the “party mode” and did not feel like getting responsible at such a young age.
I’ve had my share of tough jobs, stressful jobs, glamorous and rewarding jobs. I’ve worked for lawyers, in advertising agencies, as administrative assistant to presidents of various companies. As a kid, I even bussed tables in a Chinese restaurant. I just haven’t been motivated by the idea of career advancement. It seems that one of the standard questions asked in an interview is “Where do you see yourself five years from now?” to which you’re supposed to reply that you’ve made enough progress in your job as to be worthy of a management position. It’s as though as being in Management is supposed to be the Holy Grail of Employment.
Some managers I’ve known had expense accounts; some had access to company vehicles. There were those who had the opportunity to travel to San Diego or San Antonio or San Juan for conferences or seminars. Some had tans; some had ulcers. All of them had a look of impending death. This was not the goal for my working life.
And yet, the other aspect that they seemingly all had in common was the absolute blind belief that every single corporate policy and executive decision was as significant as the Ten Commandments, written in stone by the finger of God, dictated to the CEO directly by the Almighty Himself, and blah, blah, blah. Each and every one of these clowns emulated a fundamentalist extremist, willing to give it all for the cause of the company, even go so far as to suffer high blood pressure, angina, or a nervous breakdown if it would further the cause of the shareholders.
I couldn’t understand why someone relatively intelligent enough to assume a managerial position would become so sheep-like and acquiesce as though their morals were completely sucked dry. Some presented the requirements to their subordinates in a kind of “Aw, shucks” manner, as though they were Jimmy Stewart and we were all June Allyson, so sweet and adoring and loving. And the, of course, there were the Nazis, the “My-way-or-the-highway” types, the ones who did not accept any other manner of doing anything in the office that did not personally derive from their brain or a corporate e-mail.
My current boss was halfway in between. He was pleasant enough when things were going right. That is, when I got in at a quarter to eight and made his coffee and compiled the sales reports and checked his messages and greeted him when he arrived some time after nine. When things were not going well, everyone was a “stupid idiot”, an “incompetent fool”, a “freakin’ retard”. He had little respect for anyone, men or women, black or white, Christians or Jews. He had the ability to find fault with anyone and had plenty of words of derision for anyone he felt deserved it, whether they actually did or not.
I had to wonder if this guy was always such a louse. I couldn’t imagine that being the case. Somehow, I believed, the position of management had turned him from a hard-working man of integrity into an honest to goodness shitheel. Then again, I used to think that old age made people mean and crotchety until I realized that old mean and crotchety people used to be YOUNG mean and crotchety people. Could I be wrong? Had my boss always been an asshole?
I suppose there really was no way to find out short of seeking out old friends and family members. That was time that I was not willing to waste on a speculative matter. However, it did occur to me that I might be able to test out my theory and give myself some relief.
I could just kill him.
That would solve one issue, the constant haranguing and insults and lack of courtesy and respect. The company would not be able to let our division go without supervisory personnel for too long and before we knew it we would have a new boss. At that point it would be easy to determine what effect if any that such a promotion would have on the value system of that individual.
But, as Hamlet said, there’s the rub. I had to kill my boss. And I had to get away with it. In this day and age of crime investigation television shows, it was apparent that Science held sway in these matters. There would be very little that I could do to commit a murder and actually go undetected. It would take a great deal of research to find the proper method. I could rely on the internet but then if I became a suspect the police could get one of their forensic computer guys to read everything I’d ever done on my hard drive. I could take out books from the library. Once again, if I became a suspect my records could be easily traced. I had a friend who was a published author who wrote mystery novels. He knew as much about crime as anyone else I knew. I could see him being questioned by the police as to my deep interest in methods of murder.
I had been an administrative assistant to this man for four and a half years. I had kept my wits about me and had not allowed myself to lose my cool or say something that would be a detriment to my employment. I had finagled a raise and an extra paid week of vacation. And I had managed to acquire a few company perks such as tickets to ball games and concerts that were usually used to schmooze clients. I knew I had the brains and the wherewithal to kill this man. And, darn it, that’s what I planned to do.
Right after work on Friday I went to a local watering hole that featured 2-for-1 martinis and free appetizers. It might not have been the most comfortable place for a woman by herself but I was feeling alert, alive, and in control. I needed to contemplate a sure-fire method of killing someone that would not implicate me directly.
A legally purchased gun could easily be traced to me. Plus, I couldn’t be sure if I could shoot well enough to accomplish the deed. Trying to buy one illegally was next to impossible for an administrative assistant who had no personal knowledge of any criminal types. And, again, my ability to shoot was still in question.
A knife or other sharp object was more easily acquired. Except that it might take a certain degree of strength to penetrate skin and bone as well as effectively end a life. The moment of the act itself was not a time to speculate or guess.
Poison was an option. But, for obvious reasons, I couldn’t put it in his coffee as I would be the prime suspect. Other poisons could be purchased such as those used to kill rodents. Again, how it could be administered without implicating me would be more difficult.
A hit-and-run might only injure instead of kill. Then, there was my car that would be damaged. If I rented a car, a credit card and driver’s license would bring police right back to me.
Drowning required a location. I would not be able to gain access to his home while he was in the tub and I wasn’t certain if he even swam at all.
‘Blunt Force Trauma’ was a term I had heard on several crime investigation shows. It basically meant someone getting there skull cracked. That might be possible. I could sneak up on him somewhere and hit him with, oh, I don’t know, a wrench or a brick. If I took his wallet and watch, then it would look like a mugging and there would be no direct connection to me.
This was starting to have possibilities. I had a second round of 2-for-1 martinis, re-filled my plate with cocktail weenies and mini quesadillas and contemplated what would be the best instrument for blunt force trauma.
Four martinis on a nearly empty stomach caused me to have a vicious hangover the next Saturday morning. A day of house cleaning and weeding the flower beds had to be put aside in favor of recovery. Maybe it was a sign that I shouldn’t proceed. I started to have second thoughts about taking some heavy instrument and cracking my boss’s skull open. And then I was intrigued by the thought and my head didn’t hurt that much.
First thing Monday, I checked his appointment book, both the professional and personal one. Saturday night he was supposed to be getting together with his lawyer for dinner at the newest Italian restaurant to open downtown. I knew exactly where it was, close to the downtown arena and near a parking garage where I figured he would park. I had to assume he would finish dinner and go home. If the two of them decided to go out afterward, I would lose my opportunity.
That day, after work, I went to a thrift store and bought a pipe wrench for $6.99 in cash. It was old and rusted and heavy. I practiced swinging it at home. I went so far as to destroy a honeydew melon just to get the right sense of the crunch.
I was extra special pleasant and nice during the week. No one had any idea that I was a social scientist about to put a theory to the test.
On Saturday morning, I bought a movie ticket to one of the most popular movies for the nine o’clock show. With advance ticket purchase, I could rip my own ticket stub and claim I was at the movies. No one was going to remember one little old me in such a big crowd on such a busy night.
Downtown was three miles from my home. The walk seemed like it took thirty seconds. That was how light my step was. I walked right in front of the restaurant, perhaps risking being seen. Fortunately, the street was empty and quiet. I thought I saw him but I couldn’t be sure.
I did find his car in the parking garage on the third floor just on the other side of a concrete stanchion post. It was a good place for me to wait. There was a PT Cruiser and Chevy pickup truck on the same level but no one else. To the best of my recollection, his lawyer didn’t drive any of these vehicles.
I waited until past eleven o’clock. They must have stayed for cannoli and Anisette. The click-clack of his shoes echoed on the concrete floor of the garage as I watched him take tenuous steps toward his car. It was apparent they shared more than one carafe or bottle of wine.
The post I was hiding behind was just on the other side of the driver’s side door to his Ford Explorer. It was fortunate that he was having a little bit of difficulty with his keys because I was shaking all over. But then I simply bit my lower lip, took in a quick deep breath, and raised by wrench and swung. His head crunched just like a honeydew melon. He collapsed against the car and I hit him again. He fell to the ground and I hit him again. I mean, after all, how do you know when someone is dead?
After the third hit, he was down and still. The back of his head was moist and pulpy and a very dark red bordering on black. I pushed into his belly with my foot and he didn’t move or groan or do anything. Quickly remembering my plan, I ripped his watch of his wrist and pulled his wallet out from his pocket. I took out the cash and the credit cards and then threw it back down. Since I was wearing gloves, I figured fingerprints would not be found.
We all experienced a great deal of shock and sadness when we learned first thing the next Monday that our boss had been killed during a robbery on Saturday evening. The police did question several of us, trying to rule out any homicide other than what the scene presented. None of us was aware of anyone who had a grudge against him or if he had any financial or drug or alcohol problems. I was questioned extensively because I was his administrative assistant and I probably knew more about him than anyone. It was difficult for me to carry on the conversation because of all the tears and hysteria. I had calmed down enough that evening to take a long hot bubble bath.
It took a little less than two weeks before his replacement arrived. He was younger than the previous boss. He seemed fresher and enthusiastic. He was not very talkative the first day as he requested an office-wide meeting the next morning at eight-thirty sharp. The emphasis was on the word ‘sharp’.
“I know what you’ve all been through,” he started with a very slight bit of compassion in his voice, but certainly not as much as I would have expected. “It’s tragic, yes. But what would be even more tragic would be to allow this situation to adversely affect our job performance. And to be honest with you all, your job performance had been in serious decline for several months prior to this situation. I’m giving the department heads one week to explain what has happened under their watch and what steps they plan to take to implement a reversal of this trend. We have one quarter, three months only, to make some serious improvements or there will be some serious changes.”
He left the conference room with so much as a ‘thank you’ or ‘that’s all’. I didn’t wait to look at their faces. I knew many had fallen. I left to go to his office for a follow-up. He had me come in and close the door.
“Do you think I was tough on them?” he asked me bluntly.
“In light of what they’ve been through recently, perhaps you were,” I responded sheepishly.
“Okay.” He paused, fingers pressed against each other. “Since you’ll be working more closely with me than any of them, I want to let you know something. That was nothing compared to what will happen in three months if we don’t get our numbers turned around.”
So, it was true then. Whatever intellect you had, whatever your moral or spiritual beliefs were, whatever your life experience may have been, becoming a manager immediately turned you into an asshole.
My work was only beginning.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
H.B. Berlow likes his current boss. He is not sure about the one from his previous job. He lives in Wichita, KS with his wife, Shelia, and the three cats---Mongo, Camille, and Rupert.
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AT SMASHWORDS.COM
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DAY TRIPPIN' https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/46282
THE BALLAD OF JUSTIN THIEME https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/46535
JUST LIKE DADDY https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/111525
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