Running With Scissors

Seriously, Clamato is Gross

The first thing you noticed when entering the offices of the Association of Suicidal Workers is the smell. A rank, oppressive smell of sweat and pain that you could almost taste.

Boxes of Clamato juice were stacked against the farthest wall of the room, threatening to collapse at any moment, which is something a man was hoping for as he laid at the base of the rickety arrangement with a smile on his face. Sadly for him, the boxes stood unmoving.

"What can I do for you, James?" said Margot as she sat on her desk. Plastered behind her was a poster of a kitten hanging from a branch, with a crudely drawn noose around its neck that read "Hang in there!"

"I have a new client for you," he answered.

"What a sweetheart," said Margot in a deadpanned tone. "I'll make sure you get your finder's fee. And who might you be?"

"Peter Katz, the pleasure is yours," said Peter dismissively.

"I'm sure it is. Let me guess...cancer?" said Margot.

Peter was taken aback by the accurate guess. "How did you-"

"In my line of work," she interrupted, "one has to have a clinical eye. What kind of cancer?"

"Colon," said Peter.

"It's a sad, sad world we live in. My Alfred died of colon cancer, too."

"My deepest condolences," said James Truman-Conelly. "Was he your husband?"

"He was my imaginary friend when I was in college," said Margot. "Acid was fun."

And then Peter realized, it wasn't something sinister he saw in her eyes. She was not quite there to begin with.

"Is Michael busy?" asked James Truman-Conelly, pointing at a door just to the left of Margot's desk.

"He's in a meeting right now, but please, take a seat and I'll let you know if he can take you in."

Michael Di Martino was the chairman of the ASW, and as most union leaders, he was terribly corrupt. He used force, intimidation, and other less than approved practices to make the ASW be the number one suicide-related union on the East coast.

He was also famously stingy, using every opportunity to make a buck.

"I gotta ask," said Peter, "what's with the Clamato?"

"Well, Michael, the chairman, realized that membership fees weren't turning the profit that they should," said James Truman-Conelly.

"Not many suicidal workers, eh?"

"No, it's not that. It's just...they don't tend to stay here very long," said James Truman-Conelly, whispering into Peter's ear with his moist, chicken-nugget breath.

Peter automatically reeled back. "It's because of the smell, isn't it? Smells like someone died in here."

"People die here all the time, Peter. That's kinda the point," said James Truman-Conelly, grabbing Peter by the back of the neck and pulling him closer. "You get in, pay a couple of fees, and then you're gone."

"Why are you pulling me closer to you? I ain't swinging that way. At least not sober."

James Truman-Conelly looked from left to right, making sure no one was around to hear him. Margot was busy trying to fill a crossword with a ball pen, a task made significantly harder thanks to her claw hands.

"What I'm about to tell you," said James Truman-Conelly as he placed his lips as close to Peter's ear without actually touching it, "cannot leave this room."

"This is the world's worst ASMR experience I've ever had," commented Peter.

"I gotta be careful," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "See, the way ASW makes a profit is that, two or three days before the worker is set to kick the bucket, they give them a blood transfusion. As in, they switch every drop of their blood with Clamato."

Peter was shocked, mainly because he thought it was an ingenious plan and chastised himself for not thinking of it himself. "Who do they sell the blood to?"

"Oh, there's a bunch of people," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "Satanist, vampires, the DMV."

Peter wanted to ask why the DMV would need blood for, but remained silent. Sometimes, there are questions that should remain unanswered.

A sudden knock broke their concentration.

"James," said Margot, "could you please open the door, dear?"

"Sure," said James Truman-Conelly. After a few seconds, he returned with a rather bizarre-looking person behind him. There's really not a gentle way to say it: the man was a gimp.

"Excuse me," said the gimp, "am I late for the asphyxiation seminar?"

"Auto-erotic or regular?" asked Margot without moving her vision from the crossword in front of her. 3 letter word, feline, predator, common. She had been stumped for the last few hours.

"Auto-erotic," said the gimp through a zipper on his mask.

"That's in the Association of Sadomasochist Wimps, fourth floor," answered Margot.

The gimp bowed in thanks and left the room in a hurry.

"Alright," said Peter, "run me through this thing. Do I get like a starter kit? A couple cyanide pills and a noose?"

"It's more mundane than that," said James Truman-Conelly. "We're gonna take a look at your case, look at your options, and give you some alternatives."

"Like..."

"Like," said James Truman-Conelly, "for example, your will. Who're you gonna leave your money to?"

"Mr. Trash, my cat," said Peter without hesitation.

"Cat!" said Margot with all the joy someone without a will to live could muster as she filled that three letter word.

Another knock on the door reverberated through the room, making the man laying at the foot of the Clamato mountain extra happy, as he could've swore he saw a box move by an inch. Sadly, the boxes stood still, mocking him.

"I'll get it," said James Truman-Conelly.

This time, nobody came in. James Truman-Conelly yelled from the front door. "Margot! When's the Starving master class?"

"That's on the Association of Socialist Women, dear! Second floor!" yelled Margot.

Whoever was at the door left in a hurry, and James Truman-Conelly took his place back at Peter's side, which made Peter stand up in turn. He had enough.

"Look, it's been great," lied Peter, "with the Clamato and the whatnot. But I'm wasting my time here. And I think you might remember that my time is pretty fucking limited."

"Oh dear!" said Margot, "please don't go. Would you like some coffee? It has a special ingredient."

"It's arsenic," whispered James Truman-Conelly. "Small batch, very artisanal."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Let me see if Mr. Di Martino is free to receive you," said Margot as she scuttled towards the Chairman's door.

Margot opened the door wide open, an opportunity Peter used to see the man behind that whole macabre operation.

Peter expected him to be more impressive than that, but as a general fact, people tend to look less intimidating when hanging from the ceiling with a noose around his neck.

"The Chairman is still on his meeting, could you please come back tomorrow?" said Margot, completely wall-eyed.

Peter realized the puzzle she supposedly completing was actually an Arby's menu.