Bubble's Bad Day
Part One - Waterfall
of Pain
Bubble sat in his lifeless
gray cube staring at the meaningless images on his state-of-the-art computer
screen. His pudgy nervous fingers leaned haphazardly on the keyboard,
executing no command.
Bubble's mind was not on his
work, you see. Rather, his troubled thoughts swam naked through a sea
of roiling psychological turmoil, dodging the hungry mental sharks that
threatened to destroy the eternally troubled and unhappy man.
His eyes unnaturally narrowed
as his anxiety-ridden digestive tract clenched and unclenched in spasms
of horrific pain. The spasms continued unabated as multicolored neurons
fired uncontrollably in his clouded thoughts. Images of broken dreams
and unfulfilled promise swept Bubble away, over a waterfall of imagined
terror.
So occupied, Bubble did not
feel the presence of Bossman, who had been standing next to the formerly
productive but recently burnt out employee.
"Bubble!" stated
the Bossman firmly, louder than before. The noise shook Bubble from his
revery of self-abuse.
Part Two - River of
Anger
Bubble stood up suddenly, his
arms flying this way and that in bitter anger at this intrusion. "What
the fuck do you want!" he demanded, all eyes and ears now on the
growing conflagration in their cubicled midst.
Bossman frowned. "I want
to see you in my office, NOW!" and he turned on his heel.
The rivulets of anguish pouring
uncontrollably inside Bubble's tortured mind overflowed at that moment,
made evident by Bubble's loud retort. "I don't care WHAT you want,
ASS!"
Bossman turned around, about
to ask the age-old parental question, "What did you just say?"
but as he opened his grimacing maw to speak, Bubble's shaking fist propelled
itself into Bossman's face, breaking his nose with a loud CRUNCH.
All attempts at self-control
now fled Bubble, chased away by angry demons eager to ply their violent
trade. Bossman cursed as blood flowed between fingers that clutched his
own broken ailing nose. "Why you-"
Bossman never finished his
sentence. Bubble, in his growing rage, grabbed the first object within
his bloated grasp, which happened to be the keyboard sitting idle in front
of his computer. Bubble swung the keyboard, giving it a new and more satisfying
purpose, striking Bossman once, twice, thrice in the side of his head.
Heaving, enraged, Bubble stood
over the faltering Bossman, whose world of power and ego had been toppled
in mere seconds. The side of the keyboard that struck the evil manager's
head was chipped and spotted with blood. Bubble kicked at Bossman now,
his flighty neurons firing mental explosions of bitter rage.
"Ummph, uhg, no,"
whimpered the beaten Bossman, but Bubble gave no indication that he heard
the man's cries for mercy.
"I wanna see you in MY
office!" Bubble shouted, swinging the keyboard again, this time pulling
the rest of the computer off his desk in a loud crash. "MY
office, MY office," he yelled, tears of rage filling his eyes as
the keyboard did its master's vengeful dirty work.
Murmured voices now crept into
Bubble's hearing. "Help" and "police" were the only
words he heard. His automatic survival instinct now kicked into high gear
and he dropped the keyboard on the bloody bossman, now silent and barely
breathing.
"Gotta get outta here,"
mumbled Bubble. He grabbed his briefcase and ran out of the office.
Part Three - Ocean
of Helping Hands
Bubble tore out of the building
that housed his soon to be former employers. That ratbastard Bossman got
what he deserved, he told himself.
Racing through he parking lot
as fast as his out of shape bulk would carry him, the sweaty panicked
Bubble found his precious Bubblemobile, unlocked it with shaking hands,
then laboriously loaded his angst-ridden bloate into the driver's seat.
He absently threw the now-useless briefcase into a backseat littered with
baby and toddler artifacts of varying function and odor.
"Gotta call Shmolnick,"
thought Bubble as drove hurriedly out of the lot on squealing tires. "He'll
know what to do."
He fumbled in his shirt pocket
for his cell phone and narrowly missed a cursing old woman who had carelessly
walked into the path of the Bubblemobile. Making his way through the city
streets, Bubble breathed a sigh of relief as he turned onto the highway
that would lead him to freedom. Even as he made the turn, he began to
hear sirens in the background.
"Oh shit," he said,
punching the cell phone keypad to dial his oldest and dearest friend Shmolnick's
phone number.
Shmolnick, who had been unemployed
for several months, had just won the Powerball lottery and was laughingly
enjoying his newfound wealth. Lighting his third blunt of the day, Shmolnick
heard the phone ring. "God dammit, who's bothering me now?"
he complained and reached across his new luxurious black leather sofa
to pick up his cell phone.
"Dude, I'm in big trouble,"
came the frantic voice of his pal Bubble.
"Hey man, what's up? I'm
just about to light my third doob of the day, dude," Shmolnick giggled
into the phone.
"I think I just killed
my boss, dude. I need your help."
"Jeez man, what the fuck?"
answered Shmolnick. He was not surprised; in fact, he'd been advising
his anxious friend for months to quit that abusive job and go into business
with him. He knew that Bubble was on the edge and it was only a matter
of time until he totally lost it and did something stupid. "I told
you man," counseled Shmolnick.
"What do I do. dude?
Cops are after me!" Bubble's voice sounded strained, like he was
close to tears.
"Shit man, you can't come
here! I'm not harboring a fugitive." Shmolnick took a drag from the
blunt and reached over to grab the TV remote control. Spongebob Squarepants
was about to begin.
"I don't know what to
do!! HELP MEEEEEE!" cried Bubble on the phone.
"Dude, tell you what.
Look at this as an opportunity to start fresh. Go home and wait for the
cops. I'll call my brother, he'll be happy to represent you at your trial.
Uh, I gotta go." Shmolnick hung up and focused on the television
screen, forgetting all about his troubled pal
Conclusion: Bubble
Butterfly
Bubble had been driving his
Bubblemobile from the scene of the horrific
crime, a crime which threatened to undo the very fabric of Bubble's tenuous
existence.
But the view of the highway
and sounds of the police sirens began to merge
into a formless bundless of imagery in Bubble's rattled brain. The slope
of
the road grew hazy and indistinct; the lines of the scenery, once sharp,
were now soft and fluttery.
The image of fluttery butterfly
wings surprised Bubble, and he smiled. The
butterflies took on the appearance of small flying rainbows, leaving color
trails behind as they flew smiling before the frazzled bloate of a man.
He reached out for them and
the steering wheel of the car vanished into a
puff of blue smoke. Butterflies alit on his fat fingers; he was awestruck.
The panic that had so recently consumed him faded to wonderment. In spite
of
himself, he smiled.
The butterflies began calling
his name, "Bubble, Bubble" and beckoned him to join them. Bubble giggled and flapped his arms; the car became air. He
flew with the butterflies, marvelling at the colortrail that seemed to follow
him unheeded.
"I'm flying!" he
laughed, soaring through the clouds, their puffy pillows lending his addled brain a softness he'd never known. Another butterfly, unseen, began calling him in a high-pitched wail. "Bubble, Bubble"
it
wailed, and suddenly the wonderment was in jeopardy of fleeing.
Bubble looked down from his
lofty height and saw the ground fast approaching. His smiled turned to a frown as he realized the other butterflies had fled, left him to his fate.
"No, no come back!"
he pleaded, but the wailing of that distant butterfly grew stronger, higher, louder, until it became a siren.
"OOF!" he yelped
and let his tired bloate absorb the pain of the hard
pavement. He tried flapping his wings but he could no longer fly. Looking down at his own body, it appeared long and segmented, like a caterpillar. What was happening?
The sheer folly of it all put
a smile to his face. Then everthing went dark.
The heavyset nurse put the
syringe on the medical cart and quietly left the room shaking her head. Shmolnick and the Doctor sat facing Bubble,
who
was clad in a green hospital gown, his wrists and ankles strapped to the wheelchair. A blank look stared out at something that only Bubble could
see,
a bemused smile frozen on his sagging face.
"He's been like this for
weeks, Doc. No chance at all for a recovery?" Shmolnick asked, tsk-tsking at his friend's condition.
"I'm afraid not, Shmolnick.
Quite peculiar though. His coworkers said he
just stopped moving one day at his desk at work. Very strange." The
Doctor
stood up and prepared to leave.
"Oh well, at least I get
all his stuff," thought Shmolnick.
