Dial M for McKinley

Dipping my toe into microfiction. This story was inspired by a character I encountered many years ago. It is pure fantasy, the revenge you dream of but you know will never happen, obvs. Enjoy (hopefully).

If you have a difficult client that just won’t pay, dial M for Mckinley…

“I’ll never ppaayyyy!” shrieked Joe. It was the sort of shriek that could cut through polite conversation, reinforced steel and the hopes and dreams of men. He flipped the phone to his good side. “You’ll do it for free or I’ll take my money elsewhere” he shrilled. Victory was his.

“Ok, Joe. You win again” said the dismembered voice on the other end of the phone.

“You win again…” trilled the cocksure Joe, the Bee Gees being his go-to band.

The voice cut in. “Tell McKinley I said hi”.

And with that, the line went dead.

The tone bleeped coldly for a short while before Joe replaced the receiver. He stood up and started to dance, slowly but surely. His hips began to gyrate, quite naturally, as he’d done this dance before. He brought the routine to a close with a little light groin thrusting. He always did. He high-fived nobody in particular and retook his seat. He reached for his journal, where he recorded such victories. Quietness descended. A nagging doubt surfaced. Was the room beginning to shrink, he thought? Fear slowly squeezed his heart. He became aware of his own breathing. He held his breath. The breathing continued.

“McKinley?” whispered Joe.

“Yes” came the soft reply. McKinley stepped out of the shadows. His calmness filled the room. This was no happy hippy calm. This was the special kind of calm that very violent men have. That calm that says ‘I will fuck you up’.

Joe gulped.

McKinley smiled.

“What do you want?” squeaked Joe, losing his bluster by the millisecond.

“Your balls in the drawer,” said McKinley in a voice that could stop traffic, hearts, time, and bullshit.

“Eek!”

“Dues, Joe, have not been paid. That just won’t do”

“I’ll do anything. McKinley. Anything”

“Balls! In! The! Drawer!” barked Mckinley. Each word cracked like gunfire — to Joe at least.

“I’ll pay. I’ll pay. Take my money, it’s in the safe. Take all of it!”

“Too late for that. Now, Joe, if you could strip from the waist down, while I remove these soft-close slides off this here filing cabinet.”

McKinley knelt down. “Forgive the sins of my hands, Lord” he whispered. Joe passed out. He slid down his chair.

“Probably for the best,” said McKinley before launching a glorious, bloodcurdling practice slam.

BANG, went the drawer.

BANG. BANG. BANG.