After Hours

After Hours

By: Owen Treolo

Bruce Owens sat in the Washington Hills tavern, nursing a beer while taking a drag from his cigarette. It was just past 9 o’clock on a Friday night in late December. The tavern was slow oddly enough, most Fridays were packed with college teenagers, most underage using fake ID’s, and the city businessman who needed a drink to forget the panned up anger from their bosses for slacking on their paperwork or weekly quota’s.  Owen’s was 22, he was single, and working for a local banking firm called B&R. Investing. Majoring in accounting and finance, he was what they called in the wall street world a “connector”.

His bosses were the common rich snobs who gave no regard for the underlings below, bragging to others about their vast wealth and how deathly beautiful their trophy wives were. They never sank down to the middle-class standard of relaxation of venturing to the local watering hole for a drink. Most of the higher ups headed home, popped a bottle of champagne, and screwed for an hour, before lighting up a cigar and watching sports till they fell asleep.

So you can imagine the surprise on Bruce’s face when one of the company heads stumbled in from the cold winter evening into the tavern and slumped into the bar stool next to him. Bruce gave him a once over. He was unshaven, stubble patches here and there across his face, his hair was unkempt, messy white dress shirt with a blue necktie., with a long brown trench coat over top of that. He looked like John Constantine from the cover of one of his comic books.

“Mr.Andrews?” Bruce asked. The man turned and looked over and Bruce, he stared at him for a moment or two, then turned back to face the back wall of the bar. The man motioned for the bartender over. “ Classic Manhattan,” He said slightly slurring his words. “ With an orange twist.” The bartender nodded and turned and started making the drink. The man looked toward Bruce once again, “Make it two.” He said.  

“That's unnecessary Mr. Andrews,” Bruce said.

“Nonsense, call me Stephen, we’re not in the concrete jungle we inhabit 5 days a week,” The man said,

“Sir, with all due respect,” Bruce began. But before he could finish, Stephen had turned and given him a grim look. The bartender placed the drinks in front of them. Stephen picked it, up, and turned towards Bruce.

“To the bastards who make our life a living hell,” Stephen said as he raised the drink, almost laughing. With one swig, the drink was gone.  

Bruce turned to his and took downed it in one gulp.  The burning tingling of the bourbon hit his throat like a bullet train. He had never been a fan of strong drinks, always taking joy in a lite beer after a long week. He wasn't an alcoholic, he never started drinking until he started at B&R. The man he sat next too was part of the reason he had begun to frequent Washington Hills over the last year.

Stephen Andrews, 31, was the head stockbrokers at B&R. Starting at the company at 23, he had quickly become one of the best in the firm. He was hated by most of his underlings. Andrews would often yell at people for taking to long to get someone on the phone or tell them to call faster and be more efficient. Bruce was no exception from Stephens wrath. He would often “educate”  Bruce on how to maintain an efficient pace, when he had actually kept a decent pace throughout the day, until being interrupted by Stephen. Bruce was still unsure why his boss was here. Stephen was married, with kids.

“What brings you here tonight?” Bruce asked. Stephen looked over at him.

“Because I can,” He said with a straight face. “By the way, did you finish your weekly report.”

His weekly report, Bruce forgot. He downs the remaining contents of his beer and grabs his coat.  As he puts it on Stephen begins to laugh. “Just like usual, always forgetting something. Goes along well with your lousy work ethic.” Bruce paid no mind to the comment, making to seem like it didn't phase him. But in fact, he was furious. He had been told his work ethics were sloppy and unprofessional. He was only human, not the superhero type Mega man superstar that everyone in the corporate world is perceived. Bruce finished putting his coat on and started for the door. He stopped and turned around and walked back to Stephen.

“I’ll have your little weekly report within the next hour.” He said with a stern expression. “And I'll personally hand deliver it to you.”

“I look forward to it.” Stephen shot back.

Bruce turned and walked to the door. “And it will be the best damned reported this company has ever seen. The company will never forget it.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Bruce opened the door and walked out.

The short walk back to the B&R offices wasn't a scenic one. The city in which he lived was a steel and concrete jungle, filled with a few odd shops. The main offices were in the standard office building that matched every other building. He walked through the large double doors and to the security desk. The watchman behind the desk was watching basketball on a little TV while packing on the pounds by conquering a mountain of donuts. He looked over at Bruce and waved him in. Bruce walks to the elevator and hits the button wired to take him to floor 7.

As he exited the elevator, Bruce walked the coulombs of desks and cubicles and found his. It was early identical to every other on the floor, the only thing that separated him from the others was a model of an f-16 he had on his desk. Bruce took off his coat and just dropped in on the floor. He sat down in his char, turned his computer on and started typing away. After twenty minutes he printed off a few copies his tho page report. He then started to do something a bit odd. He walked to the supply room, and took an empty box and walked back to his desk. He then started to comb through his desk, putting anything useless into the box.  After about fifteen minutes he had finished. He picked his coat up off the floor and put it on. The last thing he grabbed was a small manila envelope, about 8 inches long. He put the envelope into his jacket, grabbed his box and his report and walked to the elevator.

Bruce took the elevator to the top floor. He walked down the hallways and to the president's office, laying a copy of his report on the desk. He then took the elevator down a floor and put a copy of the report on Stephen’s desk. He rode the elevator down to the main lobby and walked out a back door. He approached a trash compactor and tossed his box of stuff in. Bruce then began his short trip back to Washington Hills tavern.

Bruce walked through the door of the tavern and found Stephen right away. He walked up and handed over the report. A look of surprise came over Stephens' face.

“Well shit,” Stephen remarked. “You actually did it.”

“Why don't you go and read it.”

Stephen began looking it over, his face quickly changed into one of concern and confusion. Scribed across the first page was the title

WHY I KILLED BY BOSS

By: Bruce Owens

By the time Stephen finished half the first page, the sound of rattling glass broke his concentration. he looked up towards Bruce and was staring down the snub-nosed barrel of a .38 caliber Colt Cobra.

“Your time is at an end, Stephen,” Bruce said, inflicting no emotion. “Go ahead, finish it.”

Stephen reads the rest of the report. He looks back up at Bruce. The composure on Bruce's face had not changed at all. Straight and stern as ever.

“I don’t understand?” Stephen questioned.

“For the last six months, I have been at the mercy of your obscene destruction,” Bruce began.  “I have been yelled at, cursed at, been made to feel that I’m replaceable, that my place in the company is so minuscule, that if I did something so bizarre and out of the blue, that no one would bat an eyelash. Well, I'm here to tell you, that claim is pure BULL!”

Bruce puts the pistol back in his pocket. “Man you look like you're gonna piss yourself,” Bruce said with a chuckle. Stephen had his eyes close, kneeling down on the floor with his hand raised over his head cowering in fear. He opened his eyes and looked up. The gun was gone.

Stephen stood up with an immense fire in his eyes.

“ You are done!” Stephen shouted.

Stephen walked to the door. Before his hand reached the doorknob, a shot rang out in the tavern. Stephens body feel, but still alive. Bruce walks over to the body, putting two more rounds into it. What little motion was present before, was now gone. The body lied on there, dead. Bruce then walked behind the bar and picked up the telephone. He died 9-1-1.

“Yes hello,” He said into the receiver. “I’d like to report a murder.” He fired two more shots into Stephens body. “Washington Hills tavern please.” Bruce hung up the phone. Put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.