This is just a thought so if anybody wants to or doesn't want to so be it. Remember when some of us played the Story Game where it was just this fun, non-sequiter story? I thought it might be kind of fun if anyone who wanted to try to come up with a decent story and not something silly. Here are my thoughts as to any type of rules:
You are not limited to writing just one word. Write as much or as little as you want but just try to write a story and not something totally unrelated to what was going on in the previous paragraphs.
There is a very strong possibility that two people will pick up at the same place and write very different scenarios. That's cool and so be it. What I suggest is when that happens, start a new thread and continue on with that story. This way nobody's ideas get omitted and the original story can go in multiple directions. When this does happen, I recommend creating a new thread with the title "Story Game by (the name of the person who took the story a different way)". In this instance, rwingett modified it and, if interested, please follow along his story. The next post will be the entire story up to date:
11:28am. I could never understand why John always conducted his morning meetings in the same manner even after our suggestions? I imagined he felt somewhat threatened by one of his subordinates having a suggestion that could take things a little out of his control. There the five of us would sit, in a glaze as he droned about the expected milestones we were supposed to hit for the first quarter. I gave the impression I was looking at him but I was really looking through him, through the conference room, through the office building, and to the days ahead. I doubt he suspected my disconnectedness....
Suddenly my distracted thoughts were brought back into focus by the furtive movement of Spencer’s hand. That little toady had brazenly taken the last jelly donut from the Krispy Kreme box in the center of the conference table. Now all that was left were the horrid plain donuts which were barely fit to give to the workers out on the shop floor. Damn that Spencer! As soon as John finishes this interminable, droning meeting I’ll fix Spencer’s little red wagon. He’s crossed me for the last time...
"So, if no-one has anything else to add," said John clasping his hands together, "lets get to work shall we?"
And with that he reached down to his seat and picked up his coat, before making his way towards the door. He paused half way to the door and glanced at the doughnuts, his right arm making a preparatory move towards them, before halting and then returning to his side. He looked over at me and raised an eyebrow in a disapproving manner.
"Took the last jelly one eh?" My anger for Spencer would have no end after this, the weasely little, pig-faced, hippo. I grinned somewhat hopelessly and John turned and continued out of the room... "This will work", I thought as I felt the weight of stapler I took off Helen's desk. Helen had been with the others around the breakroom and I would have to make sure to return the stapler, cleaned off of the evidence.
It was strange watching him eat the donut. I think for him it was almost sexual. I could swear I hear Spencer moan with each bite. He waddled through the corridor, engulfing his conquest and shutting out the rest of the outside world. I made sure the stapler was full and kept my distance in my pursuit.... I followed him through Accounts, and prayed that he would turn into the men's restroom. He paused at the corridor that led to the restrooms...then carried on towards Legal.
Damn! When would I get the chance to...I suddenly stopped and took stock of myself. What was I thinking? I was sweating, heart racing, and about to assault a workmate with a stapler. This was pretty far from a normal day for me - was I ill?
This last insult was just the final straw in a cumulation of small and petty slights by the waddling cess pool that is Spencer. Spencer's campaign to undermine me started months ago with a subtle jabs and devious tricks almost like the slow turning of a screw. Nothing anyone would notice mind you, a mysterious flat tire and a key mark down the side of my new Mazda, a large bite taken out of my sandwich in the breakroom fridge, 'lost' critical files for the James Account and worst of all the smug little bastard snatched up the South side window office when Davidson had left for Europe.
Spencer had artfully kept the pressure on, trying to force me out, but, instead forcing me to act swiftly and decisively. I have a long, slow fuse, but this final confrontation had the inevatibility of a freight train, nothing could stop it now. Spencer had mistakenly decided that I was a sheep, easily manipulated and pushed around at his whim. He would soon learn that even sheep have teeth. With the utter conviction of the righteous I firmed my grip on the heavy office stapler, savoring the feel of the plastic and steel in my slightly sweaty hand.
The timing was perfect, most of the floor had left for lunch dead on 11:30 to beat the rush and I almost expected a tumbleweed to blow down the corridor. The silence was deafening. The sound of our muffled foot steps on the carpet accented by the slightly rapid beating of my heart in my ears.
Spencer, with a final moan of satisfaction, had just shoved the last half of the donut into his grotesque piggy mouth. Not ten feet ahead someone had left the Janitors closet open. I quickly shifted into a full out run, grabbed Spencer by the scruff of his neck and the seat of his pants and drove him through the closet door. Spencer's cry of surprise was muffled by the jelly donut he'd jammed into his face as he sprawled onto the floor of the Janitor's neatly ordered domain.
As Spencer struggled to get to his feet I kicked the Janitors mop bucket into the back of his legs dumping its brown contents over his neatly pressed khakis. The mop itself was a weapon of opportunity and still holding the stapler I jammed the mop into Spencer's back like a knights lance.
I quickly shut the Janitor's closet and with only the light coming from under door to guide me I pounced on Spencer driving my knees into his ribs. Grabbing his hair and jamming the stapler up under Spencer's right ear I whisphered to him, "I own you now you pig. One word and I'll end your miserable life."
Spencer frantically spat out the remains of the donut and started to speak, "What! Are you out of your mind! Get off..." I triggered Helen's stapler into the nerve center under Spencer's ear and cut off his scream by shoving a dirty rag into his mouth. "Listen very carefully as I'm only going to say this once you Pig," I whispered, "You've played your games with me long enough. You're going to get cleaned up and this afternoon, you're going to tender your resignation to John. Do you understand?" I pulled the rag from his mouth to await a reply. Spencer squeeled, "Are you insane? I'm not doing anything of the sort." "You will and you'll do it with a smile on your face," I breathed, "Otherwise, I'll be leaving here and picking your daughter Katie up at St. Mary's and introducing her to a blowtorch and some pliers." Spencer started to object and I thrust the stapler up into his mouth effectively putting a stop to his blithering. Savoring the crack of his ribs as my knees pressed into them, I whispered, "Make no mistake you sniveling weasel, I'll burn your life to the ground, I'll take everything from you, your wife, your daughter even your dog. I'll cut your eyes from your head and dump you in the woods. You will do as I say or suffer swift and horrible retribution. Got it?" Spencer nodded his agreement and I got up kicking him in the balls as I did so.
Leaving Spencer huddled in a pool of mop water in the closet I smoothed my slightly rumpled clothes, ran my fingers through my hair and returned Helen's stapler, now wiped clean of any traces of the confrontation. Suddenly I felt as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I spotted James Tiptree, the Senior Design Engineer, at the copier and invited him to lunch, my treat of course....
I am now so engrossed in my violent fantasies that I didn’t even realize John’s meeting had ended and I was back in my cubicle. I heard the unmistakable rumbling of Spencer pass me no doubt to secure another donut. I’ve done this so many times now I often wonder which world I occupy more? I have gotten skillful enough to the point where my mind can enjoy the solace of this world I created while my physical body does what is necessary to survive in the other. When will the two worlds merge? When will I make it happen or ,more accurately, how long before it happens because I am afraid I have no control of either anymore.
"Maybe I should take the rest of the day off and go for a walk in the park or pick up something for dinner to surprise my wife. Yes thats the ticket." I thought to myself. Maybe I'd be able to resist driving by Spencer's daughter Katie's school this time.
A sudden urge to lob a molotov cocktail into Spencer's office surge up inside me. This further firmed my resolve to leave for the day. I made my excuses and took the elevator down to the parking garage. I made it to the Mazda without incident and savoured the new leather smell of the interior as I settled in to the seat. As a gripped the wheel, I found that my hand hurt, almost as if I really had had a death grip on Helen's stapler. I pushed this thought aside, I put the top down, pulled out of the building and headed towards the farmers market. I'd pick up some flowers for Mary and maybe some fresh fish for dinner. With any luck I'd beat Mary home and have everything ready when she showed up.
The farmer's market was a great idea. All the smells and colors were the perfect distraction from a day full of meetings and internal turmoil. I sipped a great cup of coffee as I wandered through the stalls and picked up ingredients. I ended my tour of the market by purchasing a large bouquet of spring flowers for Mary.
Getting back to my car I loaded everything in the trunk went to climb in the drivers side. A flash of red caught my eye as I opened the door. Helen's bright red stapler was sitting accussingly on the passenger seat almost like a bloody cut in the dark tan leather....
Quickly I called the office…..”Spencer Copeland, please”. Only a few hours have passed since I left but I wanted to make sure I heard his voice:
“Hello. You have reached the desk of Spencer Copeland. I am either away from my desk or on another call right now. Please leave your name, number and a detailed message and…”.
I thought I would just go back to the parking garage to see if his car was still there. I didn’t want to go back in the office and it was probably best that I didn’t. His car wasn’t in its normal spot but that doesn’t mean anything. ” What would happen if I went back to my desk?”. I could just say I forgot something and make sure Spencer was still there. I could also possibly return Helen’s stapler...
Best to just put this behind me, ditch the stapler on the way home and have a quite evening with Mary. I'm sure I just subconciously grabbed the stapler on my way out. It wouldn't be the first time I've walked out with office supplies by accident. Helen would just blame the missing stapler on one of the accounting folk, they're constantly thieving from the Engineering department. Anyway, if I really had done something to Spencer it would be best not to be caught with the evidence. "Plus," I laughed to myself, "all he'll have on me is a pair of badly swollen testicles and his word against mine. He'd sound like a raving madman in the face of my shocked denial."
Throwing the stapler into a nearby dumpster and heading for home was somewhat liberating. Home it was, even the drive seemed shorter than usual as I pulled up to the garage. Unfortunately Mary's car was already in the driveway and it looked like she'd beaten me home afterall. My own fault for cruising back by the office.
When I walked in through the front door Mary was standing in the living room, her face ashen and creased with worry. I took a few steps toward her before I saw the two police officers seated on the couch. “Oh, Hank,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve been trying to get in touch with you, but you weren’t at the office.”
I took a long look at the two officers and exclaimed, “What’s all this about? Why are the cops here?” Mary started to say something, but one of the officers cut her short and said, “Why don’t you let us explain, Mrs. Buchanan?” The officer then rose and addressed me, “It seems there was a little trouble at your office today. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” When I didn’t answer right away he continued, “It seems there was a theft there today. We know that you were involved in some sort of altercation and left work early. That timing seems to coincide with the time of the theft. If you have anything to say, Mr. Buchanan, I think it would be in your best interest to come clean.”
I was stunned by how quickly events were unfolding. But surely all this couldn’t be about a silly stapler. Feigning ignorance I asked them what was stolen. The cop paused momentarily, as though having to speak of the crime caused him physical pain. Finally, in a barely audible whisper, he said, “A stapler, Mr. Buchanan. A stapler.”
Great Scott! How could they have found out about that already and traced it to me? I was stunned. Trying to buy some time I questioned why they would worry about a common stapler. Although the cop clearly relished the discomfort I appeared in, he decided he had toyed with me long enough. “It wasn’t just a common stapler, Mr. Buchanan,” He informed me. “Helen Meyer won that stapler in a company raffle twenty years ago. But she wasn’t the first person to own it. No, I’m afraid she wasn’t. Would you like to take a guess at who that stapler once belonged to, Mr. Buchanan?”
My mind was reeling. I could barely breathe. The blood pumped through my veins like hammers beating on anvils. The cop’s question raced through my mind, but I was powerless to speak. The cop took a step toward me. He was taller than me and seemed to hover over me, blocking out the light like some malevolent demon. “That stapler,” he finally said, “originally belonged to Traudl Junge. Not familiar with that name, Mr. Buchanan? Traudl Junge was Hitler’s personal secretary. That stapler was forged in the legendary SS stapler works at Berlin, Germany, shortly before the Red Army overran the the city, in 1945.”
It was all too much. I slumped into an armchair, sweating profusely and distractedly wringing my hands together. I was vaguely aware of Mary pleading with the cop about something. The room began to darken imperceptibly and the sounds became muffled and distant. Traudl Junge’s stapler? Was I dreaming again? I suddenly felt as if I was going to pass out.
Something was tapping me on the shoulder. I came to with a start and realized that I must have blacked out momentarily. It wasn’t a dream. The cop was standing next to me, trying to waken me. “Are you alright, Mr. Buchanan?”, he asked. I gave no answer but sat bolt upright and buried my face in my hands, trying to block him looming visage from view. “Inspector Morris will be here momentarily, Mr. Buchanan, and he’ll be taking over the investigation from then on. I’m sure he’ll have some more questions for you.”
My thoughts raced to the stapler. I had thrown it in the dumpster. I had been certain of it. But now I wasn’t so sure. Had I really thrown it in the dumpster, or did I just imagine it? I seemed to be losing my grip on reality. I didn’t think I could trust myself to discern whether I had actually thrown the stapler away or only dreamt it.
In hardly no time at all there came a loud knocking at the front door. The second cop arose from the sofa to answer it. My back was to the door, but I heard the cop say, “Ah, Inspector Morris, good to have you here.” There was a slight pause before a voice (presumably Morris&rsquo😉 asked, “Where is he?” I turned around slowly and squinted at the portly countenance of Inspector Morris silhouetted against the brightness of the entryway. He took a few steps toward me in a waddling gait before I could get a good look at his face.
Spencer!
Jumpin’ Jehoshephat, how could this be?! Spencer? My mind had ceased to function at this point and was simply unable to process this new information. Spencer waddled up next to me and in an acrimonious voice said, “So, Hank, we meet again. But my name isn’t Spencer at all. It’s Inspector Reginald Morris, of Interpol.”
Spencer...or rather, Reginald, clearly relished having taken me completely by surprise and continued to take the initiative, “That’s right, Hank,” he said, “we’ve been tracking that stapler for years. I infiltrated your company when we found a possible lead in Helen Meyer. We were fairly certain we had found the right stapler and were just about to make the ‘extraction’ when you bungled along and took it out from under us.”
Something sounded awfully fishy here. Having regained a modicum of composure, my thought processes had begun to function again, albeit slowly. In a faltering voice I asked, “But even if this IS the stapler of Hitler’s personal secretary, why would Interpol want to get involved? I don’t get it.”
Reginald glanced over at the two cops for a long moment before answering, “During the war the Allies determined that the staplers produced at the SS stapler works were vital to the German war effort. They figured if they could knock out stapler production, German army staff documents would become disheveled and unorganized. This would in turn seriously hamper the effectiveness of German military operations. So the Allies bombed the stapler factory, but the SS just moved them underground and continued production. The Soviets finally overran Berlin in 1945 and production stopped. Not only is that stapler the last one in existence outside of Russia, but it was the one used by Traudl Junge to staple all the documents issued by the top Nazis.”
I was unimpressed. “So what?”, I retorted, “It’s a very special stapler, perhaps, but it’s still just a stapler. Why is it so important to Interpol? I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Reginald excused himself and had a short conference with the two cops. After apparently having made a decision he returned, “You’re right, Hank,” he continued in a voice tinged with anger, “It’s not just a stapler. Not by a long shot. At the end of the war the Germans were experimenting with all kinds of ‘wonder weapons’ to help turn the tide back in their favor. One of them was the Heftklammerwerfer, developed by Dr. Ferdinand Porsche at the SS staple works. It was a high velocity, armored piercing, staple launcher that showed great military potential while in development. To help keep the project secret they designed it so it would also function as a normal stapler as well. Rumor has it that in between her normal secretarial work, Frau Junge knocked out a Soviet T-34 at a range of 500 yards. Rest assured, Hank, it’s no ordinary stapler.”
I began to lose focus again. My mind drifted back to the earlier part of the day when I had been stalking Spenc...Reginald in the office hallway with the stapler in my hand. If that could knock out a tank at 500 yards, just think what I could have done to Reginald at five paces. I suddenly wanted that stapler back. Had I put it in the dumpster, or hadn’t I?
I wasn’t allowed to enjoy my fantasy for too long before Reginald’s voice brought me back into focus. “That was the only prototype model they made, Hank. The Heftklammerwerfer never reached production before the end of the war. After the war, Eichmann smuggled the prototype to Argentina. When the Mossad nabbed Eichmann all traces of the Heftklammerwerfer were lost. Until now, that is.”
“Which brings us to you, Hank”, Morris eyed me at close range. He studied me and spoke, “I know you would like me to dismiss this as coincidence your pilfering of that stapler and believe me, I would like to. I don’t give you enough credit for being that intelligent but I have been wrong before.” His gaze is interrupted by the ring of his cellphone.
“Yes. No, no. He doesn’t have it and claims to have ‘dumped’ it…..right. Right. We should be there within the half hour. Have everything ready.”
“Come on Hank, don’t make this difficult and I won’t put any cuffs on you.” I thought I could possibly challenge Morris with his immense girth but with the aid of the cops I knew I would be made quick work so I rose and cooperated.
Mary bolted upright, “What the Hell is going on here? All of this over a stapler?” Morris turned to her, “You haven’t been paying attention Mrs.Buchanan, have you? We are taking him for questioning now and should be returned to you in a few hours. Please do not make this anymore difficult.”
“It’s alright honey”, I said. “Everything will be fine.”
The cops briskly hustled me out to the waiting car and shoved me in the back with Morris while they got in the front. It wasn’t a cop car. Maybe it was Morris’ car, I couldn’t tell. On the way to the dumpster Morris’ mood seemed to have improved considerably, he seemed positively giddy with a strange gleam in his eye. “When we have the stapler, Hank,” Morris asserted, “many wrongs will be righted. It will be a time to settle some old scores.” I waited for him to continue, but it seemed as though he felt he had said too much already and remained silent.
Eventually I became aware that we weren’t heading toward the dumpster. We weren’t headed toward the police station either. I was suspicious and began inching my hand toward the door handle. Morris must have noticed because he quickly pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it menacingly at my face. It was unmistakably a P-08 Luger. “I wouldn’t try anything rash if I were you, Hank. Just be a good boy or who knows what might happen.”
“What’s going on here,” I demanded, “where are you taking me?” Morris’ girth jiggled slightly as he chuckled to himself, “You don’t get it, do you, Hank?” Needless to say, I didn’t. Unable to contain himself any further, Morris continued, “No wonder you never got anywhere in the company, Hank. You’re not exactly the brightest banana in the bunch, are you?” I was going to tell him he was mixing his metaphors but thought better of it. “Did you really buy all that crap about the Heftklammerwerfer-thing-a-ma-jig I laid on you back there? I made all that up on the spot.”
Once again I was having difficulty following the plot. “So, what do you mean,” I asked tentatively, “the stapler is really just a stapler?” Morris gave another hearty chuckle, “No, Hank, it isn’t just another stapler. But it’s not an anti-tank weapon. It’s something much, much more powerful than that.” After a malicious pause he continued, “Oh, and Hank? My name really isn’t Inspector Morris, and I’m not from Interpol.”
You’d think I’d start getting used to this kind of stuff by now, but my mind reeled again from this newest revalation. When I was able to speak again I said, “So, what do you mean? You really are Spencer Copeland?” Morris, or Spencer, or whoever he was seemed to tire of my apparent stupidity. Rather sternly he said, “No, you idiot, I’m not Spencer Copeland. That was an alias. So was Reginald Morris. My real name,” here he paused for dramatic effect, “my real name, Hank, is Hermann Goering III.”
With “Goering III”’s gun in my face, I couldn’t really tell where we were going. My mind could not focus but it was just racing with the events of the day: I fantasized about hurting this man early today and now I find he is a descendant of the Third Reich pointing a pistol in my face exclaiming that I had in my possession something very powerful he desperately wanted. I didn’t think it wise to look out the car windows. If he thought I was trying to plan any type of escape he might think it better to get rid of me. Come to think of it, I didn’t understand why he was keeping me alive at all but I also didn’t understand why I was here in the first place.
The driver and Goering exchanged chat in German briefly. When finished, Goering seemed pleased and he said something of the punchline to a joke in German to the “cop” sitting next to him. The two looked at me and laughed. I guessed we have been driving for about an hour or so and I didn’t notice any other cars. I would guess we were on some country road but there wasn’t roads like these anywhere near my house. So even if I had an opportunity to escape, where would I have escaped to? I had no idea where I was.
I have no idea of how much time had passed because I actually fell asleep. This seemed impossible to me that I could sleep with what was happening to me but I do remember it coming on rather sudden. I think I might have been drugged but how? I didn’t ingest anything. Was it a gas? No it couldn’t have been because Goering and the cops were seated directly near me and they were awake. The car was stopped and I felt an arm assisting me.
I couldn’t tell if it was night or day. I could not see the sky and I thought it probably best not to crane my head about. I know I was being closely watched for every movement I made and I didn’t want to give them any reason to suspect anything. With a cop on each shoulder and Goering in front us, we were being led down a long corridor.