Cutthroat Business
Maximilian K. Gehring
The man stood in front of me held a knife. The cold steel glittered menacingly in the moonlight.
“How often do you think about your index finger, do you think?”
I looked up at the man. He was tall and undeniably handsome; it was clear that he cared very much about how he presented himself. Hugo Boss business suit, Rolex on the wrist. Hell, even his knife was name brand. Tacky, sure, but I was not going to tell that to the man holding me at knifepoint.
“ One day, my index finger was just gone. I woke up and… poof! Gone, like smoke. It was weird to get used to at first. I mean, who really expects part of their body to just vanish over night? You can’t really plan for these sorts of things, it’s just not possible. So here I was, just sitting in my bed with a finger missing. I’m gonna be completely honest, I panicked a bit. Embarrassing I know I know, but you try waking up to part of your body missing and not overreact about it! Heck, and index finger is no small thing. You can do a lot with an index finger. Missing one is absolutely a problem no matter how you look at it.”
The blade danced along the man’s fingers as he gestured idly. It would have been an impressive sight, had I not been more concerned about my life rapidly approaching a particularly brutal and gruesome end. The man continued on.
“The one good thing about all of this was that this was back in February or so and I was able to wear gloves. This city is cold as hell, so nobody bats an eye if you wear gloves day in and day out. Most people don’t notice a lot of things that go on around em, learned that too. Anyways, I still had the issue of having to deal with not having an index finger. I can only imagine what HR would do to me if they figured out that I was missing a pretty darn important part of my hand. They’ve canned people for less, heck they gave Victor the boot for not having matching laces on his shoes. Brutal, but it is a cutthroat business after all. Can’t really tolerate people being out of sorts in this line of work. Spreadsheet making is no joke! One small slip could ruin everything and cost people millions.”
With a deft flick of his wrist, the man throws the knife up and over his head before catching it one handed with his other hand. How the hell he did not cut himself doing this I have no clue, but he just goes back to playing and twiddling with his kitchen knife as if it was made of plastic. I’m not sure whether I am more impressed with his skill or lack of discernible care for his own well-being.
“Thankfully, I’m a pretty resourceful guy. I just grabbed a stick and shoved it into the place where my index finger should have gone, and that was that. Looked legit enough to anyone not really paying attention, and would at least kinda hold up while shaking hands with people. The subway was pretty much packed as it usually was but that just meant that there was even less of a chance that someone would notice my fake finger. Gave me time to think about my spreadsheets, yknow? Gotta plan out the best way to be efficient and optimize things, especially now that I was down a finger. The office was in a similar state, all manner of people running around panicking. Apparently, some fool had accidentally put a letter where a number should have gone in his spreadsheet and accidentally set fire to an elementary school. From what I heard the place pretty much just spontaneously combusted as soon as his work was submitted, absolutely crazy. Me personally, I would never be in a situation like that cause my spreadsheets are perfect. I just smirked and got to work after sitting down at my desk. Typing up spreadsheets is difficult without an index finger, but by some miracle I was able to manage. I was able to just about finish my index table by the time work ended, so I clocked out and went back on the subway. While standing around I saw some little punk just there all by himself standing next to the edge of the platform. See, the reason this kid pissed me off is cause I had known what sins he had committed. Little brat had the audacity to scoff at the importance of spreadsheets when he toured our office with his elementary class a couple years back. Time had given him some height and a fair bit of weight, but I still remember that gaudy and tacky piece of trash that he dared to call a sweatshirt. His unprofessionalism, even as a 3rd grade elementary student irked me to no end. I know in my heart that that kid was going to be a slacker. He was destined to be out on the streets, begging and moaning for someone to save them with their impeccable spreadsheets. Well, I wouldn’t let him get the chance!”
The man angrily clenched the hilt of his knife, knuckles going white from force. I thought that he genuinely might shatter the handle with the way the fancy plastic was disformed from his strength. I could almost swear I saw the very metal of the blade become warped as well. Veins throbbing in his forehead, the businessman talked with more emotion in his voice than I had heard all night. Like liquid gold, words flowed freely from his mouth in beautiful and intricate ways as he described how he dealt with the elementary student.
“When I shoved that little waste of space in front of the subway train though, I realized something. When he got decimated by the subway train, I got my index finger back. And what was even better was that it was a better index finger than before! Not any of this weak pansy crap, this was a grade A finger right here. It was strong, had wonderful dexterity, perfect control over every movement it made. It was a masterpiece. When I say that I drooled thinking about how efficient my spreadsheet making capabilities were going to be, I am fully telling the truth. I had to wipe a glob of spit off my blazer from how excited I was about my new index finger. Of course the stick was still in the glove so that felt absolutely awful, but I had gotten an index finger back. That is what mattered most. Naturally, I had to see just how far this went. If killing one little brat with a small little shove in front of a train made me this much better, what would happen if I started killing other people?”
The man stood for a moment, thinking pensively as he rapidly juggled an additional three knives along with the now deformed branded kitchen knife. I genuinely do not know where the other knives came from. I think they literally just appeared from thin air to make the spectacle work. He was just that kind of man, capable of making anything possible.
“The first one I really tried was with this old lady I saw at the supermarket. She was just waddling along trying to pick up her groceries, totally oblivious to the world around her. It was a perfect moment to strike. I threw a watermelon at her head, and she was dead on the spot. I think the fruit-based trauma was enough to kill her before she even hit the floor. Police ruled it a freak accident. I have no clue how the hell they made that decision given that the watermelon pile was a good 70 feet behind her and around a corner when I threw it at her but screw it I’m not gonna question things. That little experiment made my left big toe a little bit stronger. I could now raise my body up maybe an inch just off that toe alone. I remember getting home and doing toe-ups as I tried to test the limits of my new body. My toe was absolutely jacked, utterly insane. It was perfect. Not really helpful for spreadsheets though, which was a bit of an issue. How the heck was I supposed to make my big toe help me with my spreadsheet efficiency? It just does not make any darn sense. I then made the only rational choice that I could, and decided to burn down an orphanage.”
The man was now doing even more batshit things with his kitchen knives, and was somehow throwing them in a way that they came back like a boomerang. None of this makes any fucking sense, how the hell was this dude able to so grossly violate the laws of physics while staring at me with such flawless, beautiful eyes? He never broke eye contact and yet so deftly caught the flying blade with his free hand. He flipped the blade with his hand before easily holding it by the tip of the knife’s blade, perfectly balanced between his fingers.
“Do you remember the Charlseton Home for Wayward Boys and Vagrants that burnt down a year or so ago? That was me. It was honestly really easy to do, I just bought a bottle of whiskey and a rag and lit it on fire before throwing it through a window. Apparently, I managed to hit the generator room. Talk about luck! Turns out, there are a lot of diesel fumes in a generator room. I don’t know why that place had it’s own generator, it was hooked up to the county supply grid. Maybe they just wanted to teach kids how to handle heavy machinery? I dunno. Point of the matter is, everything in that place was absolutely permeated with atomized diesel fumes. Whole place went up like a box of matches. I heard them all screaming. They cried and begged for their lives, and I just watched. It was absolutely euphoric. I could feel myself grow stronger, taller, faster, better as I heard each voice go quiet. Each life that got burnt to a crisp in that dumb hayloft of a building made me just that little bit stronger and more efficient. More optimized. I was no longer merely a spreadsheet man. Nay, I was approaching spreadsheet nirvana. I was becoming the Holy Incarnation of Spreadsheet Making itself. I was a god amongst men, a born master of numbers and Excel programs, destined to rule over them all. I was perfect. Flawless. Unstoppable. Except not quite. I may be the fastest, strongest, and most efficient human being to have ever lived, but there is still improvements to be made. I am nowhere near flawless yet, and you are going to help me get there. Your sacrifice to me will give me the boost I need to reach a new level of human development. I need your flesh and blood to make myself whole, to make myself perfect. So I’m going to kill you now. Good bye, kid. My spreadsheets will thank you for your making them even more flawless.”
With that final statement, the man thrust the kitchen knife into me. It pierced clean through my body and out through my spine, stabbing clean into the building behind me. The force of the impact cracked the aging concrete foundation, toppling the apartment complex that I had been pinned to. The man’s eyes went wide, and he quickly pulled the knife from my dying body. The simple act of removing the knife tore an even greater hole through both me and the foundation, ripping a decent part of the neighboring sidewalk asunder. As my life faded out as blood poured from my wound, I heard the man say one last word as my vision went dark.
“…Oops.”
“How often do you think about your index finger, do you think?”
I looked up at the man. He was tall and undeniably handsome; it was clear that he cared very much about how he presented himself. Hugo Boss business suit, Rolex on the wrist. Hell, even his knife was name brand. Tacky, sure, but I was not going to tell that to the man holding me at knifepoint.
“ One day, my index finger was just gone. I woke up and… poof! Gone, like smoke. It was weird to get used to at first. I mean, who really expects part of their body to just vanish over night? You can’t really plan for these sorts of things, it’s just not possible. So here I was, just sitting in my bed with a finger missing. I’m gonna be completely honest, I panicked a bit. Embarrassing I know I know, but you try waking up to part of your body missing and not overreact about it! Heck, and index finger is no small thing. You can do a lot with an index finger. Missing one is absolutely a problem no matter how you look at it.”
The blade danced along the man’s fingers as he gestured idly. It would have been an impressive sight, had I not been more concerned about my life rapidly approaching a particularly brutal and gruesome end. The man continued on.
“The one good thing about all of this was that this was back in February or so and I was able to wear gloves. This city is cold as hell, so nobody bats an eye if you wear gloves day in and day out. Most people don’t notice a lot of things that go on around em, learned that too. Anyways, I still had the issue of having to deal with not having an index finger. I can only imagine what HR would do to me if they figured out that I was missing a pretty darn important part of my hand. They’ve canned people for less, heck they gave Victor the boot for not having matching laces on his shoes. Brutal, but it is a cutthroat business after all. Can’t really tolerate people being out of sorts in this line of work. Spreadsheet making is no joke! One small slip could ruin everything and cost people millions.”
With a deft flick of his wrist, the man throws the knife up and over his head before catching it one handed with his other hand. How the hell he did not cut himself doing this I have no clue, but he just goes back to playing and twiddling with his kitchen knife as if it was made of plastic. I’m not sure whether I am more impressed with his skill or lack of discernible care for his own well-being.
“Thankfully, I’m a pretty resourceful guy. I just grabbed a stick and shoved it into the place where my index finger should have gone, and that was that. Looked legit enough to anyone not really paying attention, and would at least kinda hold up while shaking hands with people. The subway was pretty much packed as it usually was but that just meant that there was even less of a chance that someone would notice my fake finger. Gave me time to think about my spreadsheets, yknow? Gotta plan out the best way to be efficient and optimize things, especially now that I was down a finger. The office was in a similar state, all manner of people running around panicking. Apparently, some fool had accidentally put a letter where a number should have gone in his spreadsheet and accidentally set fire to an elementary school. From what I heard the place pretty much just spontaneously combusted as soon as his work was submitted, absolutely crazy. Me personally, I would never be in a situation like that cause my spreadsheets are perfect. I just smirked and got to work after sitting down at my desk. Typing up spreadsheets is difficult without an index finger, but by some miracle I was able to manage. I was able to just about finish my index table by the time work ended, so I clocked out and went back on the subway. While standing around I saw some little punk just there all by himself standing next to the edge of the platform. See, the reason this kid pissed me off is cause I had known what sins he had committed. Little brat had the audacity to scoff at the importance of spreadsheets when he toured our office with his elementary class a couple years back. Time had given him some height and a fair bit of weight, but I still remember that gaudy and tacky piece of trash that he dared to call a sweatshirt. His unprofessionalism, even as a 3rd grade elementary student irked me to no end. I know in my heart that that kid was going to be a slacker. He was destined to be out on the streets, begging and moaning for someone to save them with their impeccable spreadsheets. Well, I wouldn’t let him get the chance!”
The man angrily clenched the hilt of his knife, knuckles going white from force. I thought that he genuinely might shatter the handle with the way the fancy plastic was disformed from his strength. I could almost swear I saw the very metal of the blade become warped as well. Veins throbbing in his forehead, the businessman talked with more emotion in his voice than I had heard all night. Like liquid gold, words flowed freely from his mouth in beautiful and intricate ways as he described how he dealt with the elementary student.
“When I shoved that little waste of space in front of the subway train though, I realized something. When he got decimated by the subway train, I got my index finger back. And what was even better was that it was a better index finger than before! Not any of this weak pansy crap, this was a grade A finger right here. It was strong, had wonderful dexterity, perfect control over every movement it made. It was a masterpiece. When I say that I drooled thinking about how efficient my spreadsheet making capabilities were going to be, I am fully telling the truth. I had to wipe a glob of spit off my blazer from how excited I was about my new index finger. Of course the stick was still in the glove so that felt absolutely awful, but I had gotten an index finger back. That is what mattered most. Naturally, I had to see just how far this went. If killing one little brat with a small little shove in front of a train made me this much better, what would happen if I started killing other people?”
The man stood for a moment, thinking pensively as he rapidly juggled an additional three knives along with the now deformed branded kitchen knife. I genuinely do not know where the other knives came from. I think they literally just appeared from thin air to make the spectacle work. He was just that kind of man, capable of making anything possible.
“The first one I really tried was with this old lady I saw at the supermarket. She was just waddling along trying to pick up her groceries, totally oblivious to the world around her. It was a perfect moment to strike. I threw a watermelon at her head, and she was dead on the spot. I think the fruit-based trauma was enough to kill her before she even hit the floor. Police ruled it a freak accident. I have no clue how the hell they made that decision given that the watermelon pile was a good 70 feet behind her and around a corner when I threw it at her but screw it I’m not gonna question things. That little experiment made my left big toe a little bit stronger. I could now raise my body up maybe an inch just off that toe alone. I remember getting home and doing toe-ups as I tried to test the limits of my new body. My toe was absolutely jacked, utterly insane. It was perfect. Not really helpful for spreadsheets though, which was a bit of an issue. How the heck was I supposed to make my big toe help me with my spreadsheet efficiency? It just does not make any darn sense. I then made the only rational choice that I could, and decided to burn down an orphanage.”
The man was now doing even more batshit things with his kitchen knives, and was somehow throwing them in a way that they came back like a boomerang. None of this makes any fucking sense, how the hell was this dude able to so grossly violate the laws of physics while staring at me with such flawless, beautiful eyes? He never broke eye contact and yet so deftly caught the flying blade with his free hand. He flipped the blade with his hand before easily holding it by the tip of the knife’s blade, perfectly balanced between his fingers.
“Do you remember the Charlseton Home for Wayward Boys and Vagrants that burnt down a year or so ago? That was me. It was honestly really easy to do, I just bought a bottle of whiskey and a rag and lit it on fire before throwing it through a window. Apparently, I managed to hit the generator room. Talk about luck! Turns out, there are a lot of diesel fumes in a generator room. I don’t know why that place had it’s own generator, it was hooked up to the county supply grid. Maybe they just wanted to teach kids how to handle heavy machinery? I dunno. Point of the matter is, everything in that place was absolutely permeated with atomized diesel fumes. Whole place went up like a box of matches. I heard them all screaming. They cried and begged for their lives, and I just watched. It was absolutely euphoric. I could feel myself grow stronger, taller, faster, better as I heard each voice go quiet. Each life that got burnt to a crisp in that dumb hayloft of a building made me just that little bit stronger and more efficient. More optimized. I was no longer merely a spreadsheet man. Nay, I was approaching spreadsheet nirvana. I was becoming the Holy Incarnation of Spreadsheet Making itself. I was a god amongst men, a born master of numbers and Excel programs, destined to rule over them all. I was perfect. Flawless. Unstoppable. Except not quite. I may be the fastest, strongest, and most efficient human being to have ever lived, but there is still improvements to be made. I am nowhere near flawless yet, and you are going to help me get there. Your sacrifice to me will give me the boost I need to reach a new level of human development. I need your flesh and blood to make myself whole, to make myself perfect. So I’m going to kill you now. Good bye, kid. My spreadsheets will thank you for your making them even more flawless.”
With that final statement, the man thrust the kitchen knife into me. It pierced clean through my body and out through my spine, stabbing clean into the building behind me. The force of the impact cracked the aging concrete foundation, toppling the apartment complex that I had been pinned to. The man’s eyes went wide, and he quickly pulled the knife from my dying body. The simple act of removing the knife tore an even greater hole through both me and the foundation, ripping a decent part of the neighboring sidewalk asunder. As my life faded out as blood poured from my wound, I heard the man say one last word as my vision went dark.
“…Oops.”
Maximilian Gehring is a cadet at New Mexico Military Institute. He is pursuing an Associate's degree in History, and will graduate in Spring of 2024.