Hal's Hell
They were watching him. Hal knew they were watching him, whether from a camera hidden in the cieling panels or the two way mirror on the wall. Listening devices were surely concealed in the threads of the carpet. Once they're onto you, Hal thought, there is simply no escaping PBS, no way to protect your answers on crossword puzzles.
The air conditioner kicked on. Obviously, a PBS spy had taken the moment to click the metal disc of a stethoscope to the wood of the door, was crouched eye level with the doorknob. If they recorded the sounds of his pencil carefully enough, they'd be able to deduce the strokes the graphite made, to recognize the characters in their words.
Somewhere in the building, Hal realized, there would be a little windowless office lit by a dangling overhead light shielded by a green, funnel shaped shade. At a dinged table in the circle of the light would sit four to six men in brown woolen suits, brown belts, and brown loafers. Each had their own puzzles set on clipboards on the table, each would chew the eraser of the pen until they knew what the answers were.
And it was from the answers that they would deduce the clues.
When they had the clues they would have Hal.
Sweat ran down Hal's temple and dripped from his chin to his lap.
What if they already knew?
Clues lead to motive and method, and with the motive and method they could solve the puzzles without Hal.
He would become expendable, and then one night, he would be expended in his sleep. He already slept in a kevlar vest, a motor cycle helmet, and metal shanks that he'd stolen from the British Museum of Medieval History.
The tip of Hal's pencil broke writing a five letter word for a green salad vegetable.
Hal screamed.
Footsteps thudded down the hall, and two PBS men aiming nine millimeter pistols with silencers screwed onto the barrels kicked in the door wearing navy blue jumpsuits.
Hal took two to the chest, two to the head. He was knocked back out of his seat, the chair fell over.
The PBS men stepped to either side of Hal's body.
"You messed up, Hal," the one on his right said.
"You messed up big," the other said.
Muzzles flashed over and over, and Hal's gurgled breaths stopped. His foot twitched.
On the way out of the room, one of the PBS men snatched Hal's puzzle off the table.
"We have the clues now," he said.
"Damn straight," the other said.
The door closed, locked, and the sound of hammers reverberated in the room as the PBS team nailed the door shut.
By the next morning, plaster coated the entry, and it would be less than a month before everyone forgot that Hal's office had ever existed.
The air conditioner kicked on. Obviously, a PBS spy had taken the moment to click the metal disc of a stethoscope to the wood of the door, was crouched eye level with the doorknob. If they recorded the sounds of his pencil carefully enough, they'd be able to deduce the strokes the graphite made, to recognize the characters in their words.
Somewhere in the building, Hal realized, there would be a little windowless office lit by a dangling overhead light shielded by a green, funnel shaped shade. At a dinged table in the circle of the light would sit four to six men in brown woolen suits, brown belts, and brown loafers. Each had their own puzzles set on clipboards on the table, each would chew the eraser of the pen until they knew what the answers were.
And it was from the answers that they would deduce the clues.
When they had the clues they would have Hal.
Sweat ran down Hal's temple and dripped from his chin to his lap.
What if they already knew?
Clues lead to motive and method, and with the motive and method they could solve the puzzles without Hal.
He would become expendable, and then one night, he would be expended in his sleep. He already slept in a kevlar vest, a motor cycle helmet, and metal shanks that he'd stolen from the British Museum of Medieval History.
The tip of Hal's pencil broke writing a five letter word for a green salad vegetable.
Hal screamed.
Footsteps thudded down the hall, and two PBS men aiming nine millimeter pistols with silencers screwed onto the barrels kicked in the door wearing navy blue jumpsuits.
Hal took two to the chest, two to the head. He was knocked back out of his seat, the chair fell over.
The PBS men stepped to either side of Hal's body.
"You messed up, Hal," the one on his right said.
"You messed up big," the other said.
Muzzles flashed over and over, and Hal's gurgled breaths stopped. His foot twitched.
On the way out of the room, one of the PBS men snatched Hal's puzzle off the table.
"We have the clues now," he said.
"Damn straight," the other said.
The door closed, locked, and the sound of hammers reverberated in the room as the PBS team nailed the door shut.
By the next morning, plaster coated the entry, and it would be less than a month before everyone forgot that Hal's office had ever existed.
The End
posted by Andrew Najberg at 1:38 PM
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