With his eyes void of emotion and set on the grey door he had walked through for many years, Michael gently pressed the door open. The clammy tips of his fingers left a faint imprint on its painted surface. He calmly but with a force of determination, walked through it. His other hand clasped a long, green sports bag held at arms length, inches from the ground.
The suit he chose to wear, though smart and of designer quality, was not worn well. The shirt on his left side was untucked and his top shirt button undone. He did however have time to put on a colourful tie which clashed somewhat with his smart, brown shoes. It was as if Michael was unsure what impression he was giving or was supposed to give. Michael was confused. This would shortly emerge as an all too common description of his personality traits.
Michael strode quick enough not to arouse any suspicion but not slow enough for it to be possible to engage in any form of verbal communication. Physically, he blended perfectly into the office worker stereotype regarding age and appearance but that was where the similarities ceased to exist.
He proceeded up the stairs to the first floor of the second storey building. He had lost count of the number of times he had done so in the past twelve years. The corridor was empty, except for one figure stood by the water dispensing machine. He immediately knew who it was. David Stimpson from accounts. He was on his mental list, somewhere. Michael had no order of preference or an idea of a total, as long as he got as many as was possible in the time he had, he didn’t care in which order he took them.
Michael was only feet away from David, who noticed him casually undoing the zip on his bag. “Michael! How’s it going? Long time, no….? There was a loud bang. Before he had finished his sentence, Michael had shot him dead at point blank range with a semi-automatic gun. Not even time to voice a scream. Victim number one.
He proceeded left into what was once his shared office. Most of the workers had not heard the shot. They had not even acknowledged his presence, nor noticed his gun, just carried on typing and talking. By the time they did, it was too late. He was indiscriminate. Victim number 2, no.3, 4, 5. He did not aim, just kept his finger on the trigger and moved it from right to left and back again.
Some ran, screaming, some hid. Unfortunately for some, they were too late for any kind of reaction. There was a deathly silence as Michael walked through the office, not even glancing at the bloodied bodies he had created. He then turned into the direction of the manager’s office.
The door still had the same name plate on it. ‘Matthew Coal. Managing director’. He opened it and walked around the desk. He saw his pathetic ex-boss on the floor cowering under his desk with the chair in front of him. He said in a firm, deep voice, “Get out” followed by “drop the phone”. He slowly did as he was told as he knew what would happen if it didn’t. He swung a big punch at Matthew Coal and kicked him several times. “That’s for fucking me around”. As his old boss looked up at him and pleaded with him for his life, he kicked him in the face and shot him in the head.
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