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Core Values
Core Values (Lexington Avenue Express - Short Fiction)
The rotund morgue attendant grunted as he heaved the heavy metal pan from his hip. It flopped noisily on the autopsy table and he paused there for a moment, both hands resting on the edge of the cool surface.
"The cops thought SERVICE was a pipe bomb so they really botched it up," Round-Man grinned, gazing down at the covered contents of the tray.
"What do you mean, SERVICE?" the skinny young attendant asked, his tone nervous as he averted his eyes, pretending to adjust the overhead lights in anticipation of the coroner's arrival. The younger man had only been on the job for a few days. The tattoo on his forearm proudly displayed his affection for Metallica.
Leaning there with an air of superiority, the round, reddish attendant exhaled deeply through his nostrils, discharging a speck of dried mucus that landed on the edge of the table. He absently brushed the crusty projectile away with his pudgy fingertips before turning toward Metallica.
"The first pipe had the word SERVICE wrote on it,” Round-Man said. “After the bomb guys x-rayed the pipe, they removed one of the end caps and spilled the contents out on a table in the crime lab. Made a hell of a mess!" he snorted laughter. "I froze this one solid before I took the caps off."
With the theatrical flair of a master magician, Round-Man whisked away the green surgical drape and proudly unveiled his masterpiece. The long stainless steel pan on the autopsy table contained two items. The first was a three-foot length of iron pipe with the single word QUALITY painted along its length by crude brush-stroke. Parallel to the pipe, shifting slightly as it floated on its own thawing essence, was an oozing, thirty-six inch cylinder of pulverized brain, flesh, and bone. Both items sweated condensation beneath the hot lights of the autopsy table.
"I used a propane torch to heat the pipe once it was froze-up real good, that way, I could push it out in one long piece. Kinda' looks like a blood sausage, don't it?" Round-Man grinned evilly then he barked laughter as Metallica wretched and ran from the room.
*****
Building E-2 had once served as Carlyle Exploration Services training center. Nearly fifteen stories high, E-2 resembled a grain silo but inside, protected from the harsh Oklahoma weather, stood a full-scale drilling rig.
In the early eighties, E-2 had been state-of-the-art, the latest in casing repair and recovery technology. Carlyle's specialty had been knuckle joint fishing equipment used to recover lost pipe and tools from deep in the bowels of an open hole. Now, empty for more than a decade, E-2 was a crumbling metal-hulk, inhabited only by the coyotes, wild-pigs, rats, and rattlesnakes hearty enough to survive the rural Oklahoma landscape.
Carlyle Exploration had prospered for nearly forty years but then Mr. Carlyle died and his sons took control of the company. The three boys did not share their father's passion for the oil industry, preferring trips to New York or the Cayman Islands on the company’s business jet. Within months, Carlyle had a new board of directors and in less than a year, the company’s assets were sold to a Houston-based competitor and the small Oklahoma plant was closed. The seventy-four people who had devoted their lives to Carlyle were thanked for their years of loyal service and given … two-weeks of severance pay.
On a sweltering August afternoon, Michael Carlyle, former Vice-President of Carlyle Exploration sat blindfolded, tied to a tall, straight-back chair in Building E-2; his older brother and former Carlyle CFO had been seated in the very same spot five days earlier.
The rotund morgue attendant grunted as he heaved the heavy metal pan from his hip. It flopped noisily on the autopsy table and he paused there for a moment, both hands resting on the edge of the cool surface.
"The cops thought SERVICE was a pipe bomb so they really botched it up," Round-Man grinned, gazing down at the covered contents of the tray.
"What do you mean, SERVICE?" the skinny young attendant asked, his tone nervous as he averted his eyes, pretending to adjust the overhead lights in anticipation of the coroner's arrival. The younger man had only been on the job for a few days. The tattoo on his forearm proudly displayed his affection for Metallica.
Leaning there with an air of superiority, the round, reddish attendant exhaled deeply through his nostrils, discharging a speck of dried mucus that landed on the edge of the table. He absently brushed the crusty projectile away with his pudgy fingertips before turning toward Metallica.
"The first pipe had the word SERVICE wrote on it,” Round-Man said. “After the bomb guys x-rayed the pipe, they removed one of the end caps and spilled the contents out on a table in the crime lab. Made a hell of a mess!" he snorted laughter. "I froze this one solid before I took the caps off."
With the theatrical flair of a master magician, Round-Man whisked away the green surgical drape and proudly unveiled his masterpiece. The long stainless steel pan on the autopsy table contained two items. The first was a three-foot length of iron pipe with the single word QUALITY painted along its length by crude brush-stroke. Parallel to the pipe, shifting slightly as it floated on its own thawing essence, was an oozing, thirty-six inch cylinder of pulverized brain, flesh, and bone. Both items sweated condensation beneath the hot lights of the autopsy table.
"I used a propane torch to heat the pipe once it was froze-up real good, that way, I could push it out in one long piece. Kinda' looks like a blood sausage, don't it?" Round-Man grinned evilly then he barked laughter as Metallica wretched and ran from the room.
*****
Building E-2 had once served as Carlyle Exploration Services training center. Nearly fifteen stories high, E-2 resembled a grain silo but inside, protected from the harsh Oklahoma weather, stood a full-scale drilling rig.
In the early eighties, E-2 had been state-of-the-art, the latest in casing repair and recovery technology. Carlyle's specialty had been knuckle joint fishing equipment used to recover lost pipe and tools from deep in the bowels of an open hole. Now, empty for more than a decade, E-2 was a crumbling metal-hulk, inhabited only by the coyotes, wild-pigs, rats, and rattlesnakes hearty enough to survive the rural Oklahoma landscape.
Carlyle Exploration had prospered for nearly forty years but then Mr. Carlyle died and his sons took control of the company. The three boys did not share their father's passion for the oil industry, preferring trips to New York or the Cayman Islands on the company’s business jet. Within months, Carlyle had a new board of directors and in less than a year, the company’s assets were sold to a Houston-based competitor and the small Oklahoma plant was closed. The seventy-four people who had devoted their lives to Carlyle were thanked for their years of loyal service and given … two-weeks of severance pay.
On a sweltering August afternoon, Michael Carlyle, former Vice-President of Carlyle Exploration sat blindfolded, tied to a tall, straight-back chair in Building E-2; his older brother and former Carlyle CFO had been seated in the very same spot five days earlier.
23 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 10, 2011
About the author
Jess Butcher
49 books2 followersJESS Butcher is the author of three Mike Bishop novels, SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, and MULESHOE. In addition, Butcher has published FINAL THOUGHTS and 17, short fiction anthologies that feature titles from his Lexington Avenue Express series.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
All of Butcher's titles are available on the Kindle e-Reader; SUN DOG, SIDEWINDER REQUIEM, MULESHOE and FINAL THOUGHTS are also available in Paperback.
Please note: Lexington Avenue Express and Canal Street Station titles are short fiction. These short story titles range from 1,200 to 4,000 words in length.
You may contact Jess Butcher by email at:
jessbutcher.home@gmail.com
www.jessbutcher-author.com.
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
June 2, 2012
Another great short story by Jess Butcher
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