Sore Head

This short story has appeared on various websites, and was the first Andy wrote in his 'Exploring Cliches' series.

The office resembles a lair inside which predatory, malevolent creatures scuttle, their vampire teeth ready to puncture the neck of the unsuspecting victim. Set back from the main road, it is a single-storey, window-less building looming ominously beyond a line of tree cover. Its atmosphere is lent a dark, impenetrable quality by this dense foliage, which seems to ward off any passing stranger.

Dusk creeps in: the denizens of the nocturnal world come home to roost, headsets in hand. The unnatural-sounding bleeps of locking cars in the car park herald their arrival at their place of work. There are four of them: sharply suited, slickly oiled hair, small steely eyes. They come with warnings of imminent disaster, of impending crises, of unavoidable death. They are the insurance salesmen.

The salesmen work in the evening, which allows for a greater chance of an unsuspecting victim answering their home telephone. The salesmen are well versed in playing upon the unconscious fears of their potential prey, hinting at the stench of death around every corner and veiled threats of abject poverty if policies are not taken out.

It takes a special type of character to be able to set aside misgivings about such work, and Sam Elton, the newest of the recruits, did not possess such a talent for disassociation. Sam has a tendency to wrap misery around him like an iron cloak which at once acts to close out the world, and also to secure him in his self-absorption. He is stuck in a rut; without the skills to be able to undertake a more secure profession, but believing himself to be above this undertaker-like sales job. It is his apparent belief that he is better than everybody else which makes him the butt of all jokes; the wounded dog which other staff never tire of kicking.

Frustration drips from Sam like a tap which will not turn off. Acid rain-clouds of irritation spread out from his furrowed brow, burning others with their snappy forked-tongued discharge. Indignant beads of sweat trickle in cantankerous rivulets to form an angry confluence on his reddened cheeks. Stung by another almost too personal attack on him, he mutters to himself and grimaces. It is the sheer futility of his existence which drives him round the bend. And not just round the bend but round and round in an endless centrifugal tailspin of suppressed rage which he cannot free himself from. Colleagues know him as “highly strung”, “moody” or even “a heart-attack waiting to happen”. They know him as a menacingly quiet man with an undercurrent of hot temper which constantly bubbles underneath the surface ready to erupt in a volcanic explosion.

“Sam, where is that tea I asked you for? What are you even here for if you can’t make me a brew when I want one?” Roger casually, almost for habits’ sake, throws in a dig to rile his subordinate.

It is a Management Tool straight from the old school, intended to control and pacify staff through a culture of fear- belittling them into compliance. Cocksure Roger leans nonchalantly against the office wall, hands wedged in pockets, his arrogant beer-gut protruding almost aggressively over his trousers. He has the self-assured, almost violent attitude and appearance of a male sea lion, king of his pack.

Sam, cowering in his lonely corner of the office sighs, and turns away from his computer screen, murmuring: “Just on my way, Roger.”

Defeated, Sam slinks out of the office and into the kitchen with the echoes of Roger’s mocking laughter assaulting his ears.

In the kitchen, Sam has to lean against the fridge for support. Overcome with a burning, corrosive fury, he contemplates spitting in the tea, adding an extra ingredient of rat poison, even leaving the tea bag in the cup. With a start, he realises he is not alone in the kitchen. Ditzy Donna, the secretary, is there too, nibbling mouse-sized crumbs of a sandwich. She is always eating, that girl, but never seems to put on an ounce of weight. She regards him with suspicion, as if weighing up his mood before speaking.

“Having a good day, Sam?”

“Good day? When is it ever a good day here? You don’t have to constantly meet these unachievable sales targets, day-in, day-out: you don’t know what it’s like to not know whether you’ll be able to pay your mortgage at the end of the month.”

Donna’s jerky head movements, and nervous twitches become even more mouse-like as her unease deepens: “Sam, I was only asking. If Roger’s upset you again, don’t take it out on me. God, you’re like a bear with a sore head at the moment,” she squeaks, before exiting.

Sam Elton is a tall awkward man, ill at ease in his own skin. He is extravagantly mustachioed; although it is almost as if the mustache acts as a disguise to cover the rest of his face. Colleagues have unimaginatively nicknamed him ‘bear’ because of his appearance in a daft ironic way like ‘Little’ John in Robin Hood stories. Today is Sam’s Monthly Review, and he is petrified. Roger has already dropped barbed hints that Sam’s figures, and even his interaction with others leave a great deal to be desired. Cups of tea will only placate the irrational animal for a short while, soon he will surely grow tired and swat Sam’s insistent buzzing with those great arms of his.

Roger, the ebullient, charismatic but limited Sales Manager paces threateningly behind the closed door. He is like a caged tiger, and Sam is the sacrificial lamb, on the outside with a tray of hot drinks. With a crash, Roger beats the door open and knocks the tray from Sam’s hands. Disaster has struck. Sam cowers on the floor, scooping mountains of upended sugar into his bare hands, his knee steadily dampening at the touch of hot tea.
“What the hell is the matter with you Bear? Why are you incapable of doing even the simplest things?” Roger growls. “Get up off the floor. You’re like a wounded dog groveling about like that. Get Donna to clean it up. I think you and I need to have words.”

Sam hastily climbs to his feet and follows Roger into his office. “I’m sorry Roger, I was trying to knock…”

But Roger’s initial anger has burned itself out. He is not the slow-burn type as Sam is, and he has now completely forgotten his bad mood of seconds earlier.

“Now then Sam, we might as well start your review, but first, try and answer me this question. I was asked this at the golf club yesterday. ‘How many animals of each type did Moses take onto the ark?’”

Caught way off guard, Sam really wants to give the right answer and thinks long and hard, before answering: “Two, of course.”

With a sneaky grin, Roger knows that the mouse-trap has snapped shut on Sam. Lured by the cheese of the easy answer, Sam has been undone.

“Sam you truly are a stupid idiot. It’s Noah who built the ark, not bloody Moses. What planet are you on? Honestly, I don’t know why I gave you a job.”

Sometimes it is the slightest breeze which pushes us over the edge; sometimes the most miniscule amount of pressure causes the pipe to burst. The footprint of a small mouse which treads just that tad too heavily upon the beam can cause the whole house to collapse. With a bestial roar, Sam suddenly snaps. The undercurrent of anger, the swirling eddies of disbelief at the treatment which has been meted out to him swell to the surface; the lack of pizzazz in life, the lack of opportunities, the humiliation.

His eyes burn ursine yellow, thick black hairs begin to push through the outer layer of his pale skin, his hand thicken into fists and then huge paws. With a deafening crack, the bones in his back and shoulders stretch to twice their normal size in order to support ballooning musculature. Sam is now powerfully built, covered in a thick musty smelling fur with short powerful limbs. Shockingly, he now also has a short tail which waggles aggressively.

Rearing up, he now reaches full majestic height. Sickle-like claws have broken through the soft insides of what are now unmistakably boxing-glove sized paws. Drool pours from a snout which has metamorphosed from his whiskery mustache and nose. The pungent aroma of rotten-meat emits from his opened mouth which now roars again, and the air is thick with the cacophony of jungle drums as he beats his chest. Lumbering forward, Sam has now backed Roger into a corner. The old man has lost all control of his bodily functions and is gasping for breath…