Hillingar – 600-word short story

I’ve fantasised about murdering him more than I should. I focus on the two frail, solitary hairs that compliment my boss’ head as his mouth moves frantically. His eye twitches in excitement, and I can see his complexion change. He is getting angry, I think. It would help my chances if I could actually focus on whatever he has to say – something about vandalising the workplace with scribbles like kill me now or fuck my life. Sure, I have tagged stuff like that down on one of the clipboards, but what would you expect when you are spending sixty-plus hours inside a cool room, hating your life.

‘I understand’ I tell him, not because I do, but because his mouth has stopped moving. As he restarts his endless ranting, I catch my co-workers through the office window in the corner of my eye. This is one of those old-school places, as the boss likes to call it when he mentions back in the day, which means the boss sits high up top in his office watching us through his little window, nice and warm. Meanwhile, all of us poor bastards bust our asses in the cold of the fridge for what should be considered slavery. I allow myself a smile as my workmates do obscene gestures of sucking the boss’s cock to get me to lose my composure. I do.

‘Is this a fuckin’ joke to you, mate?’

I am brought back to the conversation I am in. The eye twitch reminds me of the current mood.

‘I guess you could say so, mate.’

‘You got something to say, say it to my face, young man.’

Another glimpse through the window down into the dock and now three of my co-workers choke on an imaginary cock. A smile regains control of my face and I scratch my head. A very awkward silence follows. I picture grabbing my fat, bald boss by the collar and flinging him through the window.

‘How about you go back to work and quit fuckin’ around?’

‘Cheers.’ I say, happy to have done my time. I put my balaclava on, ready to face the cold, and leave his office.


‘And that was the last time you spoke to him, is that right?’

‘Yes, officer, that I can remember, at least.’ I tell him.

‘What do you mean “that I can remember”?’ the second detective asks.

‘Well, when you work 6 days a week non-stop, things start to get a bit out of hand.’

‘Care to elaborate?’ The first policeman asks.

‘Well, we usually start early morning, and a lot of times work keeps on piling up… Once the boss leaves, we usually go down the bottle-o and start getting tipsy… just to take the edge off.’

‘You are telling me you guys operate heavy machinery in here under the influence?’ The second detective asks.

‘Sometimes more than that. Is that what you are here to investigate officer?’ I ask, defiantly.

‘We are the ones asking the questions here.’ He barks back.


I analyse the way the boss’ fat body is splattered on the frozen concrete, guts hanging and all, and ponder if this is how I pictured it. A huge shard of glass is stuck in his skull – I wonder whether that’s what killed him. The fat bastard might have been dead before he hit the ground. I look up to his now-broken window and gather my bearings. How did I get here?

‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ!’ someone says behind me, and I take my balaclava off. ‘What the fuck happened to him?’

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