Mr. Green twitched the right side of his mustache and smoothed an eyebrow with his thumb. Dressed, polished, and smelling of lavender soap, he appraised the face that stared back at him from the shaving mirror propped up on the dresser.
"Not bad, Mr. Green," he mumbled to his reflection, dabbing after-shave lotion under his chin. He strode to the window and flung it open, scattering several sparrows who had been roosting on the sill.
It was a good morning for revenge.
He mulled over the offenses of the past few weeks as he sorted through his drawer of neckties. He chose the red one.
For you see, Mr. Green was not accustomed to being treated in the way that Jack Oliver Jr. treated him. The young intern was disrespectful and careless, stubborn and intent on dissagreeing with Mr. Green whenever possible. The past few weeks at work had been intolerable. A new wave of anger washed over him.
Mr. Green slammed the window and walked down the stairs, tying his necktie as he went. In the kitchen, he cracked six eggs on the counter, entertaining himself by imagining that each one was Jack Oliver Jr.'s head.
Crack. Smash. Crunch.
The eggs sizzled in their pan as he leaned over the stove, drawing a vial from the cabinet.
"Poison," he commented to himself, rubbing the glass tube between his palms. "It may be a little extreme, but if anyone was ever justified, it's me." He paused, thought for a moment, and then nodded his head.
Mr. Green poured coffee into a heavy mug and sat down at the table. Palms sweaty with anticipation, he unscrewed the lid of the vial and emptied it into the liquid.
"Goodbye, Jack," he smiled hatefully. Then he took the coffee and drank it in one gulp.
It was 8:07 AM when the illustrious Mr. Green slumped onto his kitchen floor, dead. The exact same time, ironically enough, that young Jack Oliver Jr. got out of bed, stretched, and pondered the beauty of London mornings in June.
"Bitterness is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die." --Ron McManus