Good evening fellow wasters. This is the first in a collection of short stories, written by myself and other slackers whilst at work. The original idea was to get people in the office working together by e-mailing everyone the beginning of a story and then asking for a suitable ending.

This one is to be read in the style of a 1940s film-noir detective, confessing his sins. It's a partial piss-take, a partial homage. Experience the terror of ...

Jackson sat at his desk, slowly sipping water from the sandy coloured beaker. He could hear his breathing echoing around its insides and wondered what his insides looked like. Christ. He'd given up the drinking he'd started when Susan left him, but had taken to smoking Lucky Strikes to calm his shaky nerves.

A sudden noise brought him back to reality. A barking, sarcastic sort of voice, dripping with contempt. Not really for what Jackson did, God knows he put enough hours in at the office, but for what he stood for and for what he was capable of.

“Jaaaacckkson! Where are those reports?”

Steinman. His nemesis. The antithesis of everything truly special and wonderful about the world. If Jackson was a flower, Steinman was a dirty old boot about to crush his fragile head. Jackson hated Steinman with a fiery passion. But then again, didn't everyone hate a crooked cop?

“They'll be on your desk by five.” was Jackson's stony reply.

If he was nothing, he was on time.

“If they ain't, you'll know it.”

Jackson let it go and watched Steinman walk away. What a weakly constructed threat from a weak minded fool. What would they do to him? Fire him? He laughed inside to himself. They couldn't do anything to him that Susan didn't do when she left him five months ago.

Suddenly a deep rage rushed up inside him. Almost uncontrollable. He crushed the beaker in his hand until he felt the plastic shards biting into his flesh.

The wave of anger passed and he brought his attention back to the report. Just over one hour to go before the deadline. The case was too distressing to relive over and over again by this pointless bureaucratic exercise. It wasn't like this in the old days, he told himself. Everything was changing and he didn't like it. In a few more years they would be talk of retirement. He wasn't looking forward to that. In fact, he was taking steps to ensure it would not happen.

“Got to concentrate on this damn report,” he mumbled to himself. He was sick of rules and procedures and his hands being tied by red tape. Jackson started trembling. He felt the feeling again. It started small and in his stomach but not for long. He felt powerful. Like a speeding locomotive. He knew his actions today would change things forever.

Steinman's voice once again broke the silence in the office.

“Now, Jackson. I need them now.”

He hated that. I've got a first name. Use it. Use it. Before he knew what was happening, he saw himself slamming Steinman's head into his desk screaming, “use it ... use it” over and over again.

“Somebody stop him, he's gone crazy!” Steinman managed to blurt out but it was too late, with a noise like a Ford backfiring the desktop smashed. That sound brought it all back, that night and scent of Susan's apartment above the butchers, the thrill of seeing her again, like a kid at a candy store he couldn't take his eyes off her. Redheads had always hit him like a shot of the amber, and this one was as classy a piece as he had ever seen, a real pocket Venus. She was nervy tonight, told him he'd turned up early, when she'd wanted to take him out to Louie's and show him how much she cared. Tears bit into his eyes as her dulcet tones came flooding back to him “But Rumplestiltskin darling, I wanna go out, we never DO anything together baby.”

Ahh, hell, that little firecracker could get him to DO just about anything she wanted, hey maybe he could make it a meal to remember. But fate was on his tail again, fifteen seconds of beautiful emotion and then his heart froze - a sound. Something from the bedroom. He leapt to his feet and threw back the door. Steinman. Wouldn't you just know it. That low-life had been chasing his broads for as long as he could remember, but Susan, Susan should have been something special. But there she stood, more fake than her lipgloss and harder than nail varnish, he'd been suckered again. He left by the back stairs, chucking the ringbox into the garbage as he passed - some other guy could fund her high life, from now on he was looking after number one.

“Jesus, Jackson.” Steinman's bark brought him back to reality. “I only had Fingers Lavinsky fix that last week. Hand over your badge and get out. Don't even think about coming back, I knew you'd push it too far, it was always just a matter of time with you Jackson, you never could hack it as a traffic cop.” Steinman's voice dropped to a threatening drawl “I mean it Jackson, this is the end, get out now.”

So that was it, end of the line, he reached in his draw, lit his last Lucky Strike, flicked the match at Steinman, and hit the road. He took in a deep breath of the city air and smiled that rueful smile. It was a good day for arson and he loved the smell of roasting meat in the evening.

by John McIver and Laura Higgs.

Have you got any stories you want to share with the rest of the civilised world? Send 'em to toast@sabotage.demon.co.uk and we'll cram them into the next issue.