Mr. Saboteur
I’m in the business of sabotage. If something needs to be tampered with at someone’s benefit and the other’s fall, then I will handle it. Whether it’s a union that your workers are trying to form, the impending publication of a tell-all book exposing all your company’s sordid secrets, or maybe your boss’ nephew got the promotion you wanted so now you want to bring him down a notch– well, if you can afford me, I’m the guy for the job.
And as long as people are trying to climb the ladder of hierarchy, there will always be a need for people like me. I am the best to do it. Sabotage is an art and I am it's Michelangelo. For others to access these services, one would either have to deal with a lowlife thug attached to some disreputable criminal enterprise or they’d have to enlist the assistance of a two-bit amateur who's bound to land you and himself in a heap of trouble.
Don’t get me wrong, it is not a particularly exciting job, and if it is, well something has gone terribly wrong. Most of it consists of me sitting in my car, watching the mark, and staying awake til they're out of their house, away from their job, etc. I have monk-levels of patience. My mental fortitude is my greatest asset.
It is a peculiar line of business, I admit. But because my specialty is such a rarity, you should know, I profit quite handsomely for it. My prices may be exorbitant but the results speak for themselves.
I’ve known these mafia types I speak about. Many disreputable types I’ve come across. It’s quite unfortunate– for all the money they have, they really have to wallow in some unpleasant spaces. I take pride in the diversity of clientele I deal with, though I’m not exactly slumming it either. My neighbors are dentists and engineers. They’re convinced that I work as a consultant, and to an extent it’s not a complete fabrication. In fact a lot of my job is spent consulting with each and every one of my potential clients, here in the twelfth floor of this wonderful downtown building. After all, I am a legit businessman with a fervent devotion to my clients. Professionalism and confidentiality are my priorities, and I am happy to provide my skilled labor, because I know it will be worth it to you.
Allow me to give an example.
A very well-known painter, the second best painter in the world, in fact, once asked me if I could help him be considered the best painter in the world, and so I asked him who’s first and I went straight to work making sure he fell to the bottom last. The fine art establishment didn’t take too kindly to all the mountains of evidence implying he had plagiarized his best work, evidence which I meticulously fabricated and planted myself.
I once spiked the punch bowl of an office christmas party with PCP and watched while half of the guests mellowed out while the other half completely freaked out. Let me tell you, it was a spectacle. Suffice to say that merger did not end up going through.
Or shall I tell you about the factory that had its OSHA rating slashed to nill when I fumbled around with some cogs and gears. It was a dastardly affair, and I completed it with no traces of meddling. So you see, I am versatile, I am flexible, whatever your sabotage needs are, I am willing to hear them.
You can imagine the personality types I deal with, they can be quite intense, but nothing gets by me either. My secretary is constantly taking calls from all sorts of places, certain facets of the community you wouldn’t believe. Someone from the Church once hired my services, so did a group of Police, so did a government official. But I’ll never tell you about those, not any of them. I am sworn to a vow of complete and non-negotiable secrecy. Whether they’re Gary from down the street or the President of the United States. Whether I take them as a client or not, they can feel at ease that I will never reveal them to the authorities or anyone else who might care about their scheming proclivities. I take this more seriously than the medical profession take the Hippocratic. On that, they have my word, and for that I am taking it to the grave. It’s the least that I could do for this secretive, deranged, perhaps yes, but certainly passionate facet of society. Those among us who value our possessions, our positions in life, our dignities in such an undignified world, well, can you blame us for sometimes resorting to trickery in order to preserve it?
Now I should be clear. I won’t take just any old job. I have limits. I have rules.
An old woman once came to my office and asked to consult with me. She found out her husband was having an affair with her dialysis technician. She felt so betrayed, and she very badly wanted to see them both in a grave. But I refused! For though there are many things I am willing to do to fulfill my contracts to the client’s satisfaction, committing murder is not one of those. Furthermore, if there is some hot young figure skater out there who’s more talented and more attractive than you are, that you think could use a good knee cap, well I’m afraid to say, you’ll have to hire a two-bit crook with a mallet for that. I am firm when I say I do not cause bodily harm to individuals. I stop short of murder and violence.
But everything else is fair game. There are so many other ways to maliciously ruin someone’s reputation, to dismantle all their dreams and everything they’ve worked for, through a highly-orchestrated thread of tricks. And the great thing about when I sabotage, I always make it look like either it was an accident or it was their fault. A good example of this from a few years ago.
Rock’s Printers. Trusted by many in the Fortune 500. A family-owned business for four generations, yadda-yadda-yadda. Then comes an up-and-coming printing company down the block with nothing to their name besides the fact that they’re not the printing company everybody knows and trusts. The CEO of that competitor, naturally, felt that they deserved a small slice of the profitability pie. So he asked if I could help him win a government contract to make his name. No issue. At night I snuck into Rock’s Printers, turned on their computers and tampered with their print jobs. Come a few days later, the day of the big event, and when those banners were unveiled with all kinds of obscenities and vulgarities, you should have seen the look on that CEO’s face. He was so flustered, so mortified. I still think about that face. I made a good chunk of change from making it feel that way. It’s become a textbook case, studied in business schools across the globe. The printing fiasco heard ‘round the world. Was one of the worst fumblings of a government contract. It’s strange to say but you do take pride knowing you had an impact like that.
How I pull off a sabotaging operation varies from assignment to assignment. In fact, it’s one of the perks of the job– each assignment offers you something new, like a fun little puzzle that you have to think really hard to solve, but once you do, it feels like the most incredible breakthrough you could ever do.
Which is why serving my clients is the greatest thrill, and it would be my pleasure to assist you in your issue. And to show you that I am no snake, I never beg for business. You can come into my office, and I will offer you a free consultation as you are enjoying now. If you’re enticed, great, if you’re just not sure, we can just shake hands and call it a day. 100% customer satisfaction guaranteed.”
The Saboteur clasped his fingers and rested them against his desk, as across from him sat a prospective client with a clear-headed expression and an understanding nod. “So then you seek my services?”
“Potentially,” said the man.
“You see where I might be useful?”
“I have no doubt about it. I see the benefit. Hiring you. I’m just not sure yet. That’s all.”
“How can I make you sure? Does my line of work disturb you? No shame to admit it. I understand. For some my profession is… a bit much.”
“I feel no discomfort about it.”
“Tell me what concerns you. I’ll let you know if it’s a fit.”
“I simply don’t know you’re up for the task. It is a difficult assignment.”
“Who is the mark?”
The balding man with the rotund belly and ruddy cheeks sat flush in his seat, absolutely anxious to hear if the saboteur would take on his task. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cracked mirror, he held it and faced it against the saboteur.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a mirror–”
“I see that. Care to explain?”
“The man I want you to destroy,” he paused, “is yourself. You. The man who is the cause of all my problems is you. The mark… is you,” he said with calm.
He laughed with a whisper, steeped in profound disbelief. “You joking, buddy?”
“Now, now, surely I can’t be the first to request this. Perhaps no one on this earth has garnered more personal enemies than yourself,” as he continued he backed away from the desk in his wheelchair. “Are you familiar with me, Mr. Saboteur?”
He took a long hard look at him, but came on empty. “No, I do not. Should I?”
I think so. I’m the subject of one of your greatest stories that you so proudly recounted. Remember Rock’s Printers?”
The Saboteur made a face like seeing a ghost.
“Don’t worry,” continued the prospective client. “You are not responsible for my disability. If the thought of you causing me physical harm keeps you up at night, know I did this all to myself. After I lost my business, I lost everything. I lost my wife, I lost my business, I lost every goddamn thing I ever fought for. My life had ceased to have meaning, and so foolishly, I tried to take myself out of this world from the top of a building I once owned. The fact that I survived was a miracle. Truly. For the longest time I thought I just had the worst misfortune in all the world, that all that happened to me was all a freak accident, an unfortunate aftereffect of my carelessness. It wasn’t until quite some time later, I realized, that wasn’t the case. Naturally, you see, I have a bone to pick with you the size of an elephant femur.”
“How did you find me?”
“Funny thing about vows of secrecy, they’re only useful when both parties commit to them.”
“Who told you?”
“Who else but the very man who hired you? He was an old colleague of mine. He had fallen gravely ill, no doubt riddled from the stressors of guilt. When I went to see him, he made a deathbed confession to me.
So I went looking for you, and that sure was a task. You change your name every few years. You’re a tough man to crack. It took me a few years, years which perhaps could have been better spent moving on with my life. But there was no life to go back to. With that in mind, are we in business or are we not? How much do you charge? How much does it cost to ruin a man, to destroy everything he spent his entire life building up?”
The Sabotage artist could not think of another thing to say but: “What do you want from me?”
“Truth is I didn’t come here to hire your services. I came here to tell you what a piece of shit you are. You know what I think about scumbags like you? It’s scumbags like you that are tearing this world apart. As long as there's still guys like you, willing to do whatever they think is necessary to earn a buck, then this place has got no hope, does it? But see I do have hope. And I spit in your face. The excuses you make to yourself to sleep at night. Even if you don’t believe them, do you? Or maybe you’ve brainwashed yourself into thinking it’s all true, you’re just a regular guy filling in a gap in the market. That’s what you are, huh? No reason for you to take any accountability, no reason for you to take responsibility, it was written, its fate, you had no self-control and you just had to betray others for your personal benefit, is that true? It was all out of your control wasn’t it?”
“You can leave now.”
“Very well, I won’t force you to manhandle a handicapped man. I’ll leave. I’ll go. But before that, let me impart you a bit of advice. Beware the man with nothing to lose.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“A man who has nothing is willing to do anything.” And then he rolled on out, past the secretary’s desk. When the saboteur collected his thoughts he ran out into the street to look for the man in the wheelchair, but by that point he was already gone.
Paranoia became the flavor of the saboteur’s days. At home, he sat quiet, filled with dread at the prospect of an oncoming threat.
While he and his partner kissed in bed, he had completely dissociated from the evening. Instead, he stared at the strange textures on the fabric of the carpet.
“Everything ok, Henry?” she asked while pulling away from his lips.
“Yeah, fine.” They proceeded with their love-making, perfunctorily and devoid of emotion. Their pleasant little, dimly-lit scene in a beautiful upper-class home now was tainted with a dark pallor consuming it. When she left, she carried a cold sensation that something had changed in the saboteur’s once easy going demeanor.
At night, he suffered from insomnia. He tried watching television to take his mind off his tensions, but it did not work.
For at any moment, he worried, a threat would come near, a retaliation of some kind would befall him for all the wrong he’d done that wheelchair-bound man. Would it be the paraplegic himself that would do him in and lay the attack? Would there even be an attack? Or would he enlist the help of some hitman, law enforcement, or mercenary junkie to bring about his downfall. Curse the man’s cryptic speech. His whole sense of safety and security were completely levelled. At all times, the sum total of his nervous system remained on high alert, unable to process anything unrelated to the looming threat that hovered above him wherever he went. No matter where he went, or what he did, this burdensome sensation of suspicion and dread overtook his entire being. The exhaustion was wearing down on him quickly. When ordering a coffee, he would stutter and mumble his order incoherently, much to the concern of the barista and everyone else behind him in line. When he went to a public toilet, he was prone to hiding away in the disability stall for hours on end, blocking any strangers from entry for the sake of his own safety. The only places he felt comfortable were in spaces that were non-ADA compliant. Fortunately, in a city with lackluster public amenities, there were still places for him to go where the wheelchair man could not get to him so easily. At under-funded art museums, at a quiet townhouse where AA meetings were held, or at a fast Chinese food diner, nestled away in the food court of a dying mall, where the elevators were forever broken, and management never bothered to take care of the issue. That was until one day, they did fix it. And even at the AA house, one recovering-alcoholic volunteered to build a small ramp to the doorway. Even the under-funded museum received a small grant towards building a more welcoming environment. Gradually, there were less and less places for him to go, and hide. Only in his office did he feel semi-safe. Yet even here he was testy and nervy. He became unpleasant towards his secretary. Yet still he much preferred his security here than anywhere else. Day in, day out, sleeping in, staying in for weeks on end. Every few days, he’d return just to grab some food and take a much-needed shower, and even these brief trips became too anxiety-ridden for him to handle.
Back in the office, he’d peek out the blinds of his window, looking down from the fifth floor at all the pedestrians. Any one of them could be the enemy, he thought. The crooked-walking businessman on his way to work. The exhausted school teacher with a perpetual sigh. The little girl selling cookies door to door. Any one of them. It was unbearable. He could not fathom that this would be the sensation he’d be carrying into his days. He knew he was unwell, possibly insane. But he couldn’t control it. The feeling in his gut was too much. And all of it was the fault of the decisions he’d made, of the life he’d built, and that darn filing cabinet filled with client information and case files. A large green-metal rectangle staring at him at all times, the sum representation of all his petty sins and total destruction of others. It was everything contained in those papers, in those folders, which had directly led him to the unbearable sensation writhing in his gut that very second. He couldn’t control it. It filled him with such rage. It mustered in him a feverish strength he thought did not have in possession. An astonishing feat– he grabbed the filing cabinet and chucked it out the window, a scream of suppressed fury and intense anxiety escaped through the frothing hot rage of his agitated lips.
He gasped, quickly and loudly at first, then slowly and silently. It felt good, releasing all that pent-up anxiety, all that fear and all that pain. He suddenly seemed aware of his surroundings again, as though a veil was lifted from his eyes. There was an exquisite clarity that was wafting to him like a breath of fresh air. With complete cognition, he could hear muttering and crying out his window. There was concern, commotion and fear. He went out to the broken pane of glass and craned his neck out onto the street.
It was the filing cabinet. It had landed on somebody’s head. Like a wicked witch of the east, all he could see were a pair of lifeless shoes lying beneath the dark-green monolith he’d thrown.
Half the crowd looked up at him with anger. The other half was looking through all of his files and paperwork that had scattered out from the cabinet, raining down on them with the blowing wind, the proof of all his crimes falling neatly into their hands. People were flocking to the sheets and reading their contents.
“Stop! Don’t touch those. Those are strictly confidential,” he cried out to the citizens below, but they did not listen. “Stop! Oh god,” he continued to cry. He ran out of his office, dashing to the elevator, getting down there as fast as he could.