Ripton Sam, the Zetta Files 3

Exhausted and confused, I wandered away. Sometimes the world just doesn't want to cooperate with you. Being forced into this investigation by that big city mafia bastard was just the start of it. Murders make my stomach turn, and this was no exception. I can shut off my emotions well enough when I'm on a job, but eventually it catches up to me. The blood, the smell, the reminder of our own fragility and mortality, it's not something we're built to handle. The mind starts to slip. Talking ferrets is clearly the first sign. I quietly vomited into a storm drain and continued home determined to think of other things.

The office light was on from when I left. I guess I was in too much of a hurry to turn it off. Sometimes I wish my secretary hadn't left. Just sometimes, though. She'd be able to answer calls and clients. If someone came along while I was gone, she could deal with them. She'd also be able to tell me if anyone was waiting for me in my office. Then again, so could silhouettes on the window.

I almost didn't notice. My window is frosted, you can't see in or out, but you can see shapes, and this shape moved. Someone was in my office, which isn't usually a bad thing, except I distinctly remembered locking the door. Remembering my problems with certain mafia bastards, I decided to find another way in. My gun was 'safely' stored in my bed side table in the loft. I'd need that.

I walked down one floor and into the office of the accountant that worked below me. His secretary stuttered some words of objection as I walked into the main office. The accountant looked up, as did his client, and said something about an appointment. His tone changed to anger as he recognized me. I wasn't really concerned about it.
"Just here to use your window, George."

George the Accountant mumbled obscenities as I climbed out his window and onto the fire escape. George always did have a stick up his ass. I went up the iron steps as quickly as possible without making any noise and wedged my loft window open. It always makes me feel nervous when I remember how easy it is to break into my own flat. I ought to get my security beefed up a bit sometime. I grabbed the gun, checked to make sure it was loaded, and headed down the stairs.

The loft is accessible from a small, steep stairway through a door behind my desk. It's built to look like a wall panel, so possible thieves don't find my personal suite. It also means that no one expects me to come from that direction. My assailant will be expecting me to come through the front door.

At the bottom of the stairs I took a deep breath, raised the gun, and threw open the door. Before I had time to react I was tackled to the ground by someone much bigger than me. A bullet was fired before I hit the floor and dropped the gun. I struggled hopelessly against my foe but my eyes were covered and I was effectively pinned to the floor. After a few seconds I was exhausted and stopped struggling, ready to listen to what my assailant had to say. I only hoped he'd be reasonable.

It was then that I noticed that my assailant had stopped struggling as well. Had my shot killed him? pushing against the mass on top of me revealed no actual body, just wet, heavy weight. Visions flew through my mind of intestines and internal organs piled outside my door, a message from Ripton Sam, and, horrified, I choked back another impulse to vomit. Strength returned once again in the form of blind panic and I crawled away from the wet, warm, stringy mass.

It was not the deep red of internal organs. Quite the opposite. It was an enormous mass of noodles. Lime green noodles. My entire office was buried six feet deep in lime green noodles. What the hell.

I decided it was time for bed. I'd figure out a way to clean up my office tomorrow.