Save the Trees

“Well, get them ready, damn it!” he barked into his cell phone, spit frothing at thick, fleshy lips.  His fingers were white, they had tightened so hard around the phone.  Roger Cromwell paced back and forth in his luxurious hotel room, too pissed off to enjoy the subtle calming influence the hotel decorator had been trying to exert on the more stressed hotel patrons.  The cold gray of the February day outside also did nothing to improve his mood.  It was February 13, just a day before Valentine’s Day. 

         Roger couldn’t have cared less about Valentine’s Day.

         “If you don’t have those damn trucks ready by this afternoon,” he threatened, “I’ll have your ass fired.  And don’t give me any of that crap about your three damn kids.  I don’t care.”  He stabbed the “end” button with a pudgy thumb, viciously ending the call.  He could just imagine Steve Dalton on the other end, his little prissy face screwed up in almost-tears.

         Fag, he thought contemptuously, tossing the cell phone on the bed.  He hated Dalton, but he had to admit the guy was a damn good office manager.  Except for now, when he didn’t even have the logging trucks ready.

         But sir, it’s almost Valentine’s Day, Dalton had whined into his ear, his voice drilling like an icepick.  The guy had a girly falsetto voice, just perfect to grate on his eardrums.  It was another reason Roger was so sure the guy was gay.  Who else would have that whiny girl voice?

         Roger started pacing again, too stressed out to take another gulp of his warm martini.  Some little blonde chick with messed-up black eye makeup had brought him one almost two hours ago, and he was ripe for another one.

         He ripped up the hotel courtesy phone and dialed room service, asking for another martini.  Even the woman’s soft, deferential tone on the other end failed to derail him.

         “Just bring me the damn martini, you stupid slut!” he bawled into the phone.  He heard a sharp gasp, then the sound of the clunky receiver being set down firmly.  Despite himself, a slight smile curved his mouth.  Bitch probably deserved it.  God, he hated uppity women.  And that whore had sounded like one of those snooty little bitches who acted all nice and sweet, then turned around and stabbed you in the back with one of their fancy-schmancy stiletto heels.

         Ten minutes later, there was a timid knock on his door.  He smiled raucously to himself, then got up with quick, energetic strides and opened the door.

         Instead of the chick with messy makeup, there was a guy there.  Tall, skinny, floppy hair…he also reminded Roger of a fag.

         “Hey—where’s my martini?” Roger demanded irritably.

         “I’m sorry, sir,” the guy said before enfolding Roger’s nose and mouth with an acrid-smelling handkerchief, making the world go black.

*          *          *

         He woke up in a daze, the muscles in his arms protesting painfully.  He was chained around something.  The roughness told him it was a tree.  Opening blurry eyes, realizing it was dark, Roger saw the guy from the hotel, the guy who had kidnapped him, standing patiently in front of him.  The guy had changed into black jeans and a tee shirt that said “Save the Trees” in scratchy green script.  Roger stifled a smirk.  One of those tree-huggers.

         Nevertheless, this nutty tree-hugger managed to kidnap you, he reminded himself.  Don’t piss him off.  Too much, anyway.

         “Hello, Roger, you slept quite a while,” the man said, smiling faintly.  Roger caught the flash of the sun on silver in the guy’s mouth.  The tree-hugger had a tongue piercing.  “Do you know who I am?”

         “Hell, no,” Roger spat defiantly.  Still smiling that faint little smile, the man brought his knee up solidly into Roger’s groin.  Roger doubled over as well as he could, making gagging sounds.  Ice-cold agony roared through his body, and he nearly passed out again.

         “I’m Timothy,” the man said, his voice pleasant.  “Timothy Dalton.”

         Dalton.  Roger’s eyes narrowed and he mouthed Steve.

         “Exactly,” Timothy nodded.  “I’m Steve’s brother.  You’ve been a very naughty little boy, Roger.  And right before Valentine’s Day!  Aren’t you supposed to be in a loving mood?”

         Roger didn’t answer; his mind was still preoccupied with the excruciating waves of pain emanating from between his legs.

         “Now, come on, Roger, you’ll have to concentrate better than that!” Timothy said, a tiny edge of irritation creeping into his voice.  “Otherwise, there will be no point to all this!”

         “And what’s the point?” Roger managed to say, his voice raspy.  His arms were killing him; he must have been chained to a frigging big tree.

         Timothy smiled, a wide happy grin that made him look like a child.  With a sudden chill of apprehension, Roger realized the man was crazy.

         “You’re a bad man, Mr. Cromwell,” Timothy said soberly, coming towards him.  His left hand was hidden behind his back.  Roger just knew that he didn’t want to know what was clutched in that hand.  “A very bad man.  You destroy the forests for your own greedy profit, you yell and abuse the few people who try to be loyal to you, and you willfully and cruelly abuse anybody around you.  That poor woman at the front desk burst into tears at your childish outburst.  And Steve—you remember Steve, don’t you?  Steve’s been in the psych ward at the hospital twice for trying to kill himself.  Because of you.  My brother is not very stable, and you’re always trying to push him over the edge.

         “Because of that, Mr. Cromwell,” Timothy continued, coming closer.  “I’ve decided to fix the problem.”

         “What—what do you mean?” Roger stammered, his throat suddenly dry.

         “I’m going to kill you,” Timothy said, his voice quiet, matter-of-fact.  Terror bloomed in Roger’s mind, spreading like a wild brushfire.  He began to thrash weakly against the chains, knowing it was futile, but as helpless to stop as a gerbil on an exercise wheel.

         “You should have been nicer to Steve,” Timothy admonished almost gently, then showed Roger what was in his left hand.

         It was a six-inch hunting knife.

         “Goodbye, Mr. Cromwell,” he said.  “I’m sure your blood will provide a good fertilizer for the trees.  And look—it’s Valentine’s Day!  It’s seven a.m.—a great time for work such as this, don’t you agree?”

         He looked at Roger solemnly, like a little boy trying very hard to remember his lessons, then slashed Roger’s throat from ear to ear.  Blood gushed down the man’s front, splashing Timothy with tiny crimson droplets.  The hungry ground soaked it up, forming tiny clotted dark balls, startling against the thin spray of grimy snow.

         “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Timothy told the sagging corpse, then stuck the knife in his jacket and walked away.