• I went to work like any normal Monday. I pulled into my parking spot at approximately 7:50 a.m. like I do every Monday morning. My mouth decided to yawn as I fished for the key to the back door. I looked in the rear view mirror and noticed I had a smudge of last nights eyeliner still clinging to my left eyelid. So I did like I would any other time I notice stray particles of makeup that just wants to still be, and rubbed it off with my right index finger.
    I kicked my car door shut and pushed the button on my key chain that does the automatic lock thing, because we all know how much more difficult it is to simply push the button on the door with your thumb. I walk around to the back of the building and unlock the door to my work. I hang my handbag on a peg, and plop down in front of the computer.
    I clock in at exactly 7:52 a.m. I log into my computer and begin the tedious task of compiling last weeks numbers. Average, common, conventional, expected, natural, ordinary, reasonable, regular, routine, sane, standard, traditional, typical Monday morning. The back door is still locked from the inside and I hear a knock. This is not normal. The rest of the staff does not arrive until 9 a.m. My left eyebrow jerks up in that way it does when things seem out of the ordinary. I get up and open the back door. It is my boss.
    Now, I forgot to mention that I work at a pizza place. I am the General Manager and I only have one boss, the owner of the company. Pretty nice feeling it is to only answer to one boss. Now, he walks in the door, and immediately I can tell something is wrong. His fake plastic smile is not there. What is where his false cheer should be is this somber mask that seems only fitting because I know what is coming next.
    I turn, walk back into the office. I sit down. He shuts the door behind him. This is not good. He sits down. He speaks.
    "You have two options." His voice is as somber as his face is. His voice always matches his face, even with the plastic smile he somehow manages a plastic voice. "Your first option is to confess to what you have done and resign. If you choose this option I will not let anyone else know what you have done and you will still be able to use us as a reference."
    My brow creases, and I instinctively want to say "No, you got it all wrong. It was not me." But I know that the man sitting before me has much more money than I, and money equals power in the court of law. So I let him continue.
    "Your second option," his lips twitch in a small smile as his eye spots the newly formed wrinkles in my forehead. "Deny everything and I get the authorities involved." And man, so I hate the authorities.
    So what seemed to be a normal Monday morning completely flipped and my whole world came crashing down. All because I made one stupid mistake. Actually, a whole series of stupid mistakes.
    The funny thing is, I do not think he would have let me off so easy had he known just exactly how much money I stole from his company and I suppose from him.
    As I leave all I can think of is if I remembered to clock out or not. I stop. I turn around and go back inside. I say to him, I say "I forgot to clock out."
    He smiles. As counterfeit as the voice he uses, he says "It's okay I will take care of it. Oh, and can I get the key to the store?" He extends his fleshy hand.
    I drive the keys down with such force, only these are not the store keys. These are my keys, with my swiss army knife attached. The little baby blade, sharp as sharp will ever be. It plunges through the skin and scrapes against some bone.
    He screams. There is blood. He clearly was not expecting this. Maybe he should have broke the news that I was fired on a Friday instead of a mundane Monday. He broke my normalcy. So I shattered his. The knife comes out. It takes a few tugs, and he is struggling. I have some kind of super strength all of the sudden. This man-beast outweighs me by about 100 pounds and yet my female frame somehow is managing to fight off his blows and block his every pitiful attack.
    The knife comes out. And this time it finds its final resting place. His emotionless left eye. His smile, his sham of a voice, they are suddenly more real than ever as he screams and grimaces. His body crumples to the floor. He is still breathing. My hand touches this warm wet and I begin to rub this blood of his humanness on my face.
    A temporary insanity plea trumps his money in the court of law.