matapam (pamuphoff) wrote,
matapam
pamuphoff

_Professor_ new prologue maybe

The Murder

“You’re not even a Oner.” Professor Yppo swayed on his feet, breathing in shallow pants. “I can’t feel you!”

The miserable thief, the traitor, the alien . . . spy jerked to his feet, his right hand reaching around and grabbing his left arm. “Shit! Already? Well, well, and here you are, practically volunteering . . .”

“What are you talking about? You stole that data, made up data all around it. Fabricated everything you needed to get a paper published . . .” Yppo clutched his chest and staggered back, thumped into the office door, grabbed the handle and twisted as he staggered back, almost falling as the door opened.

“Oh dear . . . It’s not your heart, is it?”

But instead of restraining him, the thief pushed him through the door, into his secretary’s office. Then the son of a bitch just sat in his secretary’s chair and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Where she keeps that big first aid kit?

Yppo turned and took aim at the outer door.

“Don’t go too far!” Mocking laughter followed him down the hall. Quiet and dark, just a few well-spaced lights that stayed on all night. Emergency exit lights. The fire extinguisher cabinet . . .

I could pull the alarm . . .

Why didn’t I wait until tomorrow to tackle him?

Then the dirty traitor was back, took his arm and steered him down the hall to the men’s lav. The lights flashed on, motion activated.

“What are you doing? Why. . .he ran out of breath. . . are you wearing latex gloves?

“Don’t worry, it won’t take long . . . Hmm, didn’t you say something about needing to see a doctor about a mole? And you touched your side . . .”

Yppo was shoved against the sink, his shirt tail jerked out and lifted.

“Oh . . . that doesn’t look too bad. But let’s remove it anyway, Okay?”

Yppo panted. “I need . . . my heart . . .” He screamed.

“Oops! That was a bit much, but I don’t actually want the part with the mole . . . down she goes.”

A flushing noise.

Yppo turned his head. Blood running down his flank and soaking his trousers. He pulled his shirt down, pressed his hand on the wound and grabbed the door handle, pulled it open and wobbled though.

A hand on the edge of the door above his, the man was right behind him, herding him back to the secretary’s office. The first aid kit was on the desk. He collapsed in the secretary’s chair and opened it, smearing it with blood. Bandages . . . he grabbed the largest, fumbled it open and tried to get it to stick . . .

"Oh, let me help." A hand wrapped in a hankerchief grabbed his hand and pulled it down , curled his fingers around the drawer handle, then released him.

No comm on the desk, just that other little box that . . . that man . . . was opening, putting something bloody into it, taking off his gloves and putting them in there too.

“Call . . . please . . .” He couldn’t seem to feel his feet and the lights were going out. He made an effort to stand, to get to his office, his com . . . the floor . . . shoes walking away . . .

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