Wrestling with a word

Greetings. It is unusually quiet in my life and activities right now. When things get quiet, I start to play with ideas in my mind and that leads me into some odd sort of cognitive process that makes me ask ‘what if?

In the past, I have been known to get a word in my head and then proceed to overuse the word throughout a short stretch of writing simply because it seemed exciting to me. The words are generally pretentious and bloated and do not often come up in everyday speech.
Upon re-reading the piece, I would find that, instead of adding power and excitement to my writing, it would make it read more as an example of a writer who was long on disk space and short on imagination. Hopefully I have caught those passages before publishing and sharing them with others, so that I can maintain at least the smallest illusion of competence.
One such word passed in front of my eyes this morning and it stuck in my mind for several minutes, calling to me, demanding that I use it until all possible facets had been explored.
That word was ‘fastidious’.
Can you imagine a stretch of writing, five or six paragraphs long, with the word fastidious used a dozen times? It brings a smile to your face doesn’t it? You would be saying to yourself “What a hack”?
Then I got to thinking, “can I write a short piece that would legitimately use the word ‘fastidious’ four or five times that would not come off as a laughingstock”?
Now the errant word obsession has become a quest, and we all know that a quest cannot be denied. So in the spirit of the quest, I offer this short piece with what I hope is a legitimate overuse of the word ‘fastidious’ in the hopes that it will answer the question, or else bring a smile to someone’s lips:

THE PROMOTION

Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones both wore that fake smile of concern that they had practiced and nurtured to use to extricate themselves from any appearance of being the bad guys in their decision making process. I had seen it before. If the phony bastards thought I was buying it, they didn’t know with whom they were dealing.
The man sitting to my left in his carefully pressed suit and Rolex watch wore the serene look of a woman who was confident that her sexual powers had given her the victory before the battle had even begun. I hated the fact that his socks didn’t show as he sat with his legs crossed and his hands lay neatly folded on his lap. I hate everything about Tommy Bledsoe.
I looked down at my own lap, and realized that I had forgotten to zip my fly before coming in.
“Jim, please understand,” Mr. Smith was saying, “that we consider you to be a hard working and important part of our organization. We just feel that we need someone who’s overall view of management is—uh—more fastidious—in its overall execution”.
The smile on Tommy’s face said it all. He knew he had won without ever hearing the words.
I felt an overwhelming urge to pull out my Wang and piss all over Tommy Bledsoe’s ‘fastidious’ suit and let them see the true nature of this manipulative and corrupt little faggot and let them know just what a mistake they were making. How could they take away something I had worked for so hard?
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t decent. It was obvious what the man was, but they didn’t care. Phonies choosing phonies.
“This in no way reflects badly on your record with the company,” Mr. Jones piped in, ever the Parrot, “and as a team player, we know that you will understand that we need to do what we feel is best for the company”.
A thousand responses rushed through my head, but each response circled back to the realization that I was sitting there with my fly open and there was nothing I could say that would not humiliate me even more.
“I understand, sir”, I replied, as calmly and clearly as I could muster as I stood and offered my hand. Mr. Jones shook it limply and continued to smile that phony smile.
I left the room, struggling to maintain a calm exterior, praying not to stumble on my way out. Trying to maintain at least the smallest shred of dignity in my defeat.
As the door closed behind me, I stopped and zipped up and felt the hot flush on my face as I hurried through the anteroom and out into the main hall.

It wasn’t hard to catch Tommy alone in the parking garage. I sat in my Ford minivan, the smell of stale coffee reeking in my nose, the pile of junk mail that I had never bothered to take into the house or dispose of, staring at me accusingly from the passengers seat, and I waited. Tommy always parked on the sparsely used upper level, taking up three parking spaces, always cautious of the errant nicks and dings of everyday use. His Lexus sat there in its ‘fastidious’ glory, clean and polished and reeking of arrogance and I could see the reflection of the man in every thing he touched. Today I would give him a lesson in ‘fastidious’. I would show him that he couldn’t fuck some body over and get away with it. I would break him and make him squeal.
He came hurrying through the parking garage with an arrogant haste in his prissy stride. He was disgusting in his self-importance.
I got out of the van and moved to intercept him at his car. The weight of the hammer concealed in my belt was comforting as I moved up to him and extended my hand.
“Tommy”, I said. “I just wanted to congratulate you and assure you there were no hard feelings”.
He smiled at me, but his eyes had a look of caution. His confusion gave me even more confidence.
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Jim,” he said, taking my hand with the same repulsive limp grasp of his mentor Mr. Jones. “I know we will work well together”
As her turned to punch in the code on his door lock, I brought the hammer down hard on the back of his head. I was surprised at how quickly he crumbled to the ground, without making a sound. I looked at him for a moment and then I hit him again. It didn’t seem to be enough so I hit him a third time. That gave me a feeling of completeness. One must be fastidious in these sorts of things.
I rolled him over on to his back. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling and there was no sign of movement. I took out my knife, the only thing I had left that had been my father’s, and kneeling down, I stabbed him in the heart. I was surprised that the blade only sank a few inches into him before being stopped by some thing hard, but the damage wasn’t the point. It was the act that mattered. I carefully judged the distance, and stabbed him two more times in a precise and fastidious pattern that would leave no doubt in the minds of those who saw them that this was done by a very fastidious person.
I looked at those unblinking eyes, those eyes that had watched my every move and run scurrying off to report me to the executives and I placed the point of the knife on the left eyeball and shoved. There was a tiny pop and fluid ran down the side of his face. Being a fastidious man, I repeated the action with the right eye, and it gave me great sense of warmth and satisfaction.
I had planned to castrate the little bastard and stuff his balls down his throat and then take that Rolex and shove it up his prissy little ass but the feeling had subsided. Unlike Tommy, I could see the difference between fastidious and excessive.
I drove away from the garage feeling tired but happy. I smiled as I thought of the quandary that would face Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones tomorrow at work. They certainly couldn’t expect me to take the job now. I wouldn’t have it even if they begged.
Besides, they needed someone more—uh, fastidious—than me.

Jim Bronaugh