“I’d like to make a complaint.” A tall, well-dressed gentleman rapped hi knuckles on the counter.
The lady at his side nodded.
“It’s unconscionable.” She stood clutching a white cardboard box with blue text and a picture of a corn-popper on it under her arm.
One end of the thing was all taped up.
“Well, our complaints department is Mr. Ramon.” Sylvester oozed sincerity. “But you really don’t want to meet Mister Ramon.”
“Oh, yes.” The lady was all firm dignity. “I want to speak to this Mister Ramon.”
“Oh, no, Blondie, you don’t want to meet Ramon.”
The man thumped his fist down on the countertop.
“Yes. I want to speak to Mister Ramon."
“Very well then.” Sylvester led them into the hallway, reaching for the handle to let them in to see the Complaints Manager.
“I demand satisfaction!” The man was angry still.
A tall, slender, fortyish man in a black suit stood there beside a desk with nothing on it.
“And you shall have it!” Mister Ramon beamed at them. “Would you step this way, please?”
Straightening up upon this pleasant greeting, and giving a significant look to Emily, his wife, Samuel Wilson looked in the indicated direction. A door on the far side of the room was open.
He confidently stepped into the doorway ahead of the gentleman. To his shock, he saw the room was little better than a broom closet with one bare bulb hanging in the ceiling. H halted suddenly.
There was nothing in there but a hole in the floor and some heavy-looking sacks lined up against the wall.
“What’s this?” He gasped in shock.
“It's an oubliette, my good man.” Ramon kicked him in the kidneys.
As the gentleman writhed on the ground, Ramon booted him in the throat. He wrestled him into position, and then shoved him in headfirst. Rising, he dusted off his hands, looking pleased.
He saw the lady, standing in the doorway with a vacant stare on her face.
“An oubliette, Madam.” Ramon was ever so polite.
She made a funny little sound and goggled at Ramon. He crooked his finger at her and she stepped forward jerkily, eyes all white around the edges. She was like a marionette, walking on its own but balancing on the strings.
“Ugh…ah….peep…” She shuddered in anticipation.
Water dripped to the floor from under her skirt as she stared at him with disbelieving eyes.
He put his left hand on her shoulder. Then Ramon punched her in the guts. She collapsed in a heap and he stuffed her in headfirst as well.
There was a frothy, wet sound from her kicking. He hefted a sack full of sand and then dropped it into the hole to force them down. Opening up yet another door, he pulled out the mop and bucket.
“No, seriously, ma’am.” Sylvester was speaking to a tall, auburn haired woman standing at the counter holding onto a clear plastic bag with colourful linens in it. “That’s our Mister Ramon. I promise you! You really don’t want to meet our Mister Ramon.”
Note: 'Mr. Ramon' originally appeared in Dark Valentine, an online horror magazine that has since been closed by its editors.