LOOP NOIR

A Tribute to the Masters

“I can’t take care of that. Ask somewhere else.”

It is the ninth time you have swallowed that same bitter pill. It tastes of stale authority and bureaucratic rot. Still, you force the ghost of a smile, thank the clerk for nothing, and retreat. The door clicks shut with a finality that echoes down the hall.

You are back in the basement; a concrete artery lined with identical doors that bleed into the gloom. You check the blue slip in your hand. The ink is beginning to smudge from the sweat of your palms. Part of you wants to quit. But the typed command remains clear. Pointless as it all feels, you can’t stop. The system has no fail-safes for people like you.

Another lungful of the damp, recycled air and you try the next handle. Another desk. Another grey, hollowed-out man who looks at your paper, washed-out stones where the eyes used to be. “I can’t take care of that,” he drones. “Ask somewhere else.”

The offices begin to blur. You lose count of the rooms, the faces. The variations of disdain. The indifference. The annoyance. Sometimes, the hint of shock, just as dismissive. The refrain is always the same: “I can’t take care of that. Ask somewhere else.”

When you reach the next office, however, the handle turns into a vacuum. The room is empty.

A chair sits in the center of the dimness. It calls to your leaden legs like a siren. You slip inside, ensuring the corridor is deserted before the latch catches. You sink into the seat. Your body sags, heavy with a tiredness that tastes of surrender.

You tuck the blue slip into your jacket pocket and rest your arms on the desk. It is cold and bare. A clone resembling every other altar of apathy you have visited all morning. All day? You don’t even know anymore. You tell yourself it is only for a moment. You are afraid of whatever penalty is reserved for slackers like you. Exhaustion is a ruthless master, though. It overtakes you without any real resistance.

You drift. You wonder if death is just this: a sweet, irrepressible hollow where the muscles finally stop screaming. Slumber is your next destination. Do you dream?

A sharp, jagged knock cracks the silence. You bolt upright. The heart starts jerking like a mouse in a trap. There is no time to run, only for a whirlwind of dread to spin inside your mind. You fear the punishment, the end. Or something worse even: the eternity of a life as grey.

The door creaks. A shape materializes in the frame. The shadow turns into a man. Small, thin, just like you. He enters the room with a timid, apologetic gait. There’s a blue slip of paper in his hand.

“Excuse me, sir,” he mutters. “I’ve received this notification, and I’d like to know if...”

Before the sentence can land, a voice crawls out of your throat. It is thin, pitched with an acid hint of panic. You almost don’t recognize it:

“I can’t take care of that. Ask somewhere else.”

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Author’s note: I wrote this story back in 2013. It was already pretty Kafkaesque. Today (April 14, 2026), I decided to make it a bit more Noir, so it’s now also an homage to Raymond Chandler. 

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