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"The Salesman"

This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago: one of the few that I've ever finished and one of the very few that I still think are good. I THINK it's about death, inequality and prejudice - but I may be wrong. Sorry about any typos but I had to scan this into my system from a hard copy: the software kept calling the main character Mr Alien, which detracted from the atmosphere somewhat. And of course I had a minor ruckus with the swear filter.

Anyway, enjoy!

Oh yeah: it might seem long, but there's a lot of dialogue so it isn't really. Honest.

====================

The Salesman

If the adrenaline glands of the rhesus collosas are removed no more than one hour after its death then the chemicals contained within act as a powerful narcotic. It is a drug that simulates death. It is an awesome release: all that was your life rolls into a burning ball of colour; it is a tongue that licks every inch of skin, a mouth that sucks each organ from the inside; it is a cool breath of air: the pain of dying is suddenly insignificant; it is nothing, not even a feather. As a drug it is unique. There are no side effects, physical or otherwise. It eases death but does not cause it; the user experiences no come down because to emerge from its embrace is to be born again, to be forgiven; and the mind is stretched but never altered because to taste death is to surpass the limits of knowledge.

It has many names: bones, rigour, heaven, hell, the afterlife, the tunnel, the word, the world, gods' eyes, wisdom. (It is also known by the names of deadly compounds and venoms; of fatal shaolin movements; of methods of suicide and of documented miracles. Inhaled, its fumes are called mustard gas, but also oxygen.) It is the most potent, unimaginable drug that man can experience but, extracted from the glands of the endangered rhesus collosas, its cost is prohibitive.

This Tito Ramirez explains to his companion, his eyes always folded in the shadow of the brim of his hat. The man opposite listens, impatient because he is aware of this already: he has been for some time. But he sits passively, nevertheless, fidgeting in the low light of the bar, not daring to cut Ramirez short.

'You think that gods' eyes show you death?', Ramirez asks. 'You think that what poachers squeeze from monkeys is apocalypse: that it is like being shot with bliss, hanged by a rope of angel's hair? It is nothing.'

The other man at the table stops dead, the conversation is finally reaching its point.

'Smoking monkey resin, it is like a bad flu ... a fever ... It is nothing like death. It is nothing.'

'And that is why I am here, Mr Ramirez.'

'Yes.'

'And you have something ... better?'

'Yes. But I am not sure, Mr Allen...', Ramirez glances at his companion's watch, '...whether you have the means to buy it.'

Allen places his wrist on the table: with a finger he traces the watch's gold band then points to the name on its face. His finger stays there, tapping on the perfect glass. Ramirez pulls his hat back on his head; his eyes meet Allen's for the first time.

Ramirez smiles. 'These things, they do not come cheap. A good watch, a nice suit.' He angles the lighted tip of his cigarette at Allen. 'They do not come cheap. But they are not ... prohibitively expensive. A man with a good watch, with a nice suit, he can still live in a ... box; he can still eat ... scraps.'

'I have the money, I promise you that.'

'You have it ... here?'

'My contact named a price, I have that amount.' Allen removes a pen and a business card from an inside pocket; he writes a figure on the card and eases it across the table. Ramirez reads the number; he shakes his head a little, his lips purse. He gestures for the pen, amends the figure and pushes the card back to Allen.

Allen nods.

'The money is in the briefcase?'

'I need to be sure: do you have what I want?'

'If I did not then I would not be in business, Mr Allen.'

'I want to know what you have for me.'

Ramirez nods. 'I am not a bone dealer, I do not want to sell you the death of a rhesus collosas. I do not deal in that ... monkey $h1t. Everything I sell, every little thing, is one hundred ten per cent people. I sell you the death of another man.'

'And this man, he was ... worth something?'

'I do not kill the homeless, junkies, poor people. I have said already: I do not deal in that monkey $h1t.'

'And this man ... ?'

'This man, he was ... very much like you, Mr Allen, very much.'

Both men smile.

'Successful?', Alien asks.

'Yes.'

'And rich?'

'Mr Allen, what I have', a phial of dark liquid appears in Ramirez's hand, and just as quickly it is gone, '... is not the liquid from some fupping chimp who is losing jungle, the trees, some nuts, a ... banana. This is squeezed from a man who is losing his house, his car, his swimming pool, his wife. He is losing his maid who he fupps everyday, his career, his three holidays a year, his corner office. This substance ... it is too much for any man.'

'And forgive me for asking it is not just gods' eyes in ... liquid form.'

Ramirez appears unphased. 'I understand your concerns, you need to be sure: who would not be? But I guarantee this is real: I killed this man myself, I am a one man operation. 1 can guarantee you, Mr Allen this is no monkey $h1t.'

Allen nods. 'OK.'

'Good', says Ramirez. 'But ... not here.' He stands up and leads Allen out of a side entrance into a narrow alleyway. He closes the door behind them. Twenty, thirty yards away a line of cars rolls past in the midday sun; the noise of the street is muffled in the alley's shadows. Allen kneels on the ground, adjusting the locks on his briefcase: once he stands up its lid lies open. Ramirez nods his approval at the neat piles of banknotes bound and stacked inside.

'There is one more ... condition', Ramirez says.

Allen shakes his head.

'Yes: you take it here, now.'

Allen looks around in disgust: the dark, the trails of stagnant water, the litter that will never be picked up: he looks back to Ramirez.

'Mr Allen, you do not seem to understand: this is an extremely powerful narcotic. Where you take it is ... irrelevant.'

'Then why can't...'

'Please: this is not negotiable, you take it here and now or ... or there is no sale.'

Allen looks at Ramirez, disbelieving; but the face he sees is entirely serious.

'Why?', Allen asks.

'You are not taking monkey $h1t!', Ramirez sounds exasperated, impatient. 'You are not buying a little piece of hash, you are not even buying bones: if you are not prepared to meet my terms then I will find another buyer.'

'I just don't see...', Allen begins.

'Mr Allen, to you this trip will seem like forever: you will not know where you and you will not care. To me your trip will only last minutes. It is ... worthwhile for me to be present while my customers are high. This is a powerful drug, your actions are unpredictable: I do not want you to talk, I do not want you to accost anybody, I do not want you to arouse suspicion ... I do not want you to be killed. It is not in my interests.'

'It is this way, Mr Allen, or it is no way at all.'

Allen nods.

The phial of dark liquid appears again in Ramirez's hand. Allen moves to offer Ramirez the briefcase; Ramirez waves it away. 'I trust you, I will take my payment ... later.'

Allen takes the phial from Ramirez, circles its opening with his lips, tips back his head, and drinks. The taste is warm and familiar: Allen tries to place it but can think only of losing his milk teeth, of sucking at deep scratches while resting in the branches of some tree. Seconds after realising he is drinking blood, Allen is dead. He saw almost nothing: Ramirez holding a spare piece of sunlight, a triangle of silver; a movement; the broken ground: nothing else.

Ramirez kneels beside the body, one hand resting on the briefcase, the other holding a fresh phial: blood drips into it from the corner of Allen's mouth. Ramirez seals the container and secretes it in his jacket. He smoothes the hair away from Allen's forehead and speaks softly to the dead man: 'I'm sorry, Mr Allen, I must go, I have another appointment.'

Spooky tale, although I did suspect that Mr.Allen was going to be killed by the drug as soon as Ramirez insisted that he should take it there and then. I enjoyed it all the same.

This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago: one of the few that I've ever finished and one of the very few that I still think are good. I THINK it's about death, inequality and prejudice - but I may be wrong. Sorry about any typos but I had to scan this into my system from a hard copy: the software kept calling the main character Mr Alien, which detracted from the atmosphere somewhat. And of course I had a minor ruckus with the swear filter.

Anyway, enjoy!

Oh yeah: it might seem long, but there's a lot of dialogue so it isn't really. Honest.

====================

The Salesman

If the adrenaline glands of the rhesus collosas are removed no more than one hour after its death then the chemicals contained within act as a powerful narcotic. It is a drug that simulates death. It is an awesome release: all that was your life rolls into a burning ball of colour; it is a tongue that licks every inch of skin, a mouth that sucks each organ from the inside; it is a cool breath of air: the pain of dying is suddenly insignificant; it is nothing, not even a feather. As a drug it is unique. There are no side effects, physical or otherwise. It eases death but does not cause it; the user experiences no come down because to emerge from its embrace is to be born again, to be forgiven; and the mind is stretched but never altered because to taste death is to surpass the limits of knowledge.

It has many names: bones, rigour, heaven, hell, the afterlife, the tunnel, the word, the world, gods' eyes, wisdom. (It is also known by the names of deadly compounds and venoms; of fatal shaolin movements; of methods of suicide and of documented miracles. Inhaled, its fumes are called mustard gas, but also oxygen.) It is the most potent, unimaginable drug that man can experience but, extracted from the glands of the endangered rhesus collosas, its cost is prohibitive.

This Tito Ramirez explains to his companion, his eyes always folded in the shadow of the brim of his hat. The man opposite listens, impatient because he is aware of this already: he has been for some time. But he sits passively, nevertheless, fidgeting in the low light of the bar, not daring to cut Ramirez short.

'You think that gods' eyes show you death?', Ramirez asks. 'You think that what poachers squeeze from monkeys is apocalypse: that it is like being shot with bliss, hanged by a rope of angel's hair? It is nothing.'

The other man at the table stops dead, the conversation is finally reaching its point.

'Smoking monkey resin, it is like a bad flu ... a fever ... It is nothing like death. It is nothing.'

'And that is why I am here, Mr Ramirez.'

'Yes.'

'And you have something ... better?'

'Yes. But I am not sure, Mr Allen...', Ramirez glances at his companion's watch, '...whether you have the means to buy it.'

Allen places his wrist on the table: with a finger he traces the watch's gold band then points to the name on its face. His finger stays there, tapping on the perfect glass. Ramirez pulls his hat back on his head; his eyes meet Allen's for the first time.

Ramirez smiles. 'These things, they do not come cheap. A good watch, a nice suit.' He angles the lighted tip of his cigarette at Allen. 'They do not come cheap. But they are not ... prohibitively expensive. A man with a good watch, with a nice suit, he can still live in a ... box; he can still eat ... scraps.'

'I have the money, I promise you that.'

'You have it ... here?'

'My contact named a price, I have that amount.' Allen removes a pen and a business card from an inside pocket; he writes a figure on the card and eases it across the table. Ramirez reads the number; he shakes his head a little, his lips purse. He gestures for the pen, amends the figure and pushes the card back to Allen.

Allen nods.

'The money is in the briefcase?'

'I need to be sure: do you have what I want?'

'If I did not then I would not be in business, Mr Allen.'

'I want to know what you have for me.'

Ramirez nods. 'I am not a bone dealer, I do not want to sell you the death of a rhesus collosas. I do not deal in that ... monkey $h1t. Everything I sell, every little thing, is one hundred ten per cent people. I sell you the death of another man.'

'And this man, he was ... worth something?'

'I do not kill the homeless, junkies, poor people. I have said already: I do not deal in that monkey $h1t.'

'And this man ... ?'

'This man, he was ... very much like you, Mr Allen, very much.'

Both men smile.

'Successful?', Alien asks.

'Yes.'

'And rich?'

'Mr Allen, what I have', a phial of dark liquid appears in Ramirez's hand, and just as quickly it is gone, '... is not the liquid from some fupping chimp who is losing jungle, the trees, some nuts, a ... banana. This is squeezed from a man who is losing his house, his car, his swimming pool, his wife. He is losing his maid who he fupps everyday, his career, his three holidays a year, his corner office. This substance ... it is too much for any man.'

'And forgive me for asking it is not just gods' eyes in ... liquid form.'

Ramirez appears unphased. 'I understand your concerns, you need to be sure: who would not be? But I guarantee this is real: I killed this man myself, I am a one man operation. 1 can guarantee you, Mr Allen this is no monkey $h1t.'

Allen nods. 'OK.'

'Good', says Ramirez. 'But ... not here.' He stands up and leads Allen out of a side entrance into a narrow alleyway. He closes the door behind them. Twenty, thirty yards away a line of cars rolls past in the midday sun; the noise of the street is muffled in the alley's shadows. Allen kneels on the ground, adjusting the locks on his briefcase: once he stands up its lid lies open. Ramirez nods his approval at the neat piles of banknotes bound and stacked inside.

'There is one more ... condition', Ramirez says.

Allen shakes his head.

'Yes: you take it here, now.'

Allen looks around in disgust: the dark, the trails of stagnant water, the litter that will never be picked up: he looks back to Ramirez.

'Mr Allen, you do not seem to understand: this is an extremely powerful narcotic. Where you take it is ... irrelevant.'

'Then why can't...'

'Please: this is not negotiable, you take it here and now or ... or there is no sale.'

Allen looks at Ramirez, disbelieving; but the face he sees is entirely serious.

'Why?', Allen asks.

'You are not taking monkey $h1t!', Ramirez sounds exasperated, impatient. 'You are not buying a little piece of hash, you are not even buying bones: if you are not prepared to meet my terms then I will find another buyer.'

'I just don't see...', Allen begins.

'Mr Allen, to you this trip will seem like forever: you will not know where you and you will not care. To me your trip will only last minutes. It is ... worthwhile for me to be present while my customers are high. This is a powerful drug, your actions are unpredictable: I do not want you to talk, I do not want you to accost anybody, I do not want you to arouse suspicion ... I do not want you to be killed. It is not in my interests.'

'It is this way, Mr Allen, or it is no way at all.'

Allen nods.

The phial of dark liquid appears again in Ramirez's hand. Allen moves to offer Ramirez the briefcase; Ramirez waves it away. 'I trust you, I will take my payment ... later.'

Allen takes the phial from Ramirez, circles its opening with his lips, tips back his head, and drinks. The taste is warm and familiar: Allen tries to place it but can think only of losing his milk teeth, of sucking at deep scratches while resting in the branches of some tree. Seconds after realising he is drinking blood, Allen is dead. He saw almost nothing: Ramirez holding a spare piece of sunlight, a triangle of silver; a movement; the broken ground: nothing else.

Ramirez kneels beside the body, one hand resting on the briefcase, the other holding a fresh phial: blood drips into it from the corner of Allen's mouth. Ramirez seals the container and secretes it in his jacket. He smoothes the hair away from Allen's forehead and speaks softly to the dead man: 'I'm sorry, Mr Allen, I must go, I have another appointment.'