Story #111 - Final Sale

Final Sale

I'm a salesman. Door-to-door, even in an age where post people won't come to their front door without a damn good reason. I get it – really. Nine times out of ten the person at your door is someone you don't want to see; someone selling chocolate cookies or almonds for a cause that is, at best, dubious. Or perhaps its a young man “selling” security systems as he eyes your treasures, just hoping to set foot inside your home and get the chance to rob you blind.

Believe it or not, I'm nothing like them. Really.

I sell souls.

Yeah – go ahead, roll your eyes, but I'm not one to lie, and I've convinced more than my fair share of doubters that what I have for sale is the real deal. How? Well, it starts with how I put myself together.

You're not going to see some slob at your door, hat perched off to the side of his head and clothes stained with the beer and pizza he had last night. Instead, you're going to look out that peephole and see a man, a real man in a trench coat, bowler, and shiny shoes that I've taken the time to buff to perfection. All of it's real, honest – I don't put on airs. This is just who I am.

Sure, sure – I can hear you say it – you'd never open the door for a guy like that. Thing is, you would for me. I've been told I've got an honest face, and I speak the words to match it. I don't tell a single lie when I'm at your door, from the moment you open it until the second I leave with your money.

Still not convinced? Let me break it down for you.

I sell souls. Yeah, you read it above, but you didn't really get it. You skipped right over it, figuring I'd made a mistake or was just trying to play it up for show. Nope. I sell real, honest-to-goodness pieces of some of the most famous souls in history, ones that you can have today and experience by the time I leave.

It's something unique; a product you don't see on store shelves and that you can't order over the Internet. Want 1/100^th of the soul of Genghis Khan? Sure. A fiftieth of Marilyn Monroe? You betcha. I've got what you need – North American, European, Asian – you just tell me what you want.

I don't need to be in the room to see the look on your face. “This guy is nuts,” you're thinking, but you're wrong on two counts. First up, I'm not crazy, just trying to offer you something that you can't find anywhere else. Second, I might look like a good friend or favorite uncle, but the fact is that I'm no man.

Bucky S. Kirkham, demon.

Yeah, you read it right, and I tell every single client I sell to exactly that as soon as I'm across the threshold. I'm not like a vampire; I could break in if I wanted to, but I think it's only polite that you know exactly who you're dealing with before you buy something. It's just the honest way to do business.

Again – demon. Forged in those same fires of hell you're so sure don't exist but that you try to keep out of by doing a good deed now and then. Used to work for that red, burning guy you're all so afraid of, but did my time there and got a contract to go above-ground and professional.

Do I have a tail and horns? Sure, if I want them. Demons are all about deception, and we'd be pretty useless if we couldn't change forms.

Of course, you confidence level right now is dipping. “He's just told me he's a demon – and deceptive! I'd slam the door in his face”. Nope. You think you would, but you know as well as I do that a little bit of deception is par for the sales course, but you wouldn't find a bit of it on me. You'd be impressed.

It goes like this: I come inside, you ask what I do, I tell you, and you laugh. Next up, it's free sample time, and you get five minutes as the celebrity soul of your choice, glorying in the feeling of King Arthur’s power, Aristotle’s wisdom or vision of Leonardo da Vinci. Then it's over, and you're begging me to ply my wares, show you what I've really got for sale.

I've got it all.

You paw through my catalog, breath catching in your throat as you realize just what you could have – and look at the prices – they're almost criminal. You ask how long you get the soul for, and I tell you it's forever. I'm not in the business of doing deals like my former boss.

You'll ask to see the contract, just like you should, and you'll skim over it. All is in order, and you pick out your favorite. Great! You're going to get just what you want.

It's as simple as that, really. You'll feel different right away as one of the greats of history takes up partial residence inside your body. Each day, you'll discover more about the soul you've picked to keep you company for the rest of your life.

Oh, and that bit of soul I had to take? The one that had to leave so a new one could be put in its place? Don't you worry about it. I've got a special plan in mind for those, one that shouldn't bother you as you glory in your purchase. I'll just hold on to what you've freely given up.

You've made a good choice, I'll say as I leave, and you'll wave, knowing that you got the best of me, that I was foolish to sell so much for so little.

Just remember: no refunds, final sale.

- D

Story #110 - Plant Strife

Plant Strife

“What do you mean, we're all out of plants?” Dorian Grue's voice was incredulous.

“Exactly what I said, Dr. Grue. I didn't misspeak. This entire planet is now devoid of plant life. We knew it was coming – and so did you – the moment just arrived earlier than we'd thought.”

Grue held down a sarcastic chuckle at the last. They'd been late getting to Sau Delta Four, later than any of their instruments predicted they would be, and then discovered that the planet held only half of what original scans had reported in terms of both wild and plant life. Looking over the data in the days following the landing, he and others determined that a residual orbital signature from the planet had caused a double reading – and gave SD-4 the look of a lush paradise.

Instead, they had found a hard-scrabble planet, down on its luck and with most of its plant matter in the dying stages. Grue had never been able to find the cause – likely a pre-landing cataclysm of some kind – but that didn't change what was happening. Planet supplements were developed, existing strains were encouraged and rationing across all colonists was enforced. Under strict rules, the colony grew to over five million strong, and new generations were raised having never seen a tree or smelled a flower.

Now, it seemed they never would.

“Earlier is quite glib, don't you think, Mark?” Grue said, looking down at the younger man. Mark Tilb was a good councilman who had at least a modicum of scientific background, but he had a penchant for making light of even the darkest of situations. Ordinarily, Dorian found the trait amusing, but today it just served to irritate him.

“Not at all, Dr. Grue. A windstorm to the north combined with the small power reactor accident here in the city wiped out the last of our new crops, ones we'd been depending on for this year and for next. We should have had three or four more years at least, but circumstances have changed; we have arrived here earlier than expected.”

Dorian drew in a deep breath. Mark was right, of course, and it wasn't his fault the planet was now a barren wasteland. “I'm sorry, Mark. That was unkind. As you can imagine, this news has me on edge, but that's no excuse.”

A small smile cut across Mark's broad features. “It's fine, Dorian, but please try to restrain yourself in the future when I come bearing bad news.” His tone was light, but Mark wasn't really kidding. Fair enough.

“Well, at least we've still got our hydros in Storage City.” It was a terrible name for the place, but so few people lived there they'd never bothered to give it any other designator.

Mark shifted on his feet, and his eyes flicked away from Dorian's. “Well...no. Not exactly.” He paused. “Or at all.”

“What?!” Dorian's voice jumped into a half-shout, and he took a quick breath to calm himself down. “What the hell are you talking about, Mark?”

The councilman sighed. “Look, Dorian. The council knows how desperate the people have been getting, and we couldn't risk a riot. So long as they believed the storage cache of hydros was there, they went on with their daily lives. We couldn't tell them we'd used it all up – order had to be maintained.”

Dorian sat down hard. This was insanity – and he should have known better. He could have asked more questions, fought for more answers, but no. No, he was happy to venture out into the planet's wild, cataloging fauna and blissfully ignore what was going on back in the city. Now, he was paying the price.

They all would.

“So, Mark? Why have you come to me? Just to let me in on the secret? I can't make plants grow any more than you can – that's not my specialty.”

“I know,” Mark said softly, “and I'm sorry to bring you into this, but we need someone we can trust. Someone the people will trust. Someone that can convince them we have their best interests at heart.” The man looked sheepish; what was this about?

“Don't beat around the bush, Mark. Tell me what you want.”

“Look, I...there's no good way to put this, so I'm just going to say it. We've found that a large number of – marginal citizens, let's call them – have plant matter in their systems. We all do, of course, but they have more than most, owing to the fact that they had to live off the land longer than the rest of us. For the good of the colony, we're considering holding, well, have you ever read 'The Lottery'?”

Dorian felt his skin crawl. “You mean -”

“I'm afraid so. Their material could go a long way to no only supplying the populace, but helping us design new plant species.”

“Really? You couldn't synthesize something? Create something? You're actually going to butcher your fellow man for this?”

Mark sighed. “Look, Dorian, I don't like this any more than you, but it's the only choice we have. We've tried to synthesize plant life here, and you know it doesn’t work. We need more data, but we don't have the time. Right now, you've got to help us convince everyone this is the best choice for their future. Our future, as a society.”

“No.” The other man's face fell. “No, I'm sorry Mark, no matter how eloquently you put it, I can't get on board with it. It's murder, pure and simple.”

“It's preservation!” Mark produced a small device from his belt. “Here, look at this.” He pointed to a line of numbers scrolling across the surface. “You have a higher-than-average plant count, thanks to the fact that you've been outside so often in the last few years. Think about how high this number would be for someone who's lived outside that entire time!”

Dorian pushed the other man away. “No, Mark, and that's final. Now, please leave.”

He turned, and had no chance to see the other man pull a pistol from behind his back. The first shot took him in the shoulder – Mark was a poor marksman – but the next one hit where it mattered.

- D

“I'm sorry, Dorian,” Mark whispered, “but we need you, and if we can't have your voice, we'll at least have your body.”