The Salesman

by Krazydiamond

There was nothing between the smooth lines of chrome housing units but dust and prairie grass. Spiff should know as he'd driven through most of the great state of Kansas in his beat up rig, a once sweet little t-bird. He'd upgraded and retrofitted the engine himself, disposing the gas guzzling tank for a smooth running fusion device. That did not stop his car from choking and sputtering on the mass amounts of dust particulates kicked up with every passing breeze but it carried on, as did he.

The car rattled to a stop at the entrance to a U shaped bend, a line of shiny metal units only slightly nipped by the never ending dust. No kids outside, a given if there was sunshine, dust or not, but this was a good news. His potential clientele had to be of a certain age. Spiff nabbed his sample case off the back seat and struggled to peel himself out of the vehicle. The outer plastique of his jump suit was thoroughly rumpled from the long drive and no amount of smoothing by his hands could fix it. Grumbling, he snatched the static wand from the glove box. It hummed to life, a short sparking rod he slowly passed over his suit that zapped the wrinkles out. Satisfied he was presentable, he turned it off and tossed the wand in the passenger seat. Spiff didn't bother to lock up. Nobody wanted a beat up old thing, upgraded or not, the future was about the shiny and new.

Which was why his product sold so well to the right customer.

Spiff checked his grin in the side mirror. "Ready to knock em dead."

The first module was a dud. In the worse sense. Spiff rapped his knuckles on the front panel, fidgeting from foot to foot, the heavy case knocking against his thigh. He wondered if no one was home when a short eye level panel slid open. Spiff found a ray gun jammed up his left nostril. A pair of blood shot eyes peered at him through the slat, nearly engulfed by a wild bushy set of white eyebrows.

"No soliciting," snarled the occupant.

Undeterred he lifted his sample case in the air. "Good morning, sir, can I interest you in sampling Dr. Moxley's Anti-Aging Cream ™?"

The rounded nub of the ray gun nudged further into his nostril. "Ow," he said.

"Are you daft, boy?" The occupant grumbled.

Boy? Spiff barely managed to keep a straight face. The only sort to call him 'boy' were just the clients he was looking for. "Possibly. I could help but notice the size of your thumb joints sir. Dr. Moxley's Anti-Aging Cream ™ also helps with that pesky joint pain with its secret patented formula."

The hands in question, swollen joints and all, tightened on the grip of the raygun as Spiff spoke. "I said no solic-"

"We guarantee miraculous results or your money back." Spiff carried on, ending with a wide grin that displayed all his carefully polished white teeth.

"It's like you want me to disintegrate your nose," the old fellow muttered.

"I could leave my card and an informational data chip with you," said Spiff.

"Will that get rid of you?"

His grin didn't waver. "It would."

The raygun finally dislodged from his nostril as the old man sighed. "Shove it through the slat."

Spiff kept his grin firmly in place as he slid a small square of plastic through the slat. It slammed shut, nearly catching his fingers. He waited until he was several steps away from the house before he muttered "Wretched old coot."

The next four houses were also a bust but at least he didn't find any weaponry shoved in his face. The last one at least took his informational chip but so far not so much as a nibble. He eyed the next house, his mouth pursing at the arrangement of neon pink flamingos sprinkled between cheery little gnomes...in banana hammocks. They were all arranged around a fountain pool, merrily mocking the rest of the dusty neighborhood. It was the only house on the block with a green lawn.

"Huh," Spiff muttered, tucking the sample case under his arm as he approached the front panel. He raised a hand and knocked. The door flew open before his knuckles barely met metal. He looked down at the lavender beehive updo precariously perched atop the old gal's head. His grin returned. He could tell from a glance she was a potential client.

The old gal beamed up at him through the folds of skin that comprised her face. His sort of client exactly.

"Hello young man, do you need something?"

"Good day, Miss, can I interest you in sampling Dr. Moxley's specially patented Anti Aging Cream ™?"

"Anti- aging?" she blinked at him through a pair of coke bottle lenses that magnified her washed out blue eyes. "My what marvelous times we live in. Do come in. I have some cookies just coming out of the oven."

"Oh, cookies," said Spiff, following her slow shuffle with anticipation. He set eyes on her kitchen first, including said cookies coming out of the newest high tech atomic oven. He hid his smirk at t he empty cardboard spiral from Pillsbury premades sitting on her counter. She must have thrown them on the baking sheet as she saw him walking across her lawn. Thoughtful and lonely, perfect. He set his case on the kitchen table, a table kept meticulously clean as the rest of her kitchen, which like the stove was decked out in modern gadgetry. He spotted a fusion mixer and atomic ice cream maker tucked back against her chrome fridge. The old gal liked her gadgets and she lived in the now. He could work with that.

She placed a plate of steaming sugar cookies on the table with two glasses of milk. It was such a grandmotherly gesture he had a moment of hesitation until she settled down across from him with a heavy sigh, her hips cracking.

Spiff bit into a cookie. Grandmother or not, no one should have to live with aches and cracks, not when he carried the cure in his brief case. He swung the case toward her.

"Now Miss–?"

"Oh, Miss Regan," she flapped a hand at him, gazing expectantly into the case.

"Miss Regan," he beamed at her, "what I have to offer you today is a specially formulated Anti Aging cream that works so well, I guarantee immediately results or you don't pay a dime."

Her drawn on eyebrows rose at his claim. "Immediate results? That is quite a claim young man."

He smiled indulgently at her. "Ah you see, I am living proof for these results for I am not only a salesman of this fabulous product," he unzipped the breast pocket of his jump suit, removing the photo he kept there. He thrust it toward Miss Regan, watching her eyes widen, then squint, and finally turn calculating. "I am also a client."

She blinked up at him. "This can't be you," she said.

The picture was of himself, taken exactly one year ago when he began using Dr. Moxley's Anti Aging Cream ™. He knew exactly what he looked like in the photo, though he had not dared to look at himself in months, in some Dorian Gray irrational fear that laying eyes on the 80 year old man in the photo would cause him to revert.

"It works," said Spiff, nodding to the plain opaque back of the photo "I can personally testify."

He carefully tucked the photo back into his pocket without looking, and unscrewed the cap off his sample. "Would you like to try a sample?"

Miss Regan considered him before offering the black of her liver spotted hand. He grasped her hand firmly, since the cream caused a tingling sensation and he didn't want her to pull away. There were pictures on the fridge, made to look like a loose cluster but placed with the same care as everything else in the room, place so the woman in them could be seen by anyone who looked at them. Brunette curls, ocean blue eyes he could make out from here, and a blinding smile that matched the gleam of sunlight off the Red Rocket she straddled, one of the earliest models of the atomic powered racing vehicles.

"Used to be a racer?" He wanted to distract her as much as satisfy his curiosity. It was hard to the vibrant young woman beneath the lavender puff of hair and sagging skin but he hoped to change that momentarily.

"Oh yes," said Miss Regan. "I was the champion of my league." She batted her eyes at him. "But by the time I was ready to settle down and retire, my bones were already starting to ache. Racing is tough on the system you see." She gasped, her gnarled fingers wrapping around his.

"My goodness that does sting."

"Only for a moment," Spiff reassured her. The fresh knowledge of her former racing glory made the money signs burst behind his eyelids. This old gal was in the bag.

They watched together in pregnant silence as the cream sank into Miss Regan's skin. The effects were...instant. The wrinkles smoothed, her skin gaining back an elasticity thirty years gone. The old lady gasped, covering her mouth with her other hand as tears sprang to her eyes.

"And the effectiveness continues to improve with further use," said Spiff.

The skin at her throat wobbled as she swallowed a few times. "How much?"

"Well, a single jar run about 200 credits, they are about twice as large as this one. It should give you a month's supply. Now I can set up a payment plan–"

Miss Regan's hand landed heavily on his. "Tosh the payment plan. I was a champion racer boy. Do you know how much bank I am sitting on with nowhere to go? How much of this stuff you carrying?"

The wheels of calculation were nearly drowned out by the sweet sweet sound of credits dinging over into his empty bank account. Spiff cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking. "I have six cases in my trunk."

The gleam in her eyes was a predatory as it was excited. "I'll take the lot."

Spiff couldn't fetch the T-bird fast enough. It had it rumbling out beside the flamingos and bikini clad lawn gnomes in five minutes after running flat out to fetch it. He was carrying in the first case to find Miss Regan downloading credits onto a flash stick for him to deposit later. The old lady was a true miracle. This would cover his needs for nearly a year. He froze at the sight of the cat curled up on her lap.

"You have cats, Miss Regan?" He hesitated, his conscience warring with the downloading credit right in front of him.

She gave a dismissive flap of her hand. "Oh its just me and the ladies," she said. "It gets lonely out here and the neighbors are useless."

He could agree with her there but the cat worried him, its little whiskers twitching as he set the case on the kitchen table. The cat was already sniffing the air.

"Ah, Miss Regan, I should warn you, do not, under any circumstances let your pets get into the product."

She frowned at him. "It's not safe?"

"Oh it's perfectly safe for humans, and it won't kill them, but it does have some unusual side effects. One of the ingredients is actual cream and they can't seem to help but give it a lick if they get into it, so please, keep it up high and sealed." After a small internal battle he slid his card to her. "Call me if there are any problems."

She winked at him. "Will do, young man."

It wasn't until Spiff was driving away he realized he didn't bother to ask how many 'ladies' Miss Regan actually had. He glanced at her eccentric lawn ornaments shrinking in his rearview mirror.

It would be fine. Absolutely fine.

She had his card.

**

It took him the better part of a day's drive to finally make it home, 50,000 credits richer. Dr. Spiff Moxley parked his T-bird in the garage, breathing in the familiar scent of his home and laboratory with a delighted sigh. Miss Regan was a life saver. Science and invention was his first and foremost passion but it didn't truly pay the bills, not without a little...salesmanship.

Dr. Moxley's Anti-Aging Cream ™ truly was a successful invention but it was hard to market outside of tireless door to door pitches due to one pesky little set back.

He entered the lab via the side door, immediately met with a roar and snarl from the electrified titanium cage set near the door.

Dr. Moxley looked affectionately at his former Siamese cat, not a mutated mess of teeth, scales and terror. "Should have kept your nose out of the cream, Mortimer," he tutted, before slipping into his lab coat.

**

Miss Regan carried the last box downstairs with a spring in her step. She could already feel the cream working its magic on her. She felt thirty years younger. That young man–that man was a miracle worker. She shoved the case into the cabinet, shooing the cat sniffing at it.

"Now you get out of there, Peaches," she said. The cat jumped down with a huff, circling at her feet with the others.

Miss Regan ignored them as she shut the cabinet. It cracked open, the latch never quite closing all the way. She turned to the ladies, all nineteen of them, lovely little strays she had collected over the years. "Now girls, keep out of the cabinet, understand? This is mama's special stuff." She made her way back upstairs, heading for the garage to dust off the Red Rocket. Maybe she would take it for a spin around the neighborhood and give these old geezers something to really ogle at.

The cats stayed where they were, all nineteen of them staring, their noses twitching, at the cracked open cabinet.