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Written by Richard Alan Long
It was a hot July, prickly heat was making the Salesman want to scream and several times he did. The passer-by didn’t hear him as he yelled at them over his car stereo. The old hag crossing at the zebra didn’t respond when he screamed at her to get a fucking move on. It seemed no one in the town was interested in what the Salesman had to offer.
All the road signs told him he was in Yardale, but he could have sworn it was Wesburn. He was certain that a year ago when he came to this shit tip that the name of the town was different. Everything but the relentless heat seemed to have changed.
He parked the car at the side of the road, doubtful if he’d get a ticket. Fuck them anyway he thought, let the company pay for it if I get fined.
He got out the car and glanced up the street to the cluster of shops. There was no one on main street. The once busy town he remembered was empty. Still, he thought wiping his top lip, there must be someone I can sell insurance too.
Where was the old hag that had crossed the road?
He looked across to where more shops were situated but couldn't see her. A red neon sign said OPEN in the front of the newsagents and the Salesman pondered the idea of buying a few cold Cokes but then decided against it.
“Damn, it’s hot”, he said to no one as he began wiping a line of sweat from his brow, it was always too hot. Too hot to work and even too hot to smoke, but he smoked anyway as he formulated a plan. Have a drink his mind told him, one for the job as you decide what street to hit. Find a row of bungalows with the aged in them. He could get them to sign up for anything as long as he promised them a free clock and used his presidential trustworthy smile.
He pressed the alarm on his car keys and waited for it to make its double beep sound.
There was a pub over the road called ‘New Beginnings.’ A pretentious hipster looking bar he thought, but wasn’t it called the Three Lions or something last time?
Fuck it, though.
Places change but lager doesn’t and that’s what he needed- that and a nice air conditioned corner to rest his sopping balls that felt like they had been lost in a swamp between his legs.
He crossed the empty road and walked towards the bar with the sun on his back following close behind, slowly frying his large already red roll of a neck.
A few empty chairs and tables were outside the pub.
Where is everybody, he wondered when suddenly the door to the pub burst open and someone ran out almost knocking him off his feet.
The Salesman shouted, but the hooded stranger paid no notice and blitzed up the street. What the hell is that kid holding, thought the Salesman.
Is that a fake leg?
It sure looked that way, as the shadowy figure ran up the middle of the deserted road.
“Fucking kids,” he muttered and opened the brass handled door and walked inside the pub.
There was something at the bar. It made him stop suddenly and forget about the heat. His legs started shaking slightly like a dumb cartoon character.
He didn’t know what it...
An animal or...
It looked back at him, slurping its drink through a straw. Its eyes were completely black and dead. Purple veins streaked up its long face like road maps to the creature’s temples. A small mouth closed around the straw.
On the floor was a mess of blood and chunks of body...
The Salesman quickly spun on the spot and grabbed the door to leave.
The door was locked.
He tried it again.
Still locked.
“How long have you been standing there?” asked the thing at the bar, and when The Salesman turned back he saw a woman staring back at him.
He wondered if it had been the heat fucking with him. As a kid, he’d had sunstroke once and thought he heard his dead brother shouting his name to come and get dinner.
His head was beating with a fantastic migraine that had suddenly erupted without warning. He wiped his eyes which were stinging dry like burning golf balls and looked at the bar, trying to do anything to get what he’d thought he’d seen from his head.
What I saw, he wondered.
Something bad.
He was sure it was...
A young woman with flowing blonde hair smiled back at him and the Salesman’s mouth lifted into a cracked smile.
I could have a good time with that, he thought.
She smiled back at him. She looked early-twenties.
He wondered what was it about that stare. It was like she was undressing him with her eyes. She was trying to imagine what was behind his shirt and trousers. Which was crazy. No one would ever look at him like that. He might be horny but he wasn't stupid. At fifty – six any good looks he might have held in his late teens had gone. Hidden behind a beer belly, a mask of wrinkled skin and a balding nest of hair.
Yet, it didn’t stop the punishing lust he had for her.
“I said, how long were you standing there?”
The Salesman gasped.
“It isn’t a hard question, is it?” she asked.
“Not long,” he said gingerly.
He wanted to say something about what he saw, but then his head throbbed reputably.
The woman slowly took a sip from her glass, not bothering with the straw. He was sure she knew he wanted to fuck her. Right here, right now, on the bar if she liked. It didn’t matter to him. He had done it in stranger places. The hunger he felt for her was foreign to him. Sure, he'd had burning desires before, but this was almost overpowering to the point it was hurting just to look at her.
Her tan looked real. No orange, or marks where it had faded or been washed off. Her skin was perfectly browned and he was sure it would taste as good as it looked.
“I said tell me what you saw when you walked in here?”
The Salesman had almost forgotten what he’d saw, was almost convinced now it had all been sunstroke. All he was sure about was what he was seeing now. A young woman, no older than his bitchy, fat stepdaughter.
“I only just walked in when you turned around.”
“Now, why don't I believe you?” she asked, provocatively.
A cold draft blew over his body.
Perhaps she was right. There was something else to remember.
Something about the way she looked at him was making him forget everything, like it was just pouring out of his head, including the migraine.
Go to her.
The Salesman slowly moved across to the bar and sat down facing her.
She was drinking a glass of lemonade. Although it could have been gin and tonic, but the idea of tasting her lips and mouth sweetened with lemonade made him smile. It looked cold and the beads of icy sweat running down the glass made him thirsty.
“You want some?” she asked as she pushed him the glass.
“Thanks,” he replied, before taking a long drink from the glass.
It wasn't lemonade. It wasn't gin either. He wasn't sure what it was but it tasted good and sweet.
He looked down and saw her tanned cleavage and then his eyes shifted to her crossed legs. There were secrets to be had in between those legs, he was sure.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked, turning on her chair towards him.
He couldn’t stop staring at her breasts. Even if he tried, he couldn't. Shit, this wasn't like him. Yes, he was sexist and would take any pussy on offer, but he liked to think he had some reserve and some control- yet here he was, behaving like a dog in heat.
The Salesman tried and managed to look up into her tender inviting green eyes.
“Do you want to touch me, then?” she asked, pushing a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.
His hands shook. Before he could reach out she was pulling down her dress, revealing her firm, hand-sized breasts.
He wanted to touch her, grab those tits and...but there was a warning sign, echoing way off in his mind, it tried to tell him something was amiss.
Why is a young, fit woman offering a fat sweaty prick like you anything, so easy?
He didn’t care.
He didn’t even care if it was a set up. If Wendy and his bitch stepdaughter had paid some whore to catch him out. She maybe wants a divorce and...fuck it he didn’t care because all that mattered was...
Suddenly his headache was gone, along with any control he might have had.
He pressed his hand on her leg and it felt soft and warmed by the heat.
His breathing suddenly began to speed up. A million scenarios rushed through his head and all involved the two of them naked on the bar.
Her smell was intoxicatingly brilliant. He'd never smelled a woman or perfume as good. He wanted to smoother his head in her breasts and take a deep smell when suddenly...
Grey.
Suddenly the leg had turned grey and wet beneath his hand. His imagination had ended. He felt the headache return and with it, his common sense. He looked at his hand which was touching a watery grey leg that felt like jellied eels.
Grey.
Everywhere she was grey.
He looked up and saw the creature staring back at him perversely from its black lifeless shark-like eyes.
It sat dome shaped on the seat like some sort of prehistoric sea creature. A cross with a seal and some sort of monster.
The things mouth hung open revealing tiny razor sharp, yellowed teeth. Halitosis was ripe with the foul creature, and the Salesman gasped.
Quickly he turned to jump from his chair and run when the creature was on him, sucking and ripping at his body.
He fell backwards off the chair and it followed him, only now there were others, all viciously fighting over what the salesman had to offer.
There’s enough to go around ladies, but these things weren’t ladies. One of them was running out of the door holding something of his- a leg, he thought.
Another was sucking out his tongue- but there was no pain.
He saw his stomach open and a host of slime-covered, glistening fingers taking out his major workings- still though, there was no pain.
Glob-us heads stared down at him, sweating grey droplets onto his face as they enjoyed his offerings.
The darkness came soon- one of them, he didn’t know which, had sucked out his eyes and he could hear them being swallowed in loud gulps.
His penis was still hard but he wasn’t sure if they had taken that also.
After what felt like minutes, he felt his head drifting and he was sure the bar had been called the Three Lions last time he was in it, and he was sure these creatures had dined on everyone in the piss-ant of a town. Then he thought for a quick second of Wendy and his bitch stepdaughter and then there was nothing.
Bio
Richard Alan Long (sometimes credited as Richard Long) is a novelist, short stories writer and poet. He lives with his wife and children in the U.K.
Recently author and actress Lori Cardille (George A. Romero's Day of the Dead) supported Richard in the publication of his first poetry collection.
Richard has currently finished three novels all due for release soon alongside several short stories all commissioned by different publishers.
Praise for Richard Alan Long
'Sometimes we must walk into the dark spaces to see the light. Richard long's beautiful and haunting poetry helps us find our true nature' - Lori Cardille (George A. Romero's Day of the Dead)
'This short story tugged at my heartstrings and made me wonder about life and death. The character is strong, and the content very well written' - Review of 'The Long Distance Call’