Skrubly's Entry for Blender 29

The words are..:

encyclopedia salesman/rocking & rolling/goth party


        It was a pretty normal day, overall, which if you didn't know is        
a literary technique called "foreshadowing" which basically mean that 
shit's going to get really fucked up later in the story.  It's something I
picked up from reading Bloom County whilst perched upon the holy throne of
black-beans-and-mexi-melt penance.  But enough about how I spent last 
weekend, on with the story.

        So, like I was saying, it was a pretty normal day. A day that would
typically end up with me sleeping upside down in my own closet with nothing
on but a poorly placed washcloth and a bottle of tequila in my hand. Typical
day, you know.

        I've got this new gig going on right now. My roomate, Marty, got me 
into it.  It's called a multi-level direct marketing endevour.  In normal 
english, it means I sell stuff door to door. You know, can I come in and soil
your carpet and clean it up with this new vacuum type stuff. (I've walked 
into people's houses before and soiled their carpets, but I never had the
excuse that I was a vacuum salesman or something..) What I sell, though, is
encyclopedias. Real fucking original, I know. Why don't I just go door to
door, fling myself on the ground, and scream "GO OUT AND BY A GODDAMN CDROM
FOR SIXTY DOLLARS INSTEAD OF LISTENING TO MY PREFABRICATED SALES DRIVEL!",
you're asking? Well, because I work on comission and I'm sick of eating
Tina's burritos three meals a day. Anyways, Marty said it would be easy 
money and Marty hasn't done anything that required actual WORK since 1982.

        I've dogged all of the people in my neighborhood to death about this,
and since I live in a neighborhood that on a whole has an income equivalent
to one week at a quik-e-mart, no one can really afford a set of 3000 dollar
encyclopedias. So I set out to find greener pastures, and hopefully total
rich idiots that actually want paper encyclopedias instead of that new 
fangled computer stuff. 

        My destination: Greenwood Estates. Possibly one of the most posh,
upperclass districts in my entire town.  Their toolsheds are the size of my
house. Their driveways are also longer than my street, which makes for 
pretty tiring work, especially when you're lugging around a bunch of damn
books.

        The first house looked like a pretty good prospect, at first. Medium
sized driveway, no nasty dogs, manicured gardens (they can afford a gardner),
a lexus in the garage.. yea, this is it. 

        Ding-dong, the door opens , and I prepare to toady up to whoever the 
hell owns the place and has a full checking account.

        At first I wonder if I've actually contacted alien life, because this
guy is possibly the palest thing I've ever seen. You can practically see his
heart beating through his white dress shirt. The only thing that prevents you
is the pocket protector that seems to be outfitted with every single kind
of screwdriver known to mankind (and, well, maybe not even mankind. I told
you, the guy looks like a goddamn alien) But what really takes the cake is
what's behind him: what looks like the external case to an IBM 360 mainframe,
but is filled with all sorts of weird rack-mounted computer crap.  And what
looks like a DEC mini humming quietly next to it with a 30 disk cdrom 
changer sitting on top.

        At that point, the cyber-tool guy that owns the place speaks:

        "What are you selling?"

        "Nothing, man, nothing."

        "No, really."

        I shrug. "Encyclopedias."

        The guy squints through his glasses at me, then at the books, and
        then back to me. 

        "I'll buy them."

        "WHAT!?? I mean, okay...that'll be three thou- I mean, four thousand
        dollars. I can only take cash."

        "No problem." The guy takes out a carny roll the size of my head,
        and peels off the cash. At this point I've almost dropped a load
        in my pants and my eyes are doing that Scrooge-McDuck dollar sign
        thing. Really.

        In a haze, I pass him over the books and the sales slip and 
everything. After he has it all inside, I finally ask him:

        "Why don't you just buy a CDROM?"

        "I've got to have something to read on the can."

        With that, he shut the door and I wondered to myself what kind of
person would 1) Read encyclopedias on the can and 2) Be on the shitter LONG
ENOUGH to even consider it.

        Already I can tell this day is not normal.

        (See, that's "foreshadowing", folks. It's the sign of quality 
literature. You too can do it! It's easy and fun!)

        Since I normally carry two sets (aren't I a bright fucker..), I
decided to hit the next house. Which, looking back on it now, wasn't the
best idea in the world (That last part could be known as "genuflection" or
a pseudo-flashback sequence. Yet another hallmark of quality in fiction.)

        The house next to mega-tool was pretty weird looking. I mean, it
looked fine and all, but had this sleek, dark look to it. Even the lawn 
chairs out front was some weird ultra-expensive interpretation of 
Scandinavian Designs do-it-yourself furniture. That and the fact that there 
was something like five BMW's parked out front, all shined up and looking
ready to steal.

        Well, apparantly they weren't ready to steal, because when I got 
within fifteen feet of the front walkway, they all started making warning
noises and yelling at me in some weird language. German, maybe.

        I made it up to the door (polished black marble, it looked like. Or
ebony. Either way, this guys front door must cost more than my car.) 
without the cars extending super-duper anti-theft shock treatment devices, 
and looked for the doorbell. I couldn't find one. So I decided to knock on
the door. The instant my hand hit the door, I felt this little shock, and
a huge booming noise came from inside.

        The door opened slowly, like it was electric, and this really funky
looking goth guy was just standing there, his black hair hanging down in
front of his face.  I could hear music thumping in the background, but
I couldn't see for all the darkness. 

        Okay, so we have goth type people around where we live.  But they
mostly sit around smelling bad and quoting bad poetry to each other. This
guy looked like he was actually fucking DEAD. I thought the guy at the
other house was pale; if this guy was horizontal you could put him on a
slab down at the coroners and no one could tell the difference. 

        Then he spoke.

        "Grabzlotzdah?"

        "Uhm... Hi, my name is AWK!"

        The guy reached out, grabbed me by the throat, and threw me inside
into the darkness. The last thing I remember was being surrounded by a crowd
of people in the darkness, noise all around, screaming something like
"Ackzputsa shondig BRITANNICA?!? Mein dachses schloes im! AACCHJH!" 
and then they started ripping the encyclopedias apart. Paper was going
everywhere, and suddenly they turned these disco lights back on, with this
horrible loud music pounding mercilessly. Pages fluttered like psychedelic
confetti all around the dance floor.  I was starting to get a little 
concerned when volume G hit me square in the forehead and knocked me
unconscious. Anything that the goth ravers decided to do after that
with my body would not be influenced by my protests to the contrary. 

-----------------------------------

        The next thing I knew, I woke up on my head in the dark with 
something wet on my crotch and a bottle in my hand.  Maybe this day was
turning out to be sort of normal, as I took a swig from the bottle. Erg.
Rum. The washcloth was doing it's best at making my nuts crawl up into
my body cavity, but hey, whatcha gonna do.

        So I did the only thing I could and rolled backwards. The door fell
open, and there I was, sprawled naked on the floor of grandparents house.
Yup, the very same.  Yea, you heard me, MY GRANDPARENTS. Of all of the 
people on this earth who have ever been bitter about life in general, if
you rolled them all up into one big seething ball of emotional brutality,
they couldn't hold a candle to gramma and grampa. These people make hell
seem like a vacation.

        And, of course, this being a not so typical day, they were eating
breakfast in the kitchen. Up to and until the point of my falling out
of their closet and sprawling naked on their linoleum, which was also doing
it's best at making my nuts crawl up into my stomach. Not a good ball day,
I guess.

        "What in tarnation are you doing here?" yelled my grandfather, always
the understanding sort.

        "EEK! I told you, Hubert, he'd turn out to be a pervert! I just knew
it! Rock videos and computer games did this to him! Forgive him, Lord!" 
scremed my lovely grandmother.

        "Now, listen here, this isn't what you think it is." I stammered, 
which, when you think about it is probably the _stupidest_ thing to say.
OF COURSE it's what you think it is. I've been upside down with a bottle
of rum and a washcloth on my genitals inside their pantry. What the hell
else could it be? 

        At that point in time, I realized that the world was beginning to
make less and less sense.

        After cleaning up the mess (I spilled the rum, oh well) and making
a hasty retreat from my grandparents house ("I want you to talk to the
youth pastor about your being homosexual." "I'm not gay, grandma." "You just
keep telling yourself that, dear."), I managed to struggle home by wearing
a beach towel around my waist, which wasn't so bad except the backyard
that I stole it from was occupied by an incredibly nervous women who
called the cops on me.

        Upon returning home (without the aid of local law enforcement, thank
god) I found three messages on my answering machine. The first one was from
Mr. Egghead, who had finished the volumes I'd sold him and do we have 
anything on astrophysics? The second was from my grandparents saying that
they were sending me a self help book "The Devil and You: Self-Exorcism
for Dummies", but the third was the most disturbing.  It was in halting
english with a thick accent (somewhere from europe? I had no idea) that
said they loved the encyclopedias and had sent payment in full to the
address they found on the inside of my underwear ("Summer Camp '87: if 
found please mail to.." I guess mom's paranoia paid off in a way.) and they
hoped I enjoyed the transvestite I had propositioned at the party. Hmm. I'd
sort of wondered why my jaw was sore. 

        But, anyways. That's how I spent last weekend, and nothing much
has happened since then except a couple of strange phonecalls from some
guy who calls himself "Edwina" and the package of leather harnesses I got
in the mail.

        Oh, and I got a raise at the encyclopedia place.  Marty slapped me
on the back and said, "What did I tell you, man? Easy money!"