grumpa
09-09-2009, 09:35 PM
Robert Madden was confused, if not extremely bewildered. Either a dwarf
or a troll had simply been, not appeared, but been in the black-cushion
chair in front of his desk. He was confused as to the proper noun;
Dwarf, or troll? He was sure a wrong guess would raise all sorts of
hereditary taboos and insults."Neither," piped the dwarf-troll. "You
couldn't pronounce my right name, so just call me dwarf-troll which
isn't much better, but it'll do."Robert was about to ask his business,
when he sat back, rather hard, in his chair. He'd just gone over exactly
what had taken place. In the seventh floor of the Wainwright-Murcsh
Insurance Company Building, in the office of the Vice-President in charge
of death indemnities, his (office, not death) a four foot, brightly
dressed, ugly, little purple whatever had . . . been. No pop, just there.
Lousy special-effect, he thought casually, then sat back again, harder.
"What?" Robert noticed his voice was slightly halting, not the
usual-assured-salesman-clincher. But he'd never, well . . . held
conference with a . . . "What?""Really, Mr. Nadden. I already told you.
You've a quick mind, boy, use it. A Dweserick, D-W-E . . ."
"What . . . er, how? Who? My Sales-Quota be Red, Where?" The
Ugly-Whatever clinched his tongue, rising. "Sounding like a fourth-class
journalsm teacher didn't get you where you are today, boy. Spit it out.
Ask me who I am and where I come from." Madden's eyes grew a trifle wider
as he gagged softly. "Who . . . where," he stumbled, now leaning forward.
"Oh, good, good. Silver Throat himself would be pleased." Ugly-Whatever
waved his not-hand-hand, produced a triangular green card, and handed it
to Robert. "T. Dwixel Szxxptle, Salesman extraordinary, field man for
Fantasy and Associates, dealers in mild magic, calm cataclysms, sweet
spells, and whimsical wishes. Have a Fantasy Product and Have a Wish Come
true." Robert had mumbled along, reading from the gradually-disappearing
card as the Ugly talked. His eyes still wide, he looked up at the Ugly,
finally managing speech. "And what . . . what may I ... do for you?" The
last was a crack not a question. "Tut-tut, boy, 'tis what may I, as the
representative of the largest yearn-dealers in three dimensions, do for
you? Supply and demand, boy. You de-manded, I'm here to supply." The last
was said and the Ugly leaned over Madden's desk, placed a crooked purple
finger on his chest, and cracked something resembling a used-car
salesman's craftiest grin. "For me? I didn't demand any . . . who the hell
are you?" Robert's awe was now wholly replaced with puzzled anger. "We're
both salesmen, boy," hissed the Ugly through green teeth. "We talk common
language. I'm here to sell you a wish." Madden jumped up, sending his swivel
chair thumping against the wall. "A what?!" "A dream, a hope, a grabbed-at
whim, an elusive prayer," said the Ugly, idly fingering items on Madden's
desk. "A wish," he finished, smiling that don't-mind-the-rust-on-the-engine-
it-keeps-away-frost smile. "Harvey, right?" said Madden, coming around his
desk."Harvey Prescott, you bounder. You've hired a dwarf, put
him in flourescent clothes, and further your dream of claiming my canning
on a section 8." Madden finished by making a grab at the Ugly's arm, and
finding thin air. "Oh Mr. Madden. How are we ever going to haggle spockets
if you won't accept my bona fides," said the Ugly, somewhat injured, from
Madden's vacated chair. Madden turned slowly. "How did ..." "Unimportant.
Trivial. Don't waste time while the greatest bargain of your life is shot-
skinned-cleaned-dried-smoked and served under your very nose." The Ugly
again waved his not-a-hand, this time producing a hexagonal volume about
the size of a phone directory. "Our catalogue, boy. A collection of every
wish from Alladin to your well, and then some. Care to peruse?" Madden
found the book hanging motionless before his face, the pages turning slowly.
"Money, power. Cars, trees, frogs, balls, hats, footgear, fine food," said
Ugly, popping to his side. "Everything, literally everything, your black
heart could desire. We are proud to admit our wish warehouse contains double
the stock of any of our competitors, and that includes those wormers from
Universal Illusions."Robert was hardly listening. Yachts, planes, cars,
every conceivable item was flipping past his eyes, neatly numbered, "for easy,
convenient ordering, and prompt supply." He looked up, or down, at the Ugly,
his anger completely gone. "YOU mean . . ." He looked back at the book, "
anything, anything at all... a wish, for sale?" Ugly clucked his tongue,
"Knew you'd come around. Yes indeed, anything. You deal in insurance; keep
the family secure so's if breadwinner kaputs, the money's still there,
right?" Robert nodded weakly. "Well, my employers deal in keeping those
breadwinners happy, content, and a joy to know. Just look up your Ambrosia,
check out those inner wants, dredge up your buried desires, and order away.
Size, color, and number of any listed item is, of course independent of
listed price." Madden nodded thoughtfully, "but alterations are fast and
easily done. Service with a smile," completed Ugly-turned-Cheshire.
Robert dreamily snapped from his fascination. "How long have you
"Oh, a good, a very good many years, boy." "Have you well, . . . pitched to,
uh, Earthmen? well, before?" The purple salesman-of-fantasies laughed, quite
heartily, saying "Why, you, pardon-the-expression, Earthmen, have been my
sales area for, oh," his dark green eyes reflected a glimmer of hidden
thought and indecision, "five, maybe six hundred years." The Ugly chuckled,
softly. "And I will dare to add, never a dissatisfied customer."
"YOU mean you've solicited before? Why hasn't the world . . ." "Raised a
merry old stink?" finished Ugly, hopping on Madden's desk. The Happy Dales
and Restful Valleys are full enough volunteer washers kick-ing about loose
bolts, boy. Mental suicide is frowned on, and I'm not exactly the take-
home-to-mother type. When it comes to wish-mongers, everyone listening's
from Missouri, and my customers find it easier to ignore the gift-horse's
mouth. Check?" Robert began to speak, shook his head ,and went back to
scanning Fantasy Associates wish catalogue. He ignored items like expensive
cars, fabulous houses, various stocks, winced at a pitch for the Brooklyn
bridge, glanced twice at Harem assortments (Try Shiek Ariefs Sampler), and
appeared confused at pictureless references to other catalogues labeled,
Positions; Political, Illegal, Deaths; Warranted, Vengeful, Whimsical,
Spells; Ailments, Hauntings, and innumerable other subdivisions. He simply
shook his head again and kept looking. The Cheshire grinned again, "like I
said, a kid in a candy store, eh? Well, completely understandable. Why I've
had some customers . . . that short one with the funny mustache and lousy
accent. Always yelling our inventory fell short of his needs. HAH! Well, his
credit ran out, still yelled. Always yelling . . . fifty-five years ago, stayed
a good credit risk for, oh, nine years. Never did pay up. Or that drunk with the
cigar and an Alexander-the-Great complex . . . never forgot the look on his face
when I presented him the bill at Appomatax. Spent eight years settling that
one ... or the . . ." "Here! This is definitely interesting," said Madden
excitedly, his fingers shakily resting on AK-107. Ugly looked at the number,
coughed nervously, and pointed to AM-205.
"Here's something far better. Haven't you always wanted to flip the science with
the best of them? Tom Swift overnight, boy. Why, sold this to a Jewish-German lad
working in the Swiss patent office not fifty years ago. Great for . . ."
"Uh-uh. AK-107." Madden grinned the Honest-John-lot-bargain smile himself this
time. "Very promising indeed." Ugly shook his head. "I'm afraid that's out of
stock. Has been, probably will be for a long time. Definitely not your cup of tea.
Over here, however, with option assassination ..." "No round-house. Like you said,
we're both salesmen. I know what I want, you know you can supply it. Or should I
turn to . . . what was it . .. Universal?" Ugly's pink eyes grew pinker, he hissed
something akin to anything among the unprintable, made a note in the book (which
disappeared), and handed a bill-for-signature to Madden, all very impatiently.
"I'm sure you'll regret your decision, Mr. Madden. Haven't filled an order for
AK-107 for almost two thousand years, and even then the customer became rather
displeased with it in the end. And it's a swamp-marsh to arrange, and the History-
Controlling department will be up nights, and, well, you realize you're gonna put
the world to mild chaos, not to mention gettin' in over your grandfather's
navel in cross-beliefs, and . . ." "You can do it. You did it before," Madden
smirked as the Ugly moved dejectedly back to the chair he'd "been" from seemingly
centuries ago. Suddenly Madden's smile faded. "I thought you said you'd been
peddling only six centuries. How . . ," "We, especially our Variable-Factor
department, would like to forget the first thirteen. Bodkins-nearly lost my own,
and have this sections' jobs over that one. But. you humans . . . how was 1 to
know that one sale . . .?" Ugly shook his head, slowly . "Good luck, Mr. Madden
... or should I say, Son," he added, "you'll need it."
or a troll had simply been, not appeared, but been in the black-cushion
chair in front of his desk. He was confused as to the proper noun;
Dwarf, or troll? He was sure a wrong guess would raise all sorts of
hereditary taboos and insults."Neither," piped the dwarf-troll. "You
couldn't pronounce my right name, so just call me dwarf-troll which
isn't much better, but it'll do."Robert was about to ask his business,
when he sat back, rather hard, in his chair. He'd just gone over exactly
what had taken place. In the seventh floor of the Wainwright-Murcsh
Insurance Company Building, in the office of the Vice-President in charge
of death indemnities, his (office, not death) a four foot, brightly
dressed, ugly, little purple whatever had . . . been. No pop, just there.
Lousy special-effect, he thought casually, then sat back again, harder.
"What?" Robert noticed his voice was slightly halting, not the
usual-assured-salesman-clincher. But he'd never, well . . . held
conference with a . . . "What?""Really, Mr. Nadden. I already told you.
You've a quick mind, boy, use it. A Dweserick, D-W-E . . ."
"What . . . er, how? Who? My Sales-Quota be Red, Where?" The
Ugly-Whatever clinched his tongue, rising. "Sounding like a fourth-class
journalsm teacher didn't get you where you are today, boy. Spit it out.
Ask me who I am and where I come from." Madden's eyes grew a trifle wider
as he gagged softly. "Who . . . where," he stumbled, now leaning forward.
"Oh, good, good. Silver Throat himself would be pleased." Ugly-Whatever
waved his not-hand-hand, produced a triangular green card, and handed it
to Robert. "T. Dwixel Szxxptle, Salesman extraordinary, field man for
Fantasy and Associates, dealers in mild magic, calm cataclysms, sweet
spells, and whimsical wishes. Have a Fantasy Product and Have a Wish Come
true." Robert had mumbled along, reading from the gradually-disappearing
card as the Ugly talked. His eyes still wide, he looked up at the Ugly,
finally managing speech. "And what . . . what may I ... do for you?" The
last was a crack not a question. "Tut-tut, boy, 'tis what may I, as the
representative of the largest yearn-dealers in three dimensions, do for
you? Supply and demand, boy. You de-manded, I'm here to supply." The last
was said and the Ugly leaned over Madden's desk, placed a crooked purple
finger on his chest, and cracked something resembling a used-car
salesman's craftiest grin. "For me? I didn't demand any . . . who the hell
are you?" Robert's awe was now wholly replaced with puzzled anger. "We're
both salesmen, boy," hissed the Ugly through green teeth. "We talk common
language. I'm here to sell you a wish." Madden jumped up, sending his swivel
chair thumping against the wall. "A what?!" "A dream, a hope, a grabbed-at
whim, an elusive prayer," said the Ugly, idly fingering items on Madden's
desk. "A wish," he finished, smiling that don't-mind-the-rust-on-the-engine-
it-keeps-away-frost smile. "Harvey, right?" said Madden, coming around his
desk."Harvey Prescott, you bounder. You've hired a dwarf, put
him in flourescent clothes, and further your dream of claiming my canning
on a section 8." Madden finished by making a grab at the Ugly's arm, and
finding thin air. "Oh Mr. Madden. How are we ever going to haggle spockets
if you won't accept my bona fides," said the Ugly, somewhat injured, from
Madden's vacated chair. Madden turned slowly. "How did ..." "Unimportant.
Trivial. Don't waste time while the greatest bargain of your life is shot-
skinned-cleaned-dried-smoked and served under your very nose." The Ugly
again waved his not-a-hand, this time producing a hexagonal volume about
the size of a phone directory. "Our catalogue, boy. A collection of every
wish from Alladin to your well, and then some. Care to peruse?" Madden
found the book hanging motionless before his face, the pages turning slowly.
"Money, power. Cars, trees, frogs, balls, hats, footgear, fine food," said
Ugly, popping to his side. "Everything, literally everything, your black
heart could desire. We are proud to admit our wish warehouse contains double
the stock of any of our competitors, and that includes those wormers from
Universal Illusions."Robert was hardly listening. Yachts, planes, cars,
every conceivable item was flipping past his eyes, neatly numbered, "for easy,
convenient ordering, and prompt supply." He looked up, or down, at the Ugly,
his anger completely gone. "YOU mean . . ." He looked back at the book, "
anything, anything at all... a wish, for sale?" Ugly clucked his tongue,
"Knew you'd come around. Yes indeed, anything. You deal in insurance; keep
the family secure so's if breadwinner kaputs, the money's still there,
right?" Robert nodded weakly. "Well, my employers deal in keeping those
breadwinners happy, content, and a joy to know. Just look up your Ambrosia,
check out those inner wants, dredge up your buried desires, and order away.
Size, color, and number of any listed item is, of course independent of
listed price." Madden nodded thoughtfully, "but alterations are fast and
easily done. Service with a smile," completed Ugly-turned-Cheshire.
Robert dreamily snapped from his fascination. "How long have you
"Oh, a good, a very good many years, boy." "Have you well, . . . pitched to,
uh, Earthmen? well, before?" The purple salesman-of-fantasies laughed, quite
heartily, saying "Why, you, pardon-the-expression, Earthmen, have been my
sales area for, oh," his dark green eyes reflected a glimmer of hidden
thought and indecision, "five, maybe six hundred years." The Ugly chuckled,
softly. "And I will dare to add, never a dissatisfied customer."
"YOU mean you've solicited before? Why hasn't the world . . ." "Raised a
merry old stink?" finished Ugly, hopping on Madden's desk. The Happy Dales
and Restful Valleys are full enough volunteer washers kick-ing about loose
bolts, boy. Mental suicide is frowned on, and I'm not exactly the take-
home-to-mother type. When it comes to wish-mongers, everyone listening's
from Missouri, and my customers find it easier to ignore the gift-horse's
mouth. Check?" Robert began to speak, shook his head ,and went back to
scanning Fantasy Associates wish catalogue. He ignored items like expensive
cars, fabulous houses, various stocks, winced at a pitch for the Brooklyn
bridge, glanced twice at Harem assortments (Try Shiek Ariefs Sampler), and
appeared confused at pictureless references to other catalogues labeled,
Positions; Political, Illegal, Deaths; Warranted, Vengeful, Whimsical,
Spells; Ailments, Hauntings, and innumerable other subdivisions. He simply
shook his head again and kept looking. The Cheshire grinned again, "like I
said, a kid in a candy store, eh? Well, completely understandable. Why I've
had some customers . . . that short one with the funny mustache and lousy
accent. Always yelling our inventory fell short of his needs. HAH! Well, his
credit ran out, still yelled. Always yelling . . . fifty-five years ago, stayed
a good credit risk for, oh, nine years. Never did pay up. Or that drunk with the
cigar and an Alexander-the-Great complex . . . never forgot the look on his face
when I presented him the bill at Appomatax. Spent eight years settling that
one ... or the . . ." "Here! This is definitely interesting," said Madden
excitedly, his fingers shakily resting on AK-107. Ugly looked at the number,
coughed nervously, and pointed to AM-205.
"Here's something far better. Haven't you always wanted to flip the science with
the best of them? Tom Swift overnight, boy. Why, sold this to a Jewish-German lad
working in the Swiss patent office not fifty years ago. Great for . . ."
"Uh-uh. AK-107." Madden grinned the Honest-John-lot-bargain smile himself this
time. "Very promising indeed." Ugly shook his head. "I'm afraid that's out of
stock. Has been, probably will be for a long time. Definitely not your cup of tea.
Over here, however, with option assassination ..." "No round-house. Like you said,
we're both salesmen. I know what I want, you know you can supply it. Or should I
turn to . . . what was it . .. Universal?" Ugly's pink eyes grew pinker, he hissed
something akin to anything among the unprintable, made a note in the book (which
disappeared), and handed a bill-for-signature to Madden, all very impatiently.
"I'm sure you'll regret your decision, Mr. Madden. Haven't filled an order for
AK-107 for almost two thousand years, and even then the customer became rather
displeased with it in the end. And it's a swamp-marsh to arrange, and the History-
Controlling department will be up nights, and, well, you realize you're gonna put
the world to mild chaos, not to mention gettin' in over your grandfather's
navel in cross-beliefs, and . . ." "You can do it. You did it before," Madden
smirked as the Ugly moved dejectedly back to the chair he'd "been" from seemingly
centuries ago. Suddenly Madden's smile faded. "I thought you said you'd been
peddling only six centuries. How . . ," "We, especially our Variable-Factor
department, would like to forget the first thirteen. Bodkins-nearly lost my own,
and have this sections' jobs over that one. But. you humans . . . how was 1 to
know that one sale . . .?" Ugly shook his head, slowly . "Good luck, Mr. Madden
... or should I say, Son," he added, "you'll need it."