The dreaded Shiny Brochures.
This morning I opened the door to a charming young lady. Her charm faded when I discovered she was there for one reason only. To sell me a fitted kitchen.
“Thanks,” I said, closing the door, “but my kitchen fits.”“Oh, but—” She did that foot-in-the-door thing. Now, I have a particularly heavy door. It keeps out Ferals and the Slimy Swamp thing and is more than capable of crushing a kitchen-seller’s foot. It was such a dainty foot that I held back.
“Really, my kitchen fits perfectly. It doesn’t need adjusting.”Her face dimpled. “That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about a new kitchen. All wipe-clean melamine and stainless steel.”
“I like stains.”She was undaunted. “A brand new cooker, too. What kind do you use now?”
I had to think about that one. There might once have been a brand name on that cauldron, but centuries of accumulated grease have obscured it. I can’t even tell where it might be.“An old one,” I said.
“So wouldn’t you like a new one? With a double-oven, fan-assisted, integral grill, timer, and maybe even a rotisserie?”“What’s a rotisserie?” I didn’t understand the rest of it either, but thought it best to deal with one thing at a time.
She opened her little bag and took out shiny brochures. I hate shiny brochures. They’re a sure sign someone wants your money. I still live by my grandfather’s code: the best way to make sure you always have money in your pocket is not to spend any of it. She held out the brochures. I ignored them.“Well, it’s like a spike you stick through your meat, and it rotates as it cooks.” She waved the brochures. “You can read about it in here.”
I thought it best to change the subject and hope she forgot about the brochures. “Does it have a little clock on it?”“Why, yes. A digital one, with an alarm.”
“Everything has a clock on it. I don’t need any more clocks.” I started to close the door. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have to work on my novel.” I knew that was a mistake as soon as I said it. Her eyes lit up and she did the foot-in-the-door again.“You’re a writer? How exciting. It must be wonderful to just sit around all day, making up stories and getting paid for it. What sort of things do you write? I might have read some of yours.”
“I doubt it. I’ve only just finished the first one and it’s not published.”“Oh, but it must be a wonderful life, just writing away all day long.”
I shuddered at the thought. All day, every day? I could do that for maybe a week before I went over to YouTube to watch all the Rex the Runt videos again. Which reminds me, I haven’t looked in on Rex for some time.“I don’t write all day long. I have serious research work to do, and… other things.”
“Research? Really? You have such a busy life, it sounds like you’d really benefit from one of our labour-saving kitchens. What kind of research do you do?”She opened one of those shiny brochures. Deep in the bowels of the castle, I knew my vaults of doubloons and groats trembled with the movement of the pages. I couldn’t put my money through any more torment.
“Why don’t you come in and see for yourself?” I held the door open.Her smile was so wide as she crossed the threshold I had to stop myself shaking my head in disbelief. It’s rare to find an experimental subject who enters so cheerfully, and with no sedation at all. Later, I had Stumpy take her to the kitchen. Well, the meaty parts, anyway.
I used tongs to transfer those shiny brochures to the furnace. She had a lot of them in her bag. It gave me a warm feeling to know I had saved a lot of people from the terrors of spending money.
In the depths of the vaults, I felt the doubloons sigh with relief.