WHEN THE LAW HAS SPOKEN

The Dimplechins weren't in a good mood.  They already owned two vacuum cleaners, one upright and one canister, and both of them worked fine.  But Mr. Terminal had endowed Mr. and Mrs. Dimplechin with a particularly seductive brand of sweet talk, and now he was standing in the middle of their living room.  Four perturbed faces stared at him from a long, flat couch.

Mr. Dimplechin was a stubby man with a stubby man's complex--the presence of tall, thin people like this vacuum cleaner salesman stirred up his insecurities.  His striking blue eyes, healthy-looking olive skin and full head of black hair compensated for his lack of stature to some degree, but not to a degree that made him comfortable with his own image.  Not even remotely.

Mrs. Dimplechin was attractive for her age.  She had liver spots on her arms and a wrinkly neck, but her mouth was full and fleshy, and she had a voluptuous hourglass figure.  Together with her painted up face-- mascara caked around the eyes, blush caked onto the cheeks, vamp lipstick caked onto that mouth--these features gave her the air of a retired pornstar.

There were two Dimplechin children, a 13-year-old boy named Devon and a 16-year-old girl named Doris.  Devon was a nerdy bastard; his hair had been pruned into a geeky butt cut, his big thick glasses were at least three decades out of vogue, and he had these chunky love handles hanging over either side of his skintight Wrangler jeans.  Doris, on the other hand, was anything but nerdy.  She had skin like her father's, smooth and dark, and breasts like her mother's, big and firm.  The tight halfshirt she was wearing left her tattooed, pierced navel exposed, and rest assured, Mr. Terminal made sure to glance at it more than once on the sly.  Doris had long blond hair.  On her face she wore a mask of bitchy teenage angst.

That all of the Dimplechins had little dimples in their chins was pure coincidence.

"What the hell is this?" mumbled Doris just as Mr. Terminal was about to begin his pitch.  "Who is this asshole?"  She looked back and forth between her parents and the vacuum cleaner salesman with wide, heated eyes.

"Watch your mouth, young lady," growled Mrs. Dimplechin, and shook a finger at her.  "Just sit there like a good teenager and keep your hole closed."

Ignoring her mother, Doris looked at her father.  "Dad?" she said.

"Fight that adolescence," said Mr. Dimplechin in a dull monotone without looking at her.

Disgusted, Doris slumped back in her seat and violently crossed her arms over her bust.  She was sitting on the end of the couch next to her mother, and her brother was sitting on the other end of the couch next to her father.  She stared at Mr. Terminal as if he had killed her best friend.

Mr. Terminal swallowed.  He was a well-built, nice-looking man with dark features and, as he saw it, exceptional mental stamina.  Usually nothing daunted him, but he was a little apprehensive now.  Not because the Dimplechins were less than enthusiastic about him being there--he had sold the shit out of families with twice the reserved hostility that this one was dishing out to him--but because his boss was listening to him.  Once a year all vacuum cleaner salesmen that worked for Daddy-O & Sonz had to wear a wire to one of their clients' residences for observation to make sure that they were comporting themselves in a sufficiently civil yet slick and salesworthy manner.  Additionally, if a salesman did not close a deal on an occasion during which he was being monitored, he was fired point blank, no questions asked.  Mr. Terminal had been with the company for over 10 years now and had never failed to produce in the past.  But that didn't mean anything.  Even if he had been with the company for 50 years, he would be fired if he failed to produce on this day, at this moment.

The wire he was wearing was taped to his chest, as if he was some kind of narc, and in his ear was a tiny microphone through which his boss could talk to him.

"Don't fuck up," his boss said as he was gearing up to make his pitch.  Following the directive was an evil little snicker.

Mr. Terminal flexed his jaw.

"Can we get this bullshit going," blurted Mr. Dimplechin.  "We've been sitting here for almost ten seconds now and you haven't said a damned thing.  You're just standing there like a damned idiot."

Mr. Terminal raised an eyebrow.  Young Devon had just stuck his finger in one of his ears, pulled it out and was now sniffing it like some flower.  Coated in yellow ear wax, the finger glistened in the bright light of the living room.  Mr. Terminal felt a pang of nausea in his stomach.

"Get that finger away from your nose!" bleated Mrs. Dimplechin when she got a load of her son.  "Jesus.  Can't you at least try not to be a repugnant little loser?"  Devon ignored her and continued to sniff his finger.  His mother slapped his hand away from his face.  The hand snapped right back.  Devon's nose was sniffing furiously now.  His mother made a fist, raised it above her head and came down on his knee like a guillotine.  Devon squawked and doubled over.  He whimpered as he massaged his hurt knee.

Trying his best to ignore the dysfunctional goings-on of the Dimplechin family, Mr. Terminal forced a smile onto his face.  This was it.  Time to lay it on them.  He couldn't let things unfold in this way anymore.  He had to take control of the situation.  He had to contain it.  If he stood here for much longer without his mouth running, who knows what would happen?  At this rate the Dimplechins would be tearing each other apart in a matter of minutes.

The moment before Mr. Terminal was about to start his mouth running, however, Mr. Dimplechin, who had been fingering the dimple in his chin for that last half minute out of boredom, lost his patience.  "Fuck it," he said.  "If you're just going to stand there like a dumbass and not say anything, I'm reading the paper.  Lemme know when you're gone."  He snatched up the newspaper sitting on the coffee table.  He opened it up in front of him and disappeared behind its vast wingspan.

"Don't be that way," said Mrs. Dimplechin.  She poked her husband with one of her long fake fingernails.  Keeping the paper in front of him, he told her he would murder her if she did that again.  Mrs. Dimplechin shook her head.  "I'm sorry," she said to Mr. Terminal.  "He had a hernia removed a few months ago and he's been unhappy ever since."  She frowned, glanced at the ceiling.  "Actually that's not true.  Well, it's true, but not entirely.  I mean, his unhappiness isn't totally a result of the hernia operation.  The thing is, he's been unhappy his whole life."

"I was happy as a child, one day," droned Mr. Dimplechin from behind the paper.  "I remember there was one day I felt very good.  I forgot what I was doing, probably nothing, probably dicking around in the back yard or something, but I'm telling you, I was a happy asshole that day.  So don't go spreading rumors about me being unhappy my whole life.  Bitch."

Mrs. Dimplechin rolled her eyes.  She puffed out her cheeks.  "Excuse me for a second, Mr. Terminal.  I'll see if I can talk some sense into him.  Be right back."  She crawled onto her husband's lap and vanished behind the newspaper.

"Fuck's going on over there?" griped the voice of Mr. Terminal's boss.  "Are you going to sell these people a vacuum cleaner or what?  Make Daddy-O proud, make Daddy-O proud."

Mr. Terminal was now staring at a giant, wide-open newspaper with two cantankerous children sitting on either side of it.  Devon had recovered from the blow to his knee and was now absent-mindedly picking at a zit on his cheek.  Doris, in turn, had resorted to making sexual gestures at Mr. Terminal with her tongue.  Then she started fondling the tattoo on her navel with a pinky finger.  Mr. Terminal swallowed a mouthful of dry air.  Doris's pinky finger crawled up her stomach and over one of her breasts, hooked the collar of her shirt and pulled it down, exposing an erect nipple.  She smiled a dirty smile.  The open newspaper rustled as Mr. and Mrs. Dimplechin, oblivious to their children's antics, argued with one another in angry, inarticulate whispers.

"Excuse me!  I have to go to the bathroom!" exclaimed Mr. Terminal.  Nobody responded to him.  Doris grabbed her crotch.  Mr. Terminal blinked . . . and rushed out of the living room.  The Dimplechins remained on the couch.  Doris threw her head back, opened her mouth and laughed like a dolphin.  The other three Dimplechins paid her no mind and went about their questionable business.

There were two long hallways leading out of the living room, one to the right of the couch and one in front of it.  Mr. Terminal took the hallway to the right, partly because he was right-handed and Instinct pointed him in that direction, partly because the hallway in front of the couch contained the front door to the Dimplechin's house at its tail end, and if he went down there, he might go through the front door and never come back.  He was mad at himself for getting so frazzled in the line of fire.  But he would pull it together and bounce back.  The Dimplechins had turned out to be much more formidable customers than he had expected, but he would turn things around.  He just needed to slap himself in the face a few times, talk some trash to his image in the mirror for a few seconds.  And maybe take a quick dump.

The hallway was bleached white and there were no paintings hanging on its walls except for one: a painting of a bleached white wall.  The hallway seemed to get smaller as Mr. Terminal staggered down its length, looking for the bathroom.  Eventually he realized it was getting smaller.  By the time he reached the bathroom door, he had to bend his head down to keep it from scraping against the ceiling.  "Genius fucking architecture," he mumbled to himself.

"What's that?" said his boss.  "What did you say to me?"

Mr. Terminal caught his breath.  "Oops.  Nothing.  Sorry, sir."

His boss cleared a lump of phlegm from his throat.  It took a while.  Then:  "Sorry my ass.  What do you think you're doing, Terminal?"

"I'm going to the bathroom.  I have to use the bathroom."

"Daddy-O & Sonz doesn't pay you to use the bathroom.  Are you kidding me?  Wise up shithead.  Get back out there and sell those bastards a vacuum cleaner.  This is serious business here.  This is your life, I'm telling you.  Don't make me look bad.  I have people to answer to myself, you know.  You act a certain way, you make me look a certain way.  Screw this shit up and you'll never walk the streets as a salesman again.  That's the truth!"

Mr. Terminal closed his eyes, shook his head.  A flashbulb image of an axe slamming into his boss's skull materialized on his mind's screen.  He inhaled deeply.  "I understand, sir.  Don't worry.  I won't let you down. Have I ever let you down?"

Lots of dead air before his boss replied.  "You have five minutes, Terminal.  I'm plugging out.  I'm going to get a sandwich.  When I get back to my desk and plug back in, you better be kicking ass.  Otherwise you're a memory.  Do you understand me?"

"I understand, sir," he said.  But his boss had already clicked off.

Mr. Terminal closed his eyes again, shook his head again.  He liked being a salesman, and he was good at it.  But was going through horseshit like this worth it?  He had a degree in haberdashery and he could always quit Daddy-O & Sonz and get a job at a hat store.  But selling things in a store was a lot different than selling things door-to-door.  Door-to-door sales was for the most part a cold-calling operation that demanded the express use of wit and charm, both of which he had plenty.  Store sales, on the other hand, only required a minimal amount of wit and charm, if any at all, since people typically don't walk into a store unless they have at least a moderate interest in buying something.  Still, it was a consideration--especially if he didn't make good with the Dimplechins.  But he would make good with them.  He was a warrior, after all.  A salesman gladiator.  Defeat was not part of his world view.

He opened his eyes.  He pushed open the door to the bathroom and walked inside.  The door closed behind him, and automatically locked.

It was not a bathroom.

It was . . . an outhouse?

Instead of the smooth white plaster walls that defined the Dimplechin's hallway, in here were walls made of rotten, stinking wood.  And there was no mirror or sink.  And no toilet.  No porcelain toilet anyway--sitting in the far corner was a cruddy overturned box with a hole cut into the top of it.  Sticking out of the wall next to it was a roll of crusty wax paper, and decorating the walls were intricate mosaics of piss splatters and shit streaks.  The stench was atrocious; Mr. Terminal nearly yakked.  But he was too perplexed to yak.  Not only by the sordid state of the alleged outhouse, but by what was going on in the alleged outhouse.

There were two men.  One was standing up, the other was kneeling down.

The standing man was very old.  Had to be in his mid 80s.  His bald scaly head was covered in liver spots and his hands and arms were covered in bright blue varicose veins.  There were also veins all over his gaunt rubicund face, but they were much thinner and they didn't stick out.  He was wearing a long black robe that flowered down and out from the tight leather s&m collar wrapped around his neck.  And in his fist was a gavel.  Apparently the standing man was some kind of judge.

And the kneeling man, apparently, was The Judged.

He was naked, sweaty, grimy.  He had paper-thin skin, a rib cage that looked two sizes too big for his dilapidated body.  A small swarm of fleas buzzed around the crappy dreadlocks that hung off of his scalp like rotten bananas.  In the middle of the dreadlocks was a bald spot, and in the middle of the bald spot was a wound.  Blood trickled out of the wound, streamed down the kneeling man's face.  It looked like he was wearing a mask of red, dead tapeworms.

Pinching his nose, Mr. Terminal stared at the spectacle of the two men.  They didn't stare back.  They didn't even acknowledge the sudden intrusion.  They carried on with their proceedings as if they were the only two people that existed.

"The Law has spoken," intoned the judge, and hammered The Judged on his bald spot with the gavel.  The Judged teetered and groaned as, in slow motion it seemed, blood splashed up into the humid, rank air . . .

Mr. Terminal made a that's-gotta-hurt face.  "What's going on in here?" he said.  "Do the Dimplechins know you're in here?  What in God's name are you two doing?"  His pinched nose made his voice sound like a duck's.

The two men made no response.  It was as if the vacuum cleaner salesman had said nothing at all.  The judge stood there glaring down at The Judged with wide hateful eyes, and The Judged kneeled there hunch-backed and shivering and sniffling.

"I asked you a question," Mr. Terminal quacked.  "I don't know who you are, and I don't care.  I'm nobody of consequence.  I'm just a salesman.  Still, when I ask a question, I expect an answer.  What are you doing?"

Slowly the judge turned his heated gaze from the top of The Judged's damaged head to Mr. Terminal's grimacing face.  "We are upholding the Law," said the man," and that is our affair."  His gaze remained on Mr. Terminal for a few seconds before returning to its original position.  "The Law has spoken," he reiterated, and nailed The Judged again with his gavel.  This time The Judged cried out.

"Ouch," said Mr. Terminal, wincing, empathizing with The Judged, feeling his pain.  He had a right mind to walk over to the judge and give him a taste of his own medicine.  He refrained, though.  The old bat was slight and decrepit-looking, but there was a distinct air of strength about him.  Additionally, chances were the Dimplechins knew these two were in here.  Maybe they were relatives of the family, delinquent relatives they kept locked away in here, and if he unnerved them, that may not bode well for the sale he had to make.  He needed to maintain a certain etiquette, no matter how outlandish the situation appeared to be.  But that didn't mean he couldn't express his discontent with the apparent situation.  He just had to do so in a civilized, respectable manner.  And if he played his cards right, maybe, in the end, he could sell these two lunatics a vacuum cleaner.  Nothing was impossible, not in this business, and to say the least, this place could use a little tidying up.

Mr. Terminal removed his fingers from his nose.  He inhaled.  Dry-heaved.  Inhaled again.  Dry-heaved again.  Whisper-swore through clenched teeth . . . and inhaled again . . . and dry-heaved again.  "Shit!" he said aloud.  But he kept at it until his senses had acclimatized to the foul aroma of this in-the-house outhouse and he was able to breath normally.

He removed two business cards from his coat pocket.  His intention was first to politely explain how the judge's treatment of The Judged was perhaps unfair and most definitely less than sophisticated, no matter what The Judged was guilty of, and then to give one card to each of them.  Then he would explain who he was, why he was here, and how he intended to better their lives--by offering them the benefits of a sharp-looking, state-of-the-art, reasonably priced vacuum cleaner.

Just as Mr. Terminal was about to pitch them, there was a knock at the door.  "Hello?" said a voice.  It was a male voice.  A young male's.  Devon?  Maybe--he couldn't tell.  Mr. Terminal held his breath, glanced over at the door out of the corner of his eyes.  Waited . . .

"Is somebody in there?" said another voice.  This one belonged to a female.  To Doris.  "What the hell are you doing in there?"

The judge said, "The law has spoken."  And cracked The Judged where it counted.

"Uhhh," said Mr. Terminal, not knowing what to do, what to say, how to react.

"Open this goddamn door!" screamed a voice that was clearly Mr. Dimplechin's.  He was followed by his wife.  "Let us in!" she yelled.  "Let us in there!"  The doorknob fidgeted wildly.  Then, all at once, the Dimplechins began pounding on the door.  As they pounded they whooped and shrieked as if they were being tortured to death.

"Hold on please!" barked Mr. Terminal.  He was sufficiently freaked out at this point.  "I'll be out in a second!  Please leave me alone for a second!"

They didn't leave him alone.  They continued to pound and rant and rave.

"The law has spoken," said the judge.  The Judged threw up and collapsed onto the floor after he was struck with the gavel.  The judge said, "Get up!  Get up you weird fiend!"  Blood was gushing out of his head now, and his fleas were buzzing all over the place.  He grabbed the judge by the ankles and made inarticulate pleading-for-mercy noises.  The judge kicked him in the face.  "Don't touch me!" he wailed.  He began to hop around on his tip toes, hooting, deranged, furious.

Mr. Terminal slowly backed away.  His heart was racing, and vertigo was nibbling on his brain like a rabid animal.  I'm going to die, he told himself.  This is how my life is going to end.  I don't deserve this.  To die in this place, with these people.  It isn't fair.  Nothing's fair in this world.  Life is just a big ass-fuck.  All I want to do is sell a vacuum cleaner.  That's all.  Is that too much to ask?  I don't think so. I really don't think so . . .

As he continued to back up and feel sorry for himself, Mr. Terminal's boss returned to the scene.  "Terminal!" he shouted, and nearly shattered the vacuum cleaner salesman's eardrum.  "You, Terminal!  What's all that racket!  I'm trying to eat a sandwich!  Fuck's that noise!  I can't even think straight over here!  Sounds like a mosh pit over there!  What is all that hoo-ha!  Answer me bitch!"

He didn't answer him.  He had lost the power of speech.  He continued to move backwards . . . until the wall ran into Mr. Terminal's back, staining it with feces.  He didn't care.  He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.  But he couldn't bend over.  He couldn't move.

. . . The Judged lay on the floor, a pile of naked bones.  The judge stomped on the bones and reduced them to a pool of hot, steaming gore.  The cacophony of screaming voices outside intensified, it was pure thunder now, and the door cracked like lightning as the Dimplechin's continued to pulverize it with their fists.  The judge turned to Mr. Terminal.  He pointed his finger at him.  "This is all your fault!" he exclaimed.  "The court finds you guilty as charged!  Prepare to be punished like the filthy criminal you are!"  A crazed mask of contempt on his face, the judge strode towards Mr. Terminal, his gavel cocked over his gamey head.

Under normal circumstances, he would have charged the judge and taken him out with a swift knee to the groin followed by a frenzy of vicious body blows.  But these were not normal circumstances, and Mr. Terminal had reached his wit's end.

Helpless, he calmly opened his mouth.  And screamed.

And gasped into consciousness.

He was lying on a thin leather bed in a small white room.  He was wearing a cheap grey suit with penny loafers, a striped tie and pants that were too short for his legs.  There was one light bulb hanging down from the middle of the ceiling, and on one wall was a large mirror.  It looked like some kind of police interrogation room.

And it was.  But it didn't belong to the police.  It belonged to Daddy-O & Sonz.  A billboard affixed to one of the room's walls said so: