There were fewer things I found more distressing that a knock at my front door on an otherwise quiet Sunday morning.
Only the deranged were prone to getting up early on the weekend to embark across suburbia and make minor annoyances of themselves in pursuit of their meaningless goals. My only priority that day had been to leave a human-shaped imprint on my couch, but the inconsiderate fool rattling his stupid knuckles against the oakwood had put an end to those ambitions.
My mind raced for solutions to the problem standing beyond the door, but unfortunately, most of them were incredibly expensive or beyond my capabilities. I hadn’t paid enough attention during high school physics to learn how to build a forty-megaton nuclear bomb. I also didn’t have any uranium in my fridge or wherever one stores radioactive material.
I didn’t pay much attention during chemistry either.
The person intent on ruining my day must have then noticed the doorbell because a cheerful chime suddenly rung through the lounge room, and ironically made me much angrier than I was before. I stood up and stomped around the room in the hopes of kickstarting my brain, but it remained utterly devoid of ideas.
My shotgun, which was propped up against the wall next to my bookshelf, suddenly took on a luminous glow, but I quickly dismissed the idea coalescing in my mind. It simply wasn’t worth it. Shotgun rounds don’t come cheap. With a heavy sigh, I turned around, rubbed my eyes vigorously, and lumbered towards my front door, barely lifting my feet from the ground as I walked.
Standing on my porch was a slender and straight-backed salesman wearing a grey silk suit and a colourful striped tie. The satchel hanging by the man’s waist was overflowing with colourful pamphlets and what looked like a fresh change of clothes. His teeth, virtually all of which I could see owing to his beaming yet disconcerting grin, were so white that I momentarily shielded my eyes from the glare.
“Good afternoon, friend!” the salesman exclaimed, his smile unwavering. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Terrible,” I leered.
“Let’s see if I can’t turn your frown upside down,” the salesman said with an oddly timed and overly embellished click of his fingers. “Have you ever thought about placing your pancreas in cold storage?”
“No,” I stated flatly.
“Really? Not once?” the salesman inquired with arms folded and one eyebrow raised.
“I’ve more frequently thought about breaking every bone in my left foot with a socket wrench.”
“What if I were to tell you that freezing your pancreas, much like freezing your entire nervous system, increases its effective lifespan by a factor of three?”
“Hm,” I murmured, scratching my stubble-laden chin as I stared up at the sky. “What if I were to tell you that I need my pancreas to not die?”
“I’m so glad you said that!”
“Crap,” I muttered under my breath as the salesman drew a pamphlet from his satchel.
“In addition to providing our customers access to some of the world’s most prestigious cold storage facilities, our company also offers several excellent replacement pancreases,” the salesman said, pointing at what appeared to be a steel pancreas attached to a set of wheels. “This one creates what we like to call ‘super enzymes,’ and it can be yours for sixteen easy payments of $2,999 plus delivery!”
“Alternatively, I could keep the pancreas I already have for the low price of nothing.”
“Do you mind if I take a blood sample?” the salesman abruptly blurted as though he hadn’t listened to a word I said. Without averting his gaze from me, the salesman took a needle from his pocket and held it in the air.
“Yes, I do mind.”
“But not much though.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t mind much.”
“What are—” I stammered, my jaw agape and eyes narrowed as I tried to make sense of what the salesman was saying. “I don’t—"
“Fantastic!” the salesman interrupted. He grabbed my arm and held it straight. “Don’t worry. This’ll only hurt a lot.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I screeched, yanking my arm from the salesman’s clammy grip.
“What can I say? I’m just really excited about freezing pancreases!”
“I’m calling the police,” I declared before stepping back into my house.
“They’re on our payroll.”
“Excuse me?” I glared.
“Hm?” the salesman murmured, his eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and lips clamped tight.
“What did you just say?”
“I get it now!” the salesman chuckled as he slapped his forehead. “Here I am trying to upsell you on a fancy pancreas when you may well be a man who wants an organ that simply gets the job done. I can appreciate that. I’m a chill guy.”
“Oh no!” I cried while looking over my shoulder. “My phone is ringing! I should really get that!”
“Your phone isn’t ringing,” the salesman aptly observed.
“Maybe you need to buy a pair of replacement ears,” I said before slamming the door shut.
The salesman wedged his hand and foot between the closing door and gritted his teeth as blood poured from the fresh wound on his palm. For such a lanky person, the salesman was surprisingly strong and irritatingly persistent.
“Sir, you really don’t want to miss out on some of these deals!” the salesman grunted as he struggled to pry the door open.
“Why won’t you leave me alone?” I shouted, veins protruding from my forehead and neck as I desperately struggled to close the door on the salesman.
“I just want you to consider whether your life could be made more whole by replacing your large intestine with a surround sound system!”