Ray Sullivan SciFi Zone: Project: Evil - the Final Double Cross Meeting part 2

‘Oh, shit,’ said Brian, darting for the front entrance. He was stopped on the way in by a man in a formal uniform that included a ridiculous top hat and tails; as a security uniform you couldn’t beat shit coloured pyjamas, Brian decided.

‘I’m sorry sir, but you can’t enter the store,’ the man said, holding a hand out.

‘Why not?’ asked Brian, looking around the man at the couple, deep in conversation with the sales assistant who had stood in the window a few seconds earlier

‘Sir is incorrectly dressed, sir,’ advised the man wearing stripey trousers, a clown’s long coat and the type of hat not worn outside of a chav wedding since Dicken’s lifetime.

‘How so?’ asked Brian, desperately trying to keep the couple in view, ‘Is it because I’m wearing trainers, because he’s wearing trainers,’ he said, pointing at a customer being followed by an entourage of sycophantic sales assistants. The doorman looked over his shoulder nonchalantly before returning his stare at Brian

‘That, sir, is a Premier league footballer. He should be wearing trainers, he’s a sportsman,’ he sneered.

‘It’s workwear, as far as I’m concerned,’ grumbled Brian. ‘Is it because I’m wearing jeans?’ he asked, noting that several customers were clad in denim. The doorman appraised Brian’s trousers for the first time.

‘Jeans are generally OK sir, although it is expected that you would wear pre-worn and ripped items to show solidarity and support for the less fortunate,’ he said.

‘You mean, the child labour uninhabitants working on the other side of the planet for a barely subsistence wage to make the jeans available at nine times the GDP of their nation?’ asked Brian, kicking himself for not making O’Feld Industries misuse uninhabitants in such a way to fend off a challenge such as this. The doorman heaved a heavy sigh.

‘By the less fortunate, I was referring to those customers who aren’t multi-millionaires or on State benefits. However, one’s clothing is not the issue, sir, although I can tell that your shirt contains at least five percent viscose, which would be reasonable grounds to exclude you. The reason you cannot enter is because you are inadequately bathed.’ Brian blinked in astonishment.

‘Are you suggesting that I don’t wash enough, because I showered just before coming here this morning,’ he protested.

‘I’m sure you did, sir, however I can tell just by your smell that you didn’t use de-ionised bottled water from the Sudan, fifty pounds a bottle with one pound from each sale being invested in providing water bole holes in the region the water came from,’ he said, waving a young couple through after momentarily perusing their benefit statement and sniffing them.

‘You take water from a drought region, only to reinvest a measly one fiftieth of the sale price to provide bore holes for the local population, who are otherwise dying of dehydration?’ asked Brian with increasing disbelief.

‘Sir is twisting one’s words,’ cautioned the doorman, ‘the bore holes are to provide more bottled water, for sale to the unexplainably rich for bathing in, not for the incredibly poor people who live there. I think one would find the locals don’t even consider bathing in the water, so it would be a waste to provide it for them,’ he suggested. Brian relaxed; at least the world hadn’t unexplainably gone mad. Suddenly he was aware that Bund had arrived by his side.

‘Good morning Mr Bund,’ said the doorman, tipping his incredibly stupid and impractical hat. Bund raised his equally ridiculous trilby and collar ensemble.

‘Good morning, Caruthers,’ declared Bund, shaking hands with the doorman. I’m just here to collect some more bottled water and perhaps a bar or two of that fantastic soap you sell; you know the one, extracted from the nasal mucus of an ovulating rhinoceros. I’ve brought my own manservant with me,’ he said, pointing at Brian. Brian nodded meekly: he realised that Bund was helping him get past the doorman; he had no doubt that a blue parking pass would be extracted as the price of his assistance.

‘Then, of course. One hadn’t realised that sir was a manservant, what with the viscose and all,’ said the doorman, raising his hat and indicating to Brian that he should follow Bund, who had breezed past already.

Inside the store Brian made a bee-line for the couple who were negotiating the deal for the jar of gonads, in time to hear the sales assistant confirm that the collection was utterly unique.

‘Absolutely,’ he said to the enthralled yuppie couple, continuing ‘not only is it immoral, both from the perspective of the armadillos cut off at their prime but also because it deprives the charity of its income. It’s also being threatened by the national lottery as an unfair challenge to its income, so whoever dreamed this up certainly had a lot of balls,’ he stated proudly. About fifty thousand, thought Brian, eyeing up the jar.

‘I’ll take it,’ said Brian, reaching inside his jacket for his wallet, trying to decide whether to use the corporate credit card that would make the expense claim straightforward, or to use his personal Tesco card to get the points as well.

‘We were here first,’ exclaimed a distraught yuppie, reaching for the jar.

‘Whatever they have offered, I’ll double it,’ stated Brian. The salesman looked confused.

‘They haven’t offered anything yet,’ he said.

‘The offer stands,’ said Brian, wondering how much twice nothing offered worked out.

‘We’ll double his price,’ stated the yuppie, checking his benefit statement carefully, adding, ‘even if it means we can’t afford bottled water from the Sudan for a few weeks.’ Brian saw the salesman look across to the doorman, who walked over and spoke quietly to the salesman before grabbing the young man’s right arm and twisting it behind his back.

‘There’s no place for people like you in this store, sir,’ he said, pushing the young man out through the entrance, adding, ‘we have standards in this establishment and if you’re prepared to waive them at the drop of a hat,’ he said, dropping his stupid hat as he spoke, ‘then we don’t want you as a customer.’ Brian turned back to the salesman and pulled the corporate card out: he was this close, there’s no way he was going to miss the opportunity by offering a Tesco card.

‘Name the price and I’d like to stick a latte and a bar of bullion on top,’ he said, handing the card over.

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The characters, companies and places referred to in Project: Evil are fictitious and any resemblance to people, companies, businesses or places is entirely coincidental

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