Finance Options

A short story

In this polished wood countered Verizon store with drop ceiling sky, I’m scratching an errant dried mustard stain off my jeans when the saleswoman asks: “How can I help you?”
I stare as if caught masturbating.
And the advertisement playing in my head repeats, as it has for two whole days:

Red tail lights. Mud. You sure don't like it when others drive it, but you certainly don't mind watching it drive away. Full suspension all-wheel drive chrome wrapped around our patented Sensitivo™ pink-skin interior. Introducing the Ford DTF-450®: Finally— a truck you can fuck!

She, blue polo shirt and too many bracelets—close, and her conditioner is fraganced with lavender honey, takes a step back after clocking the yellow mustard detritus under my nail, and like the advertisement, repeats herself.
"Something is wrong with my brainchip," I say, and I cover my hand with the other, then clear my throat. "I can't skip this ad."
"Lemme guess," and her hands are on her hips, her bracelets jingle, "you've got a Model 17?"
"I'm not looking to replace it."
"Unfortunately, that model was recently sundowned.”
"Could a manager fix this for me?" and I take a step forward.
The saleslady takes two slow steps to the side, revealing the item display behind her. With a softened voice: "It's not broken, sir," and her bracelets cling and clank as she holds her hands in front of her, "It's been sundowned. We no longer provide services to the Model 17. But there are options."

Red tail lights. Mud. You sure don't like it when others drive it…

I have not slept in two days.
She knows I'm cornered.
"Listen,” and I poke my chest with my thumb, "I'm not going to be tricked into paying more than I already am, you people—”
Her eyebrow cocks up at ‘you people’, then I take a breath. Can't accidentally be the bad guy here, you know?
"Your company is a little sleazy, is all."
She’s looking at my stained pant leg when she says, "We'll keep our options within your needs."
The brain chips behind her on the polished wood wall are small, no bigger than a thumbtack, titanium brushed and pristine, all capable of doing what dad’s archaic iPhone could, but in your head. A collage of happy people running on a beach, graduating from college, and making flirtatious glances in a cocktail lounge sits beside one of the chips, and in bold red letters:

NO ADVERTISMENTS.

…wrapped around our patented Sensitivo™ pink-skin interior. Introducing the Ford DTF-450®…

"How much for that one?"
"The Model 27, with financing and proper health insurance for the installation surgery, can be paid off in as little as 40 years."
"I paid my last one off in three."
"The Model 27 is far more advanced, you have to understand," she says.
"You 'sundowned' it in four."

Finally— a truck you can fuck®!

"There are other options," she says slow as a kindergarten teacher giving her class instructions. With her hand up she brings my attention to the icepick on the wall, and her bracelets fall toward her elbow, revealing the black anodized titanium cuff around her wrist. "We have the home kits and the Indentured Employee discount."
"I'm sorry.”
She looks away and grabs her wrist, covering her cuff. Her knees locked, she blinks. Then blinks again.
"It's a good deal, actually. Only fourteen-hour shifts and there’s AC, you know?" Her laugh is hollow. "I'll have mine paid off in just twenty years."

Red tail lights. Mud. You sure don't like it when others drive it, but you certainly don't mind watching it drive away…

I cannot afford a new brainchip, let alone a fucking goddamn car. Who is this advertisement for? Not me. Sure as shit not this young woman that likely sleeps on premises. A mad intonation for an idol no one can worship and I'm the damned punished for it?
"What's the 'home kit'"?
"There are a lot of perks to Verizon Indentured Employment,” she's half-smiling with a palm out flat, signing STOP. "Can I recommend—"
"No." I step forward. "Tell me about the home kit."
"The home kit is $21.95 with a one-time payment of $79.95 for the three-part instruction video course."
"Can you just tell me how to use it?”
"Sir, please."
"Tell me."
"You place the tip of the pick between your tear ducts and eye," and she places her index finger under her acorn-colored iris, "Then you press the icepick upward behind the eye and breach a thin layer of skull before getting to the brain."
"And this will get the chip out?"

…pink-skin interior…

"It's called a transorbital lobotomy, sir," she folds her arms over her chest. "It will scramble your brain so that you don't care about the advertisements." She's scanning the floor. "Won't mind anything."

RED TAIL LIGHTS. MUD. YOU SURE DON'T LIKE IT WHEN OTHERS DRIVE IT, BUT YOU CERTAINLY DON'T MIND WATCHING IT DRIVE AWAY. FULL SUSPENSION ALL-WHEEL DRIVE CHROME WRAPPED AROUND OUR PATENTED SENSITIVO™ PINK-SKIN INTERIOR. INTRODUCING THE FORD DTF-450®: FINALLY— A TRUCK YOU CAN FUCK!

"I want to speak to a manager."
She leans forward, and I get a whiff of lavender honey again. Her acorn-colored eyes look into me as she shakes her head.
"I am the manager, sir."
I can be a comfortable slave, or be free— but never know it. A thing Verizon owns, or a domesticated cow lost in the wild, oblivious to the wonders around them.

RED TAIL LIGHTS. MUD…

"You seem like a good person," I say. "You'd probably be a fine manager to work under." I close my eyes. "Lobotomy now, please."

👉Tap tap tap…👈

M.P. Fitzgerald writes darkly humorous sci-fi for dream criminals. This story took craft, time, and capital to write for you. Consider slapping down some bread for ya boy.