Carpet of the future

Carpet of the future (short story)
He who eats alone chokes alone

The box was full of spam as usual. Credit card applications, greetings from mortgage brokers, car sales, grocery store fliers. Useless waste of paper, ink, and manpower. James hated spam, but he never could throw it into garbage as is. This time his curiosity had got the better of him again. Anxious to find out what's in that stupid pile of trash, he began to read, regretting wasted time in advance. One of the spam letters attracted his attention. Some company in town introduced a new exotic way to sell carpet. How often do you change a carpet? Not too often. It does look ugly after only a couple of years, it also stinks and getting soiled with stains. It's even more stinky and disgustingly expensive to replace. Unless someone cares about you having a plan to save enough money for the right moment. Bright colors of the flier promised just that and even more. The piece of glance paper was glowing with happiness and hope, smelling like the brightest future. Make a payment starting from 5 cents per square foot a month for the next 5 years. After 60 months of payments the company will replace your carpet, and the choice of color and quality is up to the client. James realized all these years of being annoyed by spam finally paid out. The torture of going through mindless pitches and cheesy promises was actually worthwhile. Suddenly the sun got brighter, the air became fresher, and the neighbors less irritating. Humming his favorite "Jackson" tune, James went up the porch, opened the door and rushed into office to call this new renovation messiahs.

- 'Carpet of the future', Mary is speaking, how can I help you?
- Hi, my name is James Jules, and I found your companies flier in my mailbox this morning. I'm interested in buying a plan, but I have several questions first.
- Sir, I'll transfer you to our sales agent shortly, please stay on the line.
Clicks and cuts followed by generic background muzak. After a short while James was connected with agent to turn a new page in life.
- Good day, sir, my name is Donald Doogle, and I understand you are interested in buying a plan for your carpet of the future. May I have your address and phone number please.
Usual questions followed, usual answers where given back. The deal visualized right in front of Jame's eyes. Solid future for the floor, exotic colors, irresistible new smell, knife of a pro cutting into the roll of synthetic flesh...

The remaining paperwork arrived in three days. Sign here, put initials there, schedule the visit to measure the floors, agree on quality, browse through catalog, make a choice, confirm, send faxes, receive mail. One day everything was complete, sealed and delivered. James is going back into life's routine. Living alone isn't exactly a roller coaster when you approach 40. Work, home, work again, occasional beer in pub with friends when they are not with their families, occasional woman in bed from time to time. Nothing to write home about. Nobody to read whatever is written home either. He used to want to marry, have children, take long road trips on vacation. He used to envy friends with wives and kids. Not anymore. James started to enjoy a hermit lifestyle. For example, he can stop shopping for groceries for months, eating out or buying pizza, skip laundries, even throw socks on the floor. Parents died years ago, so no one to beset him with questions about sexuality, no one to vex him with friends fat daughters hungry for cheap restaurants buffets, mans company, and dull marriages.

Five years flew by as usual. Johnny Cash was steadily leading charts in CD player. No extraordinary things have happened. Bottles of beer were drained in good and not so good companies, friends got divorced, others got remarried and divorced again, relatively promiscuous women agreed to have sex, there were couple of friends who's wives spent time with James in bed, out of boredom or out of frustration. He didn't care much, didn't read much, and didn't think much. The call on the cell phone broke his dormancy. Pleasant female voice twittered for 15 minutes about the arrangements to do before the work begins. She asked some question about possible change of color, thickness, or grade of quality . James confided his taste was in limbo. He wants beige, three quarters, American made. They closed on a day and approximate hour, one of the weekdays, in two weeks. James was on vacation staying at home. He didn't have any traveling plans. About 10 years ago he came to conclusion he doesn't like to travel. It's hard to find anything remotely attractive in a foreign life style. Eating alien foods may be disgusting and even revolting. Some customs lacked slightest common sense and were outdated. Old buildings were useless, old streets were tired and weary with tourists. Pictures taken million times by million point-and-shooters wouldn't carry any value or quality and are completely pointless. He sold his camera on eBay last year.  Simply put, why leave your place anyways? The world is dull and pointless, void of any excitement or novelty. People fooled themselves with the "new world" concept. This world isn't new. It's an old one superimposed over slightly different terrain. Stinky, callous and dangerous as it's meant to be. Are woods in America safer place for a hare?

The bell rang politely waking James up from his existential thoughts.
- Hello sir, it's a good day there sir! How are you doing? My name is Corky Caliber, from 'Carpet of the Future', sir.
- Oh, hi, I'm good, thanks for asking, Corky. I'm James, James Jules. Would you like something to drink?
- Water would be nice, it's a little too hot out there. Planning any trips lately?
- Yes, sure. I was thinking about traveling to a nice place. Maybe Manzanillo.
- Cuba! Good choice, good choice...
'Another senseless conversation ', James thought, pouring water from a jag, 'What a hidebound fella. But why should I care? Let him do his work, talk to him as little as possible, and it's going to be over very soon'. He walked out of kitchen holding a glass.
- Here you go, Corky, your water
- Thank you sir, - Corky gurgled down the water - good stuff, doesn't get any better!
James stood still thoroughly disgusted by the scene of unshaven man drinking water with noises rivaling those from pig sty. He tried to think how he can manage not to take the glass from the mans greasy fingers when he felt sharp pain piercing the back of his head. The pain was so awful, he screwed up his eyes and squatted down holding head with both hands. The next strike was at the forehead and James sat on the floor. The blood was gushing out of nose. He tried to open the eyes and look at the assaulter but failed to do so, as quick kick knocked him out. 

James opened the eyes. He could taste blood from his nose, but the teeth were in place. He tried to blink. It wasn't painful. But the head was cleaving from enormous pain in the back of it. Someones voice was wailing, howling and screaming through agonizing wall of noise. Sometimes James could  discern heavy beats pounding on metal objects. Screeching synthetic piano took its turn and swallowed up the rest of sanity. James tried to move his arms or legs but he couldn't. He felt very tight, breathing was also tight. In fact he was wrapped in carpet like a baby, hands and feet tied.  Suddenly the music stopped. The silence was much less painful.
- How did you like it James?
- What?
- The music, the band.
- Who are you? Why are you here? - James tried to lift the head to see who's talking.
- My name is Gordon Grinder, but it's not my real name. I prefer to keep it in secret. Like a true artist.
Gordon walked slowly to the red boom-box carefully placed by the wall.
- So, James, I reckon you are the Johnny Cash guy, eh?
- Yes, I like his music.
- Me too. Very inspiring. Though I'm coming from completely different background in music, Nowadays I'm not as ignorant as when I was young. I do appreciate any good music. And Johnny Cash made very, very solid music indeed. But today, I want you to open your mind for something completely different. It's going to be uncomfortable in the beginning, don't get discouraged, life is difficult in general.

Gordon pushed 'play'. This time the noise out of boom-box was a bit closer to what usually is called song. It started with sampled movie dialogue. James was trying to recall where he could have heard this strange line. Was it in this disturbing movie about lonely guy in Paris he watched long time ago? Singer was delivering lyrics through heavy distortion. It felt like the music was grinding listener's brain with purposely overloaded drum machines and spooky noises. Fine melody rarely slipped through the chaos to only emphasize lack of structure and overall insanity. Than again James recognized remotely familiar lines about cutting off the head. The music was very annoying, probably as pleasing as decapitation. A sound of broken glass ended the song.
- I can tell you have a good memory, James, - whispered Gordon checking Jame's new suit was tight enough. - remember the movie? I bet you do. It's classic.  I can tell from your reaction you watched it. Ah, countless hours spent analyzing what's really happened. Never ending puzzle in a washroom. Such  tragedy. But we should concentrate on business.  James looked at his tormentor with fear. He started realizing the suffering has just began. A long and painful procedure lies ahead. Who is this guy? Is he working for "Carpet"? Why did he need to tie him, and what is this nonsense with obscure electronic noises and movie talks? To many questions, too little is known.
- Why are you doing this to me?
- Because that's what I do James, do you have hobby? What do you do in your spare time?
- Mostly nothing, I have to admit I'm a dull person. Why do you ask?
- Well, because I don't consider myself a dull person, you see. My hobby is dangerous and not friendly, but that's what I do for fun. I kill. This time I'm going to kill you.
- Why me?
- Nothing personal. Pragmatic calculation, I'm very organized, James. See, I like doing things right. I developed the most reliable scheme to get away with serial killings when I had this beautiful idea with carpet. I pick number of people, just like you, lonely, not many friends, hermits with no interest and little social activity. I put fliers in mailboxes, and I get response. Usually two or three people would call back. I study their life closer for five years and decide who is the better match. Some people get their carpets installed. Some get killed. You are going to be killed, James.
- Where is Corky?
- Corky is my alter ego. Doesn't really exist. Simple fella, not very bright, but has a very positive attitude.
- What about Mary, the receptionist, what about sales guy?
- They are all me. Can't help myself, James, I may be too eccentric, but it's so boring to remain the same person all the time. It's so much fun to change colors, pretend you someone else, believe in your new self. It's all about being the soul that creates. Of course there is another benefit. I have no one to betray me. Some killers enjoy the publicity, I, James, like to sleep tight. I try not to worry too much, stress is harmful. Exposure to law enforcement is harmful. Life is a serious matter, it's not a movie. The reality is stinky, callous, and dangerous. Now if you excuse me I'll get to killing.

James heard as the door was opened and shut, than opened and shut again. Gordon walked into the room carrying a laptop. He opened the computer and connected audio output to the boom box. Desktop was without any image, in plain gray color. Gordon clicked on multimedia player, browsed for a video file and loaded it into the player. He looked at James calmly adjusting screen brightness.
- What you are about to see, is a collage. Pieces from horror flicks put together. Pay attention to the music. This is going to be the last thing you listen to. Images are very violent, but you are past the age of parental guidance. Try to enjoy it as much as I do.
James was very scared. A slim hope that this crazy man would stop and turn everything into joke was dying fast. He realized that his minutes, or maybe seconds are counted. He's forced to watch a sick video produced by sick people, being killed by heartless pragmatic psycho.
- Please don't kill me, please, I beg you. I'll do whatever you want. I'll become your slave, just let me live. Please, Gordon, you don't have to do it!
- You are right, I don't have to do it, James. I don't do it because I have to. I do it because I want to. Good-bye now.
Gordon opened the case and reached for a long sharp knife. Looking straight into James eyes he raised the knife. James tried screaming. The knife went smoothly through synthetic flesh and into his own. Three more stubs and the killing was over. Gordon sat for a minute looking around. He dragged the body into garage and began dismembering the corpse. After quarter an hour he was done, packed the body parts in a truck and took off. The sound of a starting chainsaw followed by precise hard bits and wheezing vocals from a car stereo. He was driving slowly on a local street waving and nodding to neighbors.