The Sale Of Men(The Salesman Cut-Up)
I did a cut-up of my serial short story The Salesman, and believe me when I say it's even less coherent than the original.
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Some guy’s trying to push his poppies down our throats but we all got shrunken heads and shrunken necks and he thinks he can get us to shove them down, but what happens when we gag and spurt? This salesman has got the market cornered and they just go along with it trying to hold their heads up, meanwhile... These are cases of... of no shame or pride. So, the Salesman drops by from time to time, keeping his slaves in order; needs to keep a public image. Strokes up and down, up and down... The other junkies’ new heads are looking fine, working fine, hardly, overactive. The sting brought upon by this man’s technique intrigues me, but the other junkies, all degenerates, know nothing of feeling, and they rather like it that way. Somehow inescapable, the pains of deterred flesh are profound.
Self-execution.
A feigned expression of something, some sort of feeling or minimalistic acknowledgment directs its way back to me. It’s really quite sad to see them all like this; mindless standing in lines forming a grid network of void cells. That’s all they really are, anymore. Just void cells waiting for their ‘on’s and ‘off’s, one by one.
“I said ‘sorry’, for bumping into you.” More of that nothing, something, gotta be something, but what? A brief moment passes, and then back to formation.
Nothing. Silence.
Salesman begins to teach them like flies. Greedy ****ing Salesman took not only their mouths, but their eyes, their ears and even their nose. Big and clunky new heads, only good for feeling. Good for feeling alive; alive and frail, guided through monotonous streams of binary sensation, and ****ing useless. Learned and repeated motor activity patterns are rewarded with junk, constantly. I can see them marching in lines. They feel no pain. They feel so alive, but they feel no pain. They could not be further from the truth. Only consequence, if you can call it that, is now they’re all original; finally got a reason to feel special.
“Why does he wait so long to give us what we want?”
“Yeah,” they demanded in chorus.
Our Salesman is at it again. He’s figuring out this whole marketing thing real quick. Now he’s promised them bigger heads, and they don’t like what they got no more.
“I said ‘sorry’, dammit! I know you can’t talk, but you can at least acknowledge me.”
I know exactly what I’m doing, and, honestly... I quite enjoy it. I chose this. It’s not like they chose this. I chose this. And just when everyone has given up hope, just as the Salesman has established his control and exerted it upon all others, he forgets the most important detail of all.
Still nothing. The grid of ‘on’ ‘off’ers continued it’s business. Junk pulsed throughout the rows and rows. The flickering beacons of their junk-heads was magnificent. The gray matter around us began to glow. The hollow husks of the once barely living illuminated. Still no color formed, but at least there was light.
Are you kidding me? I haven’t felt so alive since… Well, since I got my last fix...
“You know what to do with this.”
“Of course.”
One makes a move; sticks his neck out. We all stick our necks out. It’s autonomous. The words, ‘We are one, we are all’ echo. We are finally beginning to come around. All our void cells, now filling with nothing but regret. Disconnect. Disconnect and disengage, and sever the wires. It’s never been done before? It’s all we ever do... until the edge of our societal bubble is reached, and the ego becomes collective and begins to fold in on itself. Like a Republican: he’s found a way to live among us through his parasitic ways... he just kept taking more for himself. Well now the supply is running out.
A suggestion: we sell ourselves short. It's all we ever do. All just pawns. The Salesman is just a pawn with an ego.
Our Salesman is keeping the last of what’s left for himself... taking advantage of all the common folk. Just another void cell, hopeless, filled with regret, considering his options, his past, what he has done and what he has not. He has no one to talk to, and so he reflects. The Salesman has, perhaps, one weakness... All the junkies come scrawling to listen in.
Originally posted here
