Hairballs

Death of a Salesman

A vengeful gunslinger, throwing wide the swing doors of a wild west saloon, might have made his entry with a little less bravado than this particular salesman entering Harold's humble quarters. From just inside the doorway, at a contumelious glance, he took in the room.
"Em, nice place you've got here," he quipped. "A friend of mine's in the rag and bone game. He'd be happy to take this lot off your hands for the right price."
His slick silver hair matched his slick silver tongue, while the high-shine fabric of his immaculately pressed suit mirrored the briskly buffed leather of his brogues. So confident was he, this self-styled Jack-the-lad, that he was practically chewing chewing gum. And just like the gunslinger, he was out to make a killing.
"What if I were to tell you," he continued, unwisely omitting to formally, or even informally, introduce himself, "that with a little help from yours truly here you could be living in the lap of luxury in about six to eight years from now?"
It would surely take only the merest pin prick to pop such an inflated ego, reasoned Harold, who, unfortunately, did not have a pin to hand. But he did manage to locate a rusty nail in one of the drawers of the work bench. A whole box of them in fact. And, lo, a hammer too.
"Bit of a handyman, are we?" said this (sales)man-with-no-name. "I prefer to leave that type of thing to the lackeys myself. Frees me up for the finer things in life. You can never spend too much time on the golf course, eh?"
The room dimmed slightly, as the mid-morning sun turned a corner. Evenly, Harold unbuttoned his shirt cuffs (much as you might do prior to a fist fight) and began turning up his sleeves.
"Oh, I genuinely enjoy my work," he said. "It gives me a sense of purpose. What did you say you were selling again?"
"A once in a lifetime opportunity," said the salesman, eagerly approaching Harold.
But he barely had time to start in on his spiel before a Bleasdale-style blow to the cranium knocked him clean off his game. And when, hazily at first, he began to come round he probably feared he was paralyzed on account of his inability to move. But he needn't have worried - silly - it was just that he was hog-tied - with the cable from an old table lamp, hands and feet behind back - and his head, face upwards, was tightly clamped in a vice. Though it was true, supposed Harold, that, paralyzed or not, he would never be able to walk again after today.
His body hung heavily beneath his clamped head (he was short enough in stature that the caps of his knees could only lightly touch the floor, taking almost none of his weight) and his throat therefore was exposed in its entirety, the skin stretched drum-tight over his windpipe.
He would have pleaded for his life, no doubt (Harold imagined how)...
"Please! Please don't kill me! I'll do anything. I'll spread your payments over ten years. I'll... I'll... I'll even forego my commission!"
...he would have pleaded for his life, that is, if Harold had not had the foresight to mine that silver tongue of his at the earliest opportunity, with a handy pair of pliers and a carpet knife.
In lieu of such pleading the blood that filled his mouth bubbled upwards, and he gurgled and spat like an active geyser.
Harold stood over him - hammer in one hand, nail in the other - scrutinizing, workmanlike, the creases on his brow. Where best to pierce the first hole? In the event, the indentation left by the initial hammer blow seemed to volunteer itself for the job, so holding tall the nail there between a steady thumb and forefinger, Harold drew back the hammer intently. The geyser positively erupted now. Expectorated flecks of blood dotted Harold's shirt front and sleeves and more flowed in profusion out over the captive's chin and down his neck to his collar. Tears spilled too now from his desperate, terrified eyes.
Tears indeed. Harold paused. He slowly lowered the hammer and removed the nail from its position.

Myrtle seemed surprised.
"What's this?" she enquired. "A sudden change of heart?"
Old Mister Bitterman thought carefully before answering.

"Here was a man," he began, "who considered everyone fair game. He and his ilk would have few qualms about targeting the needy, or the vulnerable, or the gullible, just to make a fast buck; leaving pensioners, for example, destitute at the expense of their schemes and scams. And all so they can spend a bit more time on the golf course. Me, me, me; take, take, take. It's a dog eat dog world, he will tell you, this parasite; survival of the fittest; every man for himself. I ask you in all sincerity, Miss Lane, would we be any worse off for his passing? What is it they say about evil? That the only thing needed for it to flourish is for good men to stand idly by? No! My world is different. In my world the needy - the genuinely needy, at any rate - are there to be helped, the elderly respected. And, as we've seen, the dogs in my world - certain of them, at least - are still very well fed.
"And as for those tears. What? I should now feel sorry for him? Take pity on him? Show a little sympathy for his plight? As though he had suddenly seen the error of his ways and had not seen it all along? Too little too late, my mercenary friend. You were just another deathbed conversion.
"Now, who, you might ask, appointed me judge, jury and executioner? Well, do you know what? I saw a gap in the market and I filled it. Isn't that how it works? Oh, they operate within the law, these leeches. But the law, miss Lane, is an ass. Men like this deserve to be punished. This I felt intensely, undeniably. So for me then not to punish him would have been cowardice on my part. And you can accuse me of a great many things, my dear, but cowardice is not one of them.
"A change of heart, then? No, not quite. Merely a change of position. What with all the choking and spluttering this particular salesman was doing, I thought it wiser to stand behind him and spare myself a soaking."

So holding tall the nail there, on the same spot as before, Harold drew back the hammer intently. He struck the nail squarely on the head and its height decreased but slightly. He struck it again, even harder this time, but again it barely moved. Thick skull. The third time he struck it, however, it sank effortlessly up to the hilt. Soft brain. And though there was no obvious loss of air, bar a vigorous snort from the nostrils, the ego was well and truly punctured. Harold selected another nail and repeated the procedure. And another, and another, ad nauseam.
A sputter, a spasm, an involuntary movement (of a different kind), a baby's belch of blood that scarcely trickled over his chin, another spasm, a final sputter and the geyser, at last, lay dormant.
Harold wiped the sweat from his forehead and set down the hammer beside the depleted box of nails. He selected in its place a rusting, sixteen inch, panel saw from off the rack above the workbench.
That exposed throat seemed as good a place to start as any.
"CHARLIE...? CHA-ARLIE...? Here, boy."

Taken from the novel - Harry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (coming soon).