Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 28: Short Stories Read online

  Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 28

  Short Stories

  By William L. Ramseyer

  Published by UMaxed™

  Text copyright © 2015

  (and year below the title of each story)

  All Rights Reserved

  William L. Ramseyer

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Tax on the Imagination

  Remember the Rememberer

  Ghost of the Harold B. Schmidt Shopping Mall

  The Pleasure Eaters

  Forget It

  Many are Called, Few are ...

  Sour Grapes

  Trash the Earth Before It's Too Late

  Things That Are Overrated

  Retired Memories

  Tax on the Imagination (271 D6 6/24/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  Published in:

  Premonitions (Engl.)

  1993, #3

  "I sure am excited."

  "I bet you are, son," said the old man. "I bet you are." The old man lifted the box off of the shelf, set it down on the counter, slid it over to the cash register.

  "Yeah," said the boy. "They ain't making fun of me no more for being dumb. I'm gonna be smart!" He looked down at the bright red, white and blue box--'Alert Citizen Kit. Rated 102 units. Thirteen gigi-byte off-line carbon memory, bio software mental enhancement.' The boy sighed. "I been saving for a long time."

  "I bet you have son," said the old man, and smiled. "You're going to be a...well, a good solid citizen with this intelligence kit. You'll have to pay the fee, but it shouldn't be too much on this here kit."

  "What fee?"

  "You got to pay a fee whenever you get smarter."

  "I don't understand."

  "Never mind. Just go home and install the kit. Then it'll be clearer."

  The boy grinned with half of his mouth, thought for a long time, wrinkled his eyes, and finally said, "God Damn. That's right." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper slip. "I got called to some office."

  "Yeah. They track every order. Don't worry about it. You'll have to pay a little fee," like I said, "but you'll be smarter so it'll be easier." He rang up the sale.

  "What's that?" asked the boy. "Back there." He pointed at a tiny golden gyroscope crystal in a locked display case behind the clerk. "It's beautiful."

  "Someday," said the old man. "Someday when you're rich you can come back in and trade up for it. That's a 'really smart crystal.'"

  "Ahhh, I see," nodded the boy. He lifted up his Alert Citizen Kit and left.

  When he arrived home he ripped open the box, set aside the instructions, then opened the smaller box with the picture of the 'Alert Citizen' crystal. His mouth fell open--instead of the dull grey crystal shown on the package he found a tiny golden gyroscope. They made a mistake he thought.

  *

  "So," said the fee auditor, "I want to make sure you understand that the fee is due within six months. Do you understand? A twenty per cent surcharge on income. Here, I'll calculate it for you."

  "You don't need to," said the boy. "I understand completely."

  "You do?" The fee man took off his rectangular black frame glasses, swung them by the gold chain. "You do, huh? Good." He scratched at his hairy belly button, showing through his flower print shirt, pushed out by three rolls of fat. "O.K. But don't you want to ask me any questions?"

  "No, I understand completely," said the boy. "But I do think that pursuant to Rule 2029, and the fee deferral benefit provision cited therein, I shouldn't have to pay the fee for 27 months.

  "Huh?" The fee man sat up and grunted. "Excuse me, I need to talk to my supervisor." He picked up a phone, punched some buttons, spoke into it, "yes..mumble, mumble..down here...right away..mumble, mumble..thank you." He hung up the phone.

  A woman came in, thin with wavy white hair, a ghost cloud of a smile across bluish skin, a face stretched over white bones. "I understand that you have a question about the fee deferment regs." She looked searchingly at the boy. "They're rather complicated." The cloud smile rose slightly on each side. "Much too complicated for someone with a 102 rating to understand." She pulled her lips together. "You've got a higher crystal, don't you?"

  "Yes," said the boy.

  "We would have found out soon enough. Intelligence likes to show itself off--at least at first. Anyway, it's easier this way. That will be a surcharge of--just estimating--780% of base income."

  "And how am I going to pay that?!"

  "The same way I pay it." The clouds floated even higher. "You can work for us."

  "Doing what?"

  "Collect from people--you get a percentage. Eventually, you can move to the next level."

  "How?"

  "By being smarter?"

  "And how do I get smarter?"

  "By making more money."

  "And how do I make more money?"

  "By being smarter?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Oh you will--we all will--once we reach the diamond, platinum, sapphire, diamond levels." She looked up.

  "Well, I ain't never ate shit either," said the boy, "but that don't mean that I don't have an idea what it tastes like."

  He took the crystal out. "I'd rather be stupid, than a fool."

  THE END

  Remember the Rememberer (272 D5 6/26/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  The man turned a toy plastic soldier over in his hand, flicked off the chipped blue paint from the helmet, ran his thumb down to where a lawnmower blade had sliced away the leg, picked at a speck of dried dirt between the molded gun and the soldier's chest. "Who am I?" he thought.

  *

  A woman picked up a yellow curled photo of a girl in a blue dress. "She was my friend," she thought. "Chris. Second grade. Hancock Elementary. I wonder where she is? And I wonder...who am I?"

  *

  A set of building plans, a driver's license, a hammer with a dried split handle.

  A cooking class, and the smiling wrinkled face of Mrs. Goddard.

  A tackle box with bright silver spoons, wheels of lead weights, packages of fish hooks, a dried bottle of salmon eggs.

  A wedding dress. A job resume. A loan application. The smile of a neighbor sipping her tea.

  "Who am I?" thought the man.

  "Who am I?" thought the woman.

  "If only," each thought, "I could remember--the rememberer."

  THE END

  Ghost of the Harold B. Schmidt Shopping Mall (273 D7 6/26/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  The Vice President shuffled in, adjusted his tie, coughed quietly. A fat red-faced man waited behind a marble desk. A sign behind and above him read, 'If it ain't Schmidt, it ain't...very good.'

  "Yeah?" yelled Harold Schmidt, finally. "What the hell do you want? Speak up."

  "I, uhh, whawhawha," whispered the Vice President.

  "What, God Damn it?!"

  "Problem. We have a problem. At the home store."

  "You mean my store? The flagship of my empire?"

  "Yessss."

  "Well take care of it!"

  "We've been trying. It's just that, well, we..."

  "What?"

  "It appears that we have a ghost."

  *

  The guard walked through a corridor in the sporting goods section, glanced nervously at the bright orange signs: 'Super Sale', 'Incredible Bargains', 'Deal of the Year'. A noise, behind him. He turned, screamed, then ran--followed by a hurricane cloud of basketballs, badminton rackets, sleeping bags, and tents.

  *

  "Here's the latest report," said the Vice President.

&nbs
p; "What's it say?" said Schmidt.

  "It happened again last night. Someone or something..."

  "Just say 'the ghost', god damm it."

  "The ghost ripped apart the sporting goods section. Half the guards quit."

  "All right," said Schmidt. "Let's go check it out."

  *

  "President Schmidt," said the store manager, "I'm very honored to see you." He dried his palm on his suit pants, then shook the President's hand.

  "Can't handle a little ghost?"

  "We're doing our best sir."

  "All right," said Schmidt. "We're staying here tonight. Get me some comfortable chairs and a television. We'll camp in Women's Clothing. Where is it?"

  "In Docksville," said the manager. "Store's so big now that it covers three cities."

  "That's right," said the President. "And if it ain't Schmidt...". He raised his fist and the three men finished in unison..."It ain't...very good."

  They stepped on to the escalator, got-off three-quarters of a mile later at the flashing sign, 'Women's Fashions'. A fat woman fingered a bikini, while a plump toddler in a shopping cart watched.

  "My, my" said the President, patting the toddler's head, "what a beautiful baby." The toddler bit the President's hand. The fat woman poked the President with her ice cream cone.

  "Don't touch my kid."

  "Hey," said the manager. He grabbed the woman's arm. "Do you know who you're talking to?"

  The President turned. "What's the matter with you? How many times have I told you--the customer is always right. Don't you know that?" He turned back to the fat woman.

  "Enjoying your shopping?"

  "Well..."

  "By the way, I'm President Schmidt." He shook her hand. "And because you're one of my special people--that is, a customer of Schmidt's--I'm going to let you have everything in your shopping cart for free." He turned back to the manager and whispered, "save the video footage on this, and get a release." He smiled at the woman, who looked up from her empty shopping cart. "The customer is always right at Schmidt's," said the President to the hidden camera. "And remember, 'If it ain't Schmidt, it ain't what?" He leaned over, cupped his hand to his ear and waited.

  "Shit," said the woman. "There ain't nothing in my shopping cart!"

  "Cut that part," Schmidt said to the manager.

  *

  The three men sat on beach lounge chairs, watched television. A movie came on; Schmidt changed the channel, searching for commercials.

  "Got to know what the competition is doing," he said. "Besides, commercials are more interesting and educational. Aren't they?"

  The Vice President and manager started to nod vigorously, stopped.

  "Whawhawha," said the vice president. A pastel cloud of women's lingerie engulfed them. The men jumped up and fled, tearing off panties and slips from their suits as they ran.

  "We got to bring in a ghost killer," said Schmidt, when they finally reached the front door.

  "Aren't ghosts already dead?" said the vice president.

  Schmidt began whipping him with a bra.

  *

  "How much is this going to cost me?" asked Schmidt.

  "I don't know," said the thin man sitting across from the President. He rubbed the tips of his finger together. "I work by the hour."

  Schmidt groaned. "Are you sure that you wouldn't rather have gift certificates than cash?"

  "Absolutely sure. The man pursed his thin lips. "I never had a case like this one. Although we did have a coffee shop out in California...."

  "And?"

  "It seems that an ex-employee had a dispute with the night manager, drove off in a huff, and died in a car wreck. Then his ghost started coming back on the grave yard shifts. He urinated in the coffee pot, spit in the milkshake maker, poured sugar in the mashed potatoes, and did everything he could to ruin the quality of the food. This went on for months--finally someone noticed, but the management decided that it didn't really make that much difference--not until the ghost started playing around with the cash register--then they called me back."

  "But how," the President waved his fist, "how did you get rid of the ghost?"

  "Trade secret," said the man, and smiled. "You wouldn't reveal how you make Schmidt Brand sausages, would you?"

  The President rubbed his lips with chubby fingers, sat up suddenly. "Listen. Is there any way you could move the ghost over to Sprawl Mart, or one of my other competitors?"

  "I could try, but it will be tough enough just to get rid of this ghost. And dangerous."

  "And expensive," grunted Schmidt.

  *

  A week later the thin man entered the President's office. He walked slowly, his eyelids drooping, red bags under his eyes.

  "Is it gone?" asked Schmidt.

  "No," said the thin man. "But I know how to get rid of it."

  "Well. How?"

  "It's looking for something."

  "That's crazy. You can find everything at a Schmidt Mart. My stores cover hundreds of acres."

  "The ghost is looking for quality at a discount price."

  "Quality? Then it should go to our subsidiary, Wellington's Boudoir. There's quality."

  "Are you sure it's quality?"

  "Quality plus. We'll move in some of our Wellington up-scale merchandise and sell it at...?"

  "Cost plus five per cent."

  "That's theft!"

  "It's the only way."

  Schmidt moaned, finally nodded.

  *

  "Good news," said the Vice President. "The store manager says the ghost is gone."

  "Ah," said Schmidt. He searched through a pile of papers. "Well then, we have to take care of the ghost killer's invoice." He handed the invoice to the Vice President. "Counter-bill him for all the Wellington merchandise at retail, that should be about a wash."

  *

  The next day the ghost came back. An angry Schmidt called the ghost killer. "The ghost is back, damn it. What kind of work is that?"

  "Did you get my invoice?" said the thin voice.

  "Oh. Yes. Uh, I think accounting has it. Look, the ghost showed up at the Complaint and Return Department."

  "I don't remember that part of the store."

  "It's in the back. Kind of hard to find. Anyway, the ghost showed up throwing things all around, wrecking everything. What do you have to say about that? Huh?"

  "Well--'the customer is always right'.

  THE END

  The Pleasure Eaters (274 D6 6/26/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  A warm evening, the smell of alfalfa, the glow of red neon 'Motel' signs. Garbage trucks, mail vans, tankers--move slowly, suction nozzles open. Inside rooms men and women hold each other close. As the trucks pass their eyes go vacant, and mechanically they perform the moves of passions.

  Cold winter evenings. Men and women come home from work, reach out for their kids. The trucks pass. Their eyes go blank, their arms fall to their sides, they collapse in front of televisions, fall asleep clutching empty beer cans.

  *

  "Back already?" asked the watchman.

  "Yeah," said the driver. "We got a full tank."

  The watchman made a mark on his clipboard and waved the truck into the yard where it joined a line of trucks, produce and lumber, box cars and refrigerated rigs. A long row of boxes outlined in tiny red running lights. As each truck in turn would pull up to the scale, men in gas masks would hook up the hoses, pump out the truck, then wave the driver on, and wait for the next rig.

  *

  "I don't know," said the Company President, scratching his thinning hair. "Seems to me, you find a need and meet it--that's how you sell something."

  The woman laughed. "No way. You make people desire your product--that's how you sell. And at Deziray, Inc. that's our specialty."

  "But spraying products with this perfume stuff? You're trying to tell me that will make people want it?"

  The woman smiled, lifted the atomizer, sprayed three times at the Deziray
sales brochure, held it out to the man.

  His eyes lit up for a second as he took the brochure. "I've got to take a look at this."

  "It's not perfume," said the woman. "It's desire." She sprayed her arm, held it out to the man. "We'll begin spraying all your products tomorrow."

  "You've got a sale," he said, taking her arm and kissing it.

  *

  A man sat down in front of a television, watched the commercial. "Wow, I need a vid camera like that."

  A woman next to him pointed to a picture in her fashion magazine. "This dress," she said. "I've got to have it."

  "Hey, Mom, Dad," said the boy. "Have you seen the new Chromos motorcycle? I want one."

  "We received a new credit card in the mail today," said the woman. "I'll just work some overtime next month. Let's go shopping!"

  "Yeah," yelled the boy. "It's boring around here on Saturday."

  No one noticed the truck that passed them on the way to the Mall, or the nozzles on its side.

  "I sure feel bored," said the man.

  "Don't worry," said the woman, patting him on the arm. "We'll feel better when we get to the mall."

  THE END

  Forget It (275 D4 6/28/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  The man shuffled through the papers on the desk, ran his hand through his white hair. "I'm getting so absent-minded lately," he said.

  "What's that dear?" said a woman. She looked up from her magazine, waited.

  "I can't seem to remember--there was something I was going to do--that's why I sat down. But I can't seem to remember what it was."

  "Well I remember dear. You said that you wanted to work on your memoirs."

  THE END

  Many are Called, Few are ... (276 D7 6/28/91)

  By William L. Ramseyer

  The six men faced the six women--two rows of glass cubicles. Inside one a man stared at himself in a mirror, brushed his teeth vigorously, turned and smiled a bright broad smile with shiny teeth. In another cubicle a woman slowly pulled on her stockings, wiggled her leg gently.

  Fashions poured into the glass boxes: dresses, skirts, tight jeans, sweatshirts, silk ties, Italian suits.