Fully Guaranteed
by
David B. Reynolds-Moreton
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
D.B.Reynolds-Moreton on Smashwords
FULLY GUARANTEED
Copyright © 2010 by D.B.Reynolds-Moreton
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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FULLY GUARANTEED
Synopsis
At long last the major companies had bought out, absorbed, or put out of business, just about all the competition.
So now there were only a few giant companies producing just about everything man needed, but with a proviso, they set the price and the quality.
Guarantees were all but worthless as they only lasted for six months, spare parts were unobtainable, and if anything went wrong within the guarantee period, complaints were enthusiastically ignored.
Such were their size and power, that they could dictate to governments, and so in time, they virtually became Government because of vested interest.
There was little Joe Public could do about it, except moan profusely and often as possible, until along came a Trojan Horse.
But no one realised it was a Trojan until it was too late, as it offered a way out of being ripped off at every possible opportunity, and who could resist that?
There is always a price to pay if you accept something for nothing, except no one realised just what the price was, even when it had been paid!
********************
The Story
Reluctantly, the sun heaved itself over the horizon, sending a shaft of pale but warm light through the somewhat grimy window of Jason Sipowich’s bedroom and lighting up his sleep wrinkled face as it lay on a thin and even more wrinkled ancient grey tinged pillow.
He had been drifting in and out of a fitful sleep for the past two hours and was glad that the new day had now officially begun, although it would probably be just as uneventful and boring as the previous few hundred, he mused miserably.
He was not to know that this day was going to be very different indeed, irrevocably affecting his future and that of all humanity to a considerable degree.
Disentangling himself from the entwining embrace of his grubby duvet, he staggered into the bathroom and had a perfunctory cold wash, cursing the heater for failing yet again.
Two bleary eyes surrounded by several days of stubble balefully glared back at him from the soap splattered mirror.
Picking up the shaving cream tube he gave it a squeeze, a highly perfumed rancid fart was followed by a few millimetres of a dirty cream coloured slimy substance, reluctantly plopping out onto his waiting palm and then dripping into the bowl.
‘Another bloody tube half full of air, there ought to be a law against it.’ he mumbled to himself as he tried to make the minuscule blob of cream spread over the thickest part of his beard. The razor rasped across his face, dragging out more hairs than it cut and that made him jump, thereby sustaining a cut which refused to stop bleeding no matter how hard he rubbed it with the alum stick.
‘I can remember the days when blades lasted four or five shaves.’ he mused to himself as he combed his wet brown hair back, and then the comb broke.
Jason completed his ablutions as best he could, returned to the bedroom and dragged on the crumpled tee shirt and jeans of yesterday, or was it the day before? He didn’t care any more. On the way down stairs his foot caught in the threadbare carpet and he finished the journey in a flurry of gyrating legs and arms, finally banging into the front door and bruising his shoulder.
When he had run out of expletives, he grabbed the newspaper which protruded half out of the letter box, tearing the front page as it caught on the rusty flap-closing spring.
The kitchen had seen better days, but that was a long time ago. He had tried painting the flaking walls, but the paint just peeled off again after a few weeks, but where a few vagrant drips had landed on the tiled floor, it was still in pristine condition, despite several attempts to remove it.
Loading the coffee percolator, he hit the on switch more firmly than was strictly necessary, and was relieved to see the little red light cheerfully blink into being.
The toaster had been playing up of late, and only worked if it was given a firm thump on the table first, even then it was pure chance whether the bread was burnt or just slightly warmed. With one eye on the dysfunctional toaster and ready to grab the bread at the first sign of rising smoke, he sat down at the table and relaxed a little as the percolator happily gurgled away. And then it stopped, halfway through its duty cycle. The red light still shone brightly, so he knew it wasn’t a fuse. This indicated something internal had failed and as spares were unobtainable these days, it meant buying another new percolator.
He poured out the lukewarm half strength coffee just as a plume of smoke snaked its way up to the ceiling, and cursing volubly, grabbed his breakfast as it burst into flame.
The only way to stop the persistent ear piercing screech of the fire alarm was to rip the battery out, which he duly did. Unfortunately the alarm circuit board followed, neatly breaking into three pieces as it hit the floor. With a snarl he hurled the remains of the alarm into the corner and picked up his pack of guarantee cards. The elastic snapped and landed in his coffee cup, splashing an inordinately large amount of the pale brown liquid onto his blackened toast.
Ignoring the latest mishap, he thumbed through the pile looking for the one belonging to the defunct percolator, and found that it had expired just three days ago.
‘The lousy bastards are getting really good at getting their goods to fail just outside the guarantee period,’ he mumbled aloud, ‘the next thing will be a three months guarantee instead of six.' he concluded morosely.
While consuming his miserable breakfast, Jason scanned the local paper to see if it included the advertisement he had sent in last week. Being unable to find any reasonable employment for the past year, apart from a few odd jobs, he had advertised his services as a sales person, something he had been quite good at in the dim and distant past.
As he swept the last few crumbs onto the floor, the phone rang, something it had failed to do for over a week.
‘Is that Mr. Sopowhich?’ the slightly foreign sounding voice asked politely.
‘Yer, and it’s Sipowich.’ Jason replied grumpily, expecting the sales pitch for some useless commodity to begin.
‘Ah, good. We noticed your advertisement in the local newspaper. We may have a job that might interest you. We assume you have had some experience in selling various commodities.’
Jason replied that he had, but didn’t mention when.
‘This is how it will work. We will fill a warehouse with the goods we wish you to sell on our behalf. You will be sent a key and directions to locate the warehouse. It will be your responsibility to survey the market for the type of merchandise we have to offer, and set its wholesale price at ten to fifteen per cent below that of the nearest competitor. We will give you a bank account number into which all the sales moneys will be deposited. At the end of each month, you will receive twenty per cent of that months total input. Does this type of work interest you Mr. Sipowich?’
‘Yes, I’ll give it a go.’ Jason could hardly believe his luck. No one had ever offered him a job like this, in fact he would have been quite happy to have worked for half the amount offered. There had to be a catch in it somewhere.
‘Suppose I’m unable to sell enough of your goods, is there any penalty clause for under performing?’ he asked warily.
‘No, there is no penalty for under performing, as you put it. We do not think you will have much trouble selling our goods at the competitive prices you can offer, especially when the quality of the goods is taken into account.’
‘All right, I’ll take the job on. Where do I meet you to sign the sales contract?’ He still couldn’t believe his luck.
‘There is no need for a contract. We trust you implicitly. We think the reward for your work will be sufficient incentive to ensure your complete co-operation.’
‘Well, that suits me fine.’ Jason replied, wondering if he should ask any other questions, and then realized the caller had put the phone down.
Suddenly the day seemed a little brighter, there was hope of better things to come. Or had he imagined the whole episode out of sheer frustration? He didn’t think so. Anyway, tomorrow's post would prove it, one way or another.
At one time Jason had thought about setting up a small repair business, but when he looked into the feasibility of it he realized the manufacturers were one step ahead again, as usual. Most things were constructed such that they couldn’t be taken apart without destroying them in the process, and then there was the difficulty of getting spare parts.
‘We don’t stock or supply spares as it is far too dangerous to allow untrained persons to repair our goods.’ was the usual reply to his requests.
The only possibility of repairing anything was to accumulate a large stock of defunct items and then cannibalise them to make one or two good ones. But the manufacturer’s had thought of that one too. It was usually the same part which failed in each type of product.
As the larger companies grew ever larger, they bought up any smaller competitive manufacturers which threatened their domination of the marketplace. The general public’s choice of goods was reduced to just two or three manufacturing houses for each product, and they, despite the rubber teeth of the Monopolies Commission, agreed prices between them.
Like so many changes in life, if the rate of change is slow enough, no one notices it until it is too late. There had been several abortive attempts to boycott goods in the past, but the manufacturers were big enough to sit out the protests and wait for the objectors to give in gracefully, which they always did.
Between the Governments and the giant manufacturing houses, which really amounted to the same thing, there was little Joe Public could do about anything, except moan as frequently and volubly as possible, but to little avail.
The day dragged on for ever, and the more he thought about the sales job he had been offered, the more he doubted its authenticity.
Apart from the newspaper, which was really an archaic leftover from the past which many people still seemed to enjoy, there was very little use for his letterbox as most communications were transferred electronically, appearing on the screen in his kitchen.
The dull thunk of something landing on the hallway floor snapped him wide awake next morning, and his ablutions were of an even more perfunctory nature. After completing same, he hurried downstairs to retrieve the package.
The defunct coffee percolator had been replaced and the new one was bubbling away merrily as Jason tore open the heavy gauge brown envelope, disgorging a large shiny metallic key which then slithered across the table with a life of its own and fell to the floor with a bell like clang. A piece of thick card followed the key, and he caught it just before it fluttered down to join its predecessor.
The card was like no other he had seen, a cross between cardboard and a piece of plastic, flexible but tough, and the printing on it seemed to shimmer somehow as if it would disappear at any moment.
He retrieved the key, surprised at its weight for such a small item, and then returned his attention to the card. By holding it up at a certain angle to the light the dancing hieroglyphics seemed to steady a little, and he was able to make out the name of a nearby town, the schematic layout of its industrial park, and an address.
He half expected a letter of confirmation for his new enterprise, and peered into the envelope to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
Something was tucked in the bottom of the envelope, and several violent shakes produced a small wodge of high denomination bank notes. There was no note of explanation for this unexpected gift, so he assumed it was a loan to help him get his new enterprise underway.
The money was brand new, and Jason half expected to smell the bright glistening ink with which the notes had been printed as he held them up to his nose, but they were completely odourless, and that didn’t seem right somehow.
The coffee percolator hadn’t switched off, and now a steady stream of scalding hot dark brown liquid silently crept along the work surface towards the first two pieces of perfectly browned toast the toaster had ever made.
The large amount of money he had just received plus the confirmation of his future employment somewhat tempered the vitriolic stream of expletives he would normally have used at the impending doom of yet another breakfast, even though he was just too late to rescue his toast as it greedily sucked up the flow of the encroaching coffee.
With an air of resignation he slid the soggy toast into the waste bin, unplugged the percolator and resolved to spend a little of his newly found wealth in the breakfast bar just down the street. As the guarantee still held good, he would exchange the percolator for another one on his way, and give them a piece of his mind as to the quality of their merchandise while he was at it.
After the best breakfast he had enjoyed in years, Jason boarded the intercity bus just as it was about to leave, receiving a dirty look from the driver as he unsuccessfully tried to shut the door against Jason’s foot. They stared each other out for a moment, and Jason won, sitting down triumphantly. It was going to be a good day.
After three changes of buses, and a little irritated at the inefficiency of the transport system, he arrived at the industrial estate named on the card and began the search for the warehouse, missing in his eagerness the large sign at the entrance to the estate which portrayed a large map of the area and all the companies who traded therein.
Several impatient enquires later Jason located the storage depot and was amazed at its size. It filled the entire block between the intersecting roads of the estate, a space normally taken up by at least two or three separate units.
The key slid into the lock almost as though the security device had been hungrily waiting for it, and a series of sharp clicks indicated that this was no ordinary lock. A deep sonorous clunk told Jason that the smaller door in the big roller shutter was ready for him to open, and as he put his hand out to push it, the door swung inwards on well lubricated hinges.
Lights flickered on immediately as he stepped forward, bathing the scene in the harsh blue white of powerful fluorescent luminaries, and that was when he stopped dead in disbelief. There was only a small space just within the doorway that was free of boxes, which otherwise towered to the ceiling and completely filled the warehouse.
‘I don’t believe this, there must be millions of ’em here.’ he said out loud, but the sound of his voice was soaked up by the wall of containers, giving him the sensation of his ears being stuffed with cotton wool.
In the middle of the free space one lone box lay on the floor, inviting inspection. Jason cautiously approached it and lifted the flap. Inside there were many more smaller brightly coloured boxes, packed in so tightly that he had a struggle to pull one free.
The picture of a very streamlined shaving razor seemed to come alive as he turned the box this way and that, and then he realized it was a hologram. ‘FULLY GUARANTEED’ also scintillated and shimmered as the box was moved, beneath which were claims for ‘Auto swivelling head, super sharp, long lasting, non skin cutting, self lubricating and antiseptic’, although he couldn’t see how that could be achieved once the razor had been dunked in water.
Jason felt disappointed that the goods he had been asked to sell were of such a mundane nature, and visions of the vast fortune he had hoped to make evaporated until he remembered the enormous quantity of razors there must be in the gargantuan warehouse.
First he would have to establish the going wholesale rate for such a product, and then undercut it.
A van would be needed to transport the goods around the country, and the generous amount of money he had been given would enable him to get a new one, the first brand new vehicle he had ever owned. Jason brightened up as things began to fall into place, and locking the door behind him he headed for the bus terminal to get back into town.
It didn’t take long to work out the asking price for the razors, as all the ones he enquired about were priced nearly the same, so it was just a matter of a good bit of salesmanship to get the show on the road.
He had taken two razors from the store, one for his own use, and one to show prospective clients.
When he had used the new razor next morning it had been without the usual shaving cream, as he had forgotten to replace the spent tube. The blade seemed to glide across his face so smoothly that he wondered if it had actually cut anything. His skin was as smooth as the day he was born.
A van to trundle his goods around in was his first priority, and after several strange looks from the salesman when Jason produced a large bundle of crisp new notes, the vehicle was his. It took a while to load it up, and then he was ‘on the road’.
The first stumbling block he encountered was ‘It doesn’t say where it’s manufactured.’ from an astute buyer of the hardware store. ‘That’s OK,’ Jason replied, ‘try it, and if you want more, I’ll be around tomorrow to take your order. I’ll replace or refund you for any which fail.’
After a few days sales took off, and he was hard pressed to cope with the flood of orders which came in.
While stocking up his van for the third time next day, a passer by stuck is head around the door and enquired ‘what have you got there?’ ‘Razors’, Jason replied cheerily.
‘Good God, what are you going to do, shave the whole frigging world?’ ‘Something like that.’ Jason said, slamming the van door on a box which was reluctant to go in all the way. ‘Would you like to try one?’ and handed the man one of the colourful boxes. ‘See what you think of it!’
At the end of the third week Jason began to wonder if he could keep pace with things for much longer, as the orders and repeats just kept coming in, and he was working longer hours than he had ever done before.
So far he had received no requests for replacements or complaints of any kind, except when he was late delivering an order and an irate shopkeeper had to stay on long after the shop had closed to receive it.
As the sales went up and up, he wondered how long it would be before someone somewhere got a little bit worried and paid him a visit, as his world was not used to competition any more.
‘Looks like I’ll have to hire some help.’ he said to himself as he sank into his armchair that evening, exhausted, ‘I’ll never shift that bloody lot myself.’
At the end of the month his first cheque came in. He couldn’t believe what he had earned. The following day he hired two men and acquired two new vans. It was then that he realized the razor he had been using was still as good as the day he had opened the box. A cold shiver ran down his back.
When the second cheque came in he moved house, or to be more precise, he moved from his tiny apartment into a detached house on the edge of town, complete with landscaped garden, a fish pond, and a plastic heron to stand guard.
Jason now had six vans and an equal number of drivers, spending most of his time at the warehouse as he had been unable to get the key duplicated, and someone had to be there to let his agents in for loading.
Despite the Herculean efforts of his sales team, the stock of razors seemed to diminish very little, and he then realized the mammoth task which lay ahead if he was to clear them.
Two days later he received the first enquiry from a major distributor. As he had been authorized to set the selling price, he saw no reason why he shouldn’t be able to discount the razors still further, and arranged a meeting with the distributing company.
Jason had to hire some extra help to load the massive transports which came the following day, and still he had only made a small dent in the total stocks.
It was in the third month of his operation that the first enquiry came from the far east. A fleet of lorries was hired to ship the goods down to the waiting ship at the docks.
The next day Jason almost felt embarrassed at the bank.
Three more major distributors and another shipment to the far east brought trouble knocking at his door.
Early one evening, two smart suited gentlemen presented themselves at his abode. They were very polite, but he could tell from their manner that such people rarely took no for an answer. When questioned as to where he got his stocks from, he told them the truth. There was little reason not to as he had accumulated a vast sum at the bank, and was financially secure for the future through wise investments.
Eventually they offered to buy out his entire stock, to which Jason readily agreed, perhaps a little too readily by the look one of his visitors gave the other one. He arranged to meet them at the warehouse the following day, and spent the night worrying how he was going to get out of the situation alive.
Jason had hired two of the meanest looking bodyguards he could find for the occasion, and he had just finished briefing them on the situation when the smart suits arrived in a very big black limousine.
They looked at the warehouse in disbelief and then followed Jason inside with very grim faces.
‘You mean this whole thing is just stocked with razors?’ one of them enquired, trying to hold his voice steady.
‘Yep, as far as I know,’ Jason replied cheerfully, ‘although we can’t get at the rest of it, so I assume it’s razors all the way through.’
The two suits went into a huddle, one of them producing a mobile phone which he quietly muttered into for several minutes.
‘We shall have to reassess the situation and get back to you.’ one said, and with that they hurried out to the limousine and sped away.
Jason was awakened in the early hours of the morning by the police requesting that he get himself down to the warehouse a bit sharpish. Two fire engines and enough police to quell a decent sized riot greeted him with puzzled looks.
‘Someone tried to set fire to your building,’ the police chief announced, ‘the structure is unharmed as far as we can tell, but we have two bodies over there which are charred beyond recognition. Can you tell us anything about this?’
‘No, I didn’t know anything about it until someone rang me up and asked me to come down here. How come they burnt themselves?’ Jason enquired, realizing that he was going to be asked a lot of questions for which he had no readily available answers.
‘That’s what we can’t figure out. It would seem they doused the side of the building with something flammable, but the flames instead of going up, went out sideways and they were caught in the conflagration. Know anyone who has a grudge against you?’
‘No, not really.’ Jason lied, not wanting to mention the two visitors he had recently entertained, and the manner in which they had left, ‘One is bound to upset someone when you’re in competition selling something, but I wouldn’t have thought it could lead to burning the place down.’
The police chief gave him a long hard disbelieving look,
‘I think you know a little more about this than you’re telling. Hey, wait a moment, aren’t you the chap with the razors? These new ones which don’t wear out?’
‘Well, yes, but I only sell ’em.’ Jason said nervously, aware that the more he said, the more involved he would be in something he knew little about and certainly couldn’t explain. Jason began to wish he had never seen the razors, and then he remembered the bank balance he held.
‘I think it would be helpful if you came down to the station later on,’ the police chief said thoughtfully, ‘I’m sure there’s a little more you can tell us, if you think really hard.’