Business is good at Caed's Merchandise, a store that caters to serial killers. From knives to ropes, chainsaws to axes, acids to poisons, Caed's got them. Everything is just fine, until the store clerk falls in love with a customer and breaks the ru...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The bell chimed as he entered the door. A short, middle aged man in an old-style, tailored black suit and hat, the kind they wore in the 30s when the world was younger. He looked inside the store with the curiosity of an art critique in a newly opened gallery, stroked his curled moustache as he craned his neck on the aisles. The classical string music from the overhead speakers complemented the image. The Moustache Man. Who kept turning around to see what kind of customers frequent the establishment.
He stopped to watch a man wearing a turtle-neck sweater who held in his hand, a large serrated hunting knife and was making stabbing and slashing motions in the air. Like a conductor, the music made sense now. They all looked beautiful to the Knife Man, the knives, that is, his darlings, and he couldn't quite make up his mind which one he'd bring home.
Moustache Man raised an eyebrow with irreverence, a maniac he whispered to himself, and walked to the next aisle. There, another man, slightly different. A bigger built. Unlike Moustache Man's, his was thick and fluffy and covered his upper lip. With it came a stern look as cold as his eyes. The elbow patches in his gray, wool jacket were unmistakably 70s. He held a rope tightly with both hands, stretching it like he was about to strangle someone.
Another one, Moustache Man thought and retreated back to the main aisle.
The Clerk, a 20-something college-type guy, wore the store's uniform—blue shirt, a cap and apron with the store's name, CAED'S MERCHANDISE. He was watching the Moustache Man from the pay counter near the entrance door.
"Can I help you?" the Clerk called out.
Alerted, Moustache Man turned and hurried towards the counter.
"Yes, you may," he said in a hushed tone.
"Looking for a knife?" guessed the Clerk. "Or maybe an axe?"
"Goodness, no," he frowned. "I'm not the, you know, the flamboyant type. I...uh..."
Moustache Man hesitated for a moment.
"This is Caed's, right?" he asked. "Caed's Merchandise?"
"The one and only!" smiled the Clerk, and motioned to a life-size, cardboard standee nearby. It was of an 80-year old man wearing a blue cardigan, white shirt, bowtie and black trousers. Mr. Caed himself, smiling, with his arms stretched outward in a welcome gesture.
The Clerk smiled broadly, "If you have murder in mind, at Caed's, we got the tools for you!"
"Y-yes, right," said Moustache Man, the store's tagline confirmed it all for him.
Then, from out of nowhere, Rope Man walked in abrasively and put down a couple of ropes on the countertop.
"2 polypropylene ropes," said the Clerk. "That'll be 4 dollars."
Rope man had already taken his wallet out and dropped a 5-dollar bill before the Clerk could even finish his sentence. He left the store without another word. The smug didn't even bothered to get his change. Just chewed his gum, got into his Pontiac and drove off.
"Now, where were we?" smiled the Clerk.
"Is that guy a cop?" Moustache Man asked frantically.
"No, he only looked like one. He's a regular," the Clerk shrugged. "So, what is it you're looking for?"
"If you please," Moustache Man coughed his words. "I'd like some arsenic."
"Poison's your thing, huh?" the Clerk gave him a wink and looked at him closely, to which the other's eyebrows furrowed uncomfortably. Finally, "It's down back."
Moustache Man tipped his hat and turned away quickly. He took a longer route as to avoid the man with knives. And as a result, had to make his way in an aisle past a raucous group of teens in colorful windbreakers brandishing hammers. They loomed on him and made him flinch but otherwise, let him pass. Laughter followed the Mustache Man all the way to where the poisons were.
Seeing this, the Clerk just shook his head. He had been working the counter of Caed's Merchandise for over 13 years now and had gotten used to dealing with these types. The enigmas. The narrowed down special cases. Serial killers we call them.
Caed's specializes in providing these murderous individuals with the things they need. From knives to ropes, hammers to saws, you name it, they have it. Including accessories like masks, gloves, hoods, boots, goggles, duct tapes, plastic fasteners, cords, garbage bags, cellophanes, mops, sponges, needles, chloroform, and voice changers. Caed's Merchandise is the home depot of murder. The only thing they don't carry were guns.
A couple of days ago, a big, bald, goateed man in studded leather jacket came to the store and asked for a shotgun, sawed off, if possible. He had a tattoo on his neck in Old English that said KILLING SPREE. A regular Hell Angel's type of the lonely highways and last-chance bars.
The Clerk pointed him to a sign on the wall that said NO GUNS complete with the prohibition logo—a gun, red circle with a diagonal line.
"Fuck. What kind of murder store is this?" the big guy grumbled and on his way out, toppled the rotating magazine rack that carried such titles as THRILL TO KILL and FOR MURDERERS ONLY. He kicked the pedal of his black and chrome Harley and zoomed away, leaving a cloud of disappointment.
Bikers, Nazis, hillbillies, rednecks, motor home dykes, ghetto men, militia brothers and junkies. Caed's get them a lot. They come to the store bound for murder spree road, but the sign on the wall said no way.
After a while, Moustache Man returned with a small bottle of his poison of choice.
"A bottle of Arsenic. Will that be all?" asked the Clerk.
Moustache Man nodded. As he took money from his wallet, out slid a small photograph which fell on the floor, unbeknownst to him. The Clerk noticed this but didn't said a word. After he brown paper-bagged the bottle, he gave the customary exit greeting.
"Thank you for buying at Caed's! Enjoy the rest of the night!"
Moustache Man took the bag and hurried out.
An oddball thought the Clerk. A new one at Caed's every week. They come and go. But, in the case of Moustache Man, it was the Clerk's so-called consequential happenstance that he had been waiting for.
During the past few months, he had grown tired of his job. Tired of the whole set up. Of attending to the worse of the worst that he wanted a way out. And the Moustache Man had provided him exactly that—a reason compelling enough that would make him take the risk. Bite the bullet and so forth.
The Clerk went around the counter and picked up the photograph that fell from Moustache Man's wallet. It was lying face down on the floor. He picked it up and flipped it. The photograph was of the Moustache Man's young wife—a beautiful girl in her twenties with dark hair and striking green eyes. The Clerk fell in love with her that very instant.
Since then, he kept the photograph close, stared at it whenever he felt melancholic, which was most of the time now. Though, there wasn't much idle moment at Caed's (he had to man the cash register, talk to customers, take delivery orders and do the inventory), he would always find time for the girl, his muse. She would keep him company like a mistress of mystery, and he would talk to her and she would be the answer to such questions as how long? how much more? and what if?
It was like that, and he was okay with it, until the muse actually walked in and changed the program.
