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Short story: <i>The Booking Agent</i>

The skin on the man’s face looked like a diseased ham, shiny pink with patches of white flaking from his nose, forehead, chin, even eyelids. He was even sweating like a pig.

I’d like to make a booking

He’d said low and raspy.

I didn’t like the look of him, but he’s the customer, and as John likes to make a big song and dance about every time we complain, the customer’s always right.

So I put all the force of my personality into my smile, which still has a little vaseline on it from the pagent I went to last night.

I called him sir a lot, and shuffled my papers, and made sure my new manicure clicked comfortingly on the counter.

Then I handed him everything he needed, wished him a pleasant time, and he grunted and turned away.

And as he staggered on out the big glass door, I noticed the butt of a gun resting between his pants and his sweaty drenched shirt, nestled at the base of his spine, like a tumour.

And I had to get the little brush and pan from the closet and sweep away the flakes of skin he’d left on my counter.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: personality, ham, diseased, customer, and booking.

Image courtesy of bowbrick.

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