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Durex Blender Corporation 014
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E ||==// \\==// || \\ ||==|| || || #014-RT04 -- [12/27/91]
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Olfactory Cruelty
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by Random Tox
I attempted to worm my way through the Christmas crowd that had
materialized from of nowhere, filling up every department store, no matter
how large, to bursting. The displays by the entrance, advertising the latest
perfumes, heralded the proximity of the perfume section, which made itself
clearly discernable a few steps into the store. It was that intensely strong
melange of scents of all sorts, which reduced even the most exotic and
expensive perfume to a minor additive to the searing haze, burning one's
throat and eyes with its intensity. I could almost see it, like the rising
air over a stretch of baked pavement in July. It was then, as I squeezed past
a clever-yet-subdued mass-produced stool made from twisted metal pipes that
the beast lunged forward from the depths of the well nigh solid air.
As brevity is the soul of wit, I shall be brief. She was hideous. Her
tall body seemingly a product of some new weight loss program involving the
removal of lesser organs like the stomach and intestines. She was thin, nay
gaunt, her reddish-brown dyed hair balancing precariously atop her stretched
head with the aid of several gallons of hairspray. The skin was drawn tight
about her bones, softened by the last minute inclusion of veins, muscle, and
a few other bits of human organics. She couldn't have been too old, but with
the mask of cosmetics that made its home on her face it was impossible to say
whether she was twenty- one or two hundred and one.
"Would you like some Chanel Number Five?" she gurgled at a passing
couple, rushing headlong at the pair, brandishing a chiseled glass vial half
filled with the generic golden liquid that 90 percent of perfumes consisted
of. The couple ignored her as best they could, politely running away at a
liesurely pace so as not to seem ovely rude when they were most likely
shopping for a nice tie or some clever socks, and not french brewed skin
cleanser. The woman remained undaunted and scanned the crowd, allowing me to
bolt forward as she looked the other way. Then she turned as I negotiated the
treacherous pass between a mammoth display and yet another clever stool. She
looked me in the eyes and I saw something in her suddenly twitch, a subtle
wiggle on her retinas, as if the little computer in her brain had just added
"x" and "y" and had come to a conclusion.
"Can I help you with some Egoiste for Men?" She assaulted me, her head
blocking out the sourceless department store fluorescent light, and my knees
trembled as I felt my stomach trying to push its way past my tonsils. Her
nostrils flared, and her head revolved around mine at high speed as the
deadly bottle wove its way through space towards my horrorstruck body. It was
gruesome beyond any description and I wanted to explode, putting me out of my
misery and possibly knocking her hair out of joint in the process. No such
luck. I stepped backwards and grabbed the reflective metal rim of the Max
Factor booth behind me, where a young woman was attempting to find the true
colors of an old lady in green polyester pants.
"Neo-NeuroGnosticism is the key!" I spouted suddenly, moving back into
the crowd, letting the flow carry me through the store, letting myself off at
the shoe section once my senses returned. I crawled over to the acessories
area and curled up in the corner, manically sniffing an ornate Italian
handbag, trying to destroy any remnant of Egoiste for Men that lingered with
the powerful euphoria of new leather. All I wanted was a pair of black
suspenders as a gift for an old armless veteran I know. Maybe I should get
him a vest instead.
[Merry Christmas folks. - RT]
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(C)1992 by The Durex Blender Corporation & Random Tox
All Rights Revered. Even yours.
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