Or your money back, Part Deux

Continued from Part Un.

The chill was sharp in the man's nostrils as he crossed the space between trailer and truck. The morning was shabby with proofs of entropy. Plumes of smoke and steam were rising from the handful of other trailers in the park, alloying with the generalized gray of the day. He opened the door and sat in the cab inhaling its familiar smell. He took a penny from the dash and used it to turn the ignition. The engine turned over easily, soon settling into a throaty purr.

He went in to get the dog and the shampoo bottle and the directions he had written out as the engine warmed. He was wearing a rumpled dress shirt adverting the name of a defunct enterprise he had once worked for in the days when there was work. The dog followed him eagerly down the walkway. When the man pointed at the bed it cleared the tailgate with an impressive leap.

"Goin on a road trip boy. Whaddye think?" The dog wagged its stump in ratification. The man moored the dog to an anchor in the bed before climbing into the cab.

There were only a few miles of mixed-use land separating his trailer park from the main highway into the city. Scrapyards, brownfields of varying descriptions, granite pits, an abandoned foundry, the occasional enclosure patrolled by lean livestock. From the corner of his eye he saw a fallow field presided over by a derelict scarecrow with nothing left to frighten.

On the highway the man stayed in the right lane as the newer vehicles stampeded past on the left, inscrutable pilgrims pledged to their nameless and desperate causes. After a few miles the billboards preaching the sanctity of life and varying degrees of commercial activity began in earnest. Between the billboards flickered visions of developments that would never be completed.

A few miles on lay the office parks. Elysium Avenue, Enterprise Boulevard, Commerce Way. He followed one such road onto one a corporate campus and was soon faced with the shampoo and miscellaneous toiletry enterprise's headquarters. A massive cube of a building on steel stilts that heaved it off the ground where it shaded the vehicles of the parking elite. The windows were mirrored, and no activity within the building could be discerned.

The man opened the door and swiveled his boots down onto the concrete, turning to grab the culprit bottle before he closed the door. He whistled sharply. "Let's go, boy."

They strode toward the entrance with a businesslike air. It is impressive to see an otherwise undignified dog assume a businesslike air.

Once within the headquarters they were greeted by an enormous banner. Process Competence + Efficient Organizational Infrastructure = Sustainable Success. A voice spoke to the man's left as he fathomed the banner. "You can't bring that in here."

The man turned. At the black reception console sat a small woman in a warden's outfit. She wore thick glasses that gave her eyes a piscene, walled appearance. Her body had the collapsed look of a tree monkey, and her pinched features clove to her skull like a hideous drumskin. Nevertheless, her hair spilled from her head in a lustrous cascade. A perquisite.

Oh. You see...well, he's the reason I'm here.
What?
The dog. I'm here because your shampoo did this to his coat and I want to talk to someone about it. Who can I talk to?
You can't talk to anyone with that dog, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to take it back to your vehicle. Do you have an appointment?
Appointment? No. I have a complaint to make.
I see. In that case I can direct you to a link where you can download our complaint form. You'll have to complete it and include the UPC code and original proof of purchase.

The man and his dog looked at the woman for a moment. She fixed them back with her unblinking aquatic stare. He thought carefully before speaking.

Alright, I understand you have a policy against dogs in the building. That's fine. I'll go put him back in the truck. I just need to be able to talk to someone about my problem and see about that refund. I don't have a computer at home, you see. I'm sure I can take whoever it is out to the truck to show them what the shampoo did to his coat. Do you think you can help me with that?

The woman wheezed a sigh of exasperation. Sir, I just helped you. We can't issue refunds here at corporate. Claims have to be filed with the claims department.

Lady, I tried calling your claims department. They were not helpful, and I couldn't hardly understand what the woman was saying. Now I drove all the way here from Gibbonsville, and I'm not leaving until I get to talk to someone who can help me. Your product guarantees my satisfaction or my money back, and I'm taking you at your word. C'mon boy, let's get you back in the truck.

The woman was working the console as the man exited the lobby.

When the man returned the woman was flanked by a large man wearing an identical uniform with the single difference of a small medal above the left breast.

What seems to be the problem sir.
What? There's no problem. I just want to talk to some kind of manager. I'll just have a seat until someone can see me.
Sir I believe Miss Veristasis here went over the procedure for filing a claim. I'm afraid that's the only option you have.
What only option? You have got to be five finger...what is this? All I want is a refund for the shampoo that ruined my dog's coat and, you know, maybe a little money to get it fixed. Is that too much to ask?
The woman spoke: I told you he was being disrespectful, Erwin.
The guard surged forward from his position flanking the woman at the console. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.
Oh no you don't. Hey! Get your hands off me. I want my damn money back like the bottle says.
Sir if you don't cooperate we'll be forced to press charges.
For what? Are you out of your mind?
All right. Let's go. You're out of here.

The guard executed a swift maneuver and led the man out the door in a half Nelson.
Now, which car is yours, good buddy? We're going to make sure you get out of here safely now.
You're making a big mistake here, man.
The guard continued leading him.
Hey, do you hear me? I'm telling you you're making a big mistake.
And why is that?
The dog, you damn didjit. Oh, shit.

It was too late. The dog reacted automatically as soon as it saw what was happening. Launching itself from the truck, it had knocked them both to the ground in seconds. The guard was scrambling for his electrocution device but the dog was already at his throat.

No. Oh no. Let go boy. Damn it to hell let go!

A detachment of security guards flooded into the parking lot from the lobby while the man pommeled and pleaded with his dog over the guard's gurgling anguish. The guards fell on them with clubs and electrocution devices. Fucking bum, he heard somewhere. Then darkness.

*

The man woke up with a savage headache. There was a furred and ferric taste in the back of his mouth, as if his brain had descended an inch or two down the drainpipe of his spine. He was sprawled on the concrete floor of a cell. His joints hurt. He dragged himself up against the wall as he mended the shreds of what had happened. After some minutes his confusion had not abated. He called down the corridor through the bars.

Hey. Where am I? Hello?

No response issued. The prison was soundless save for the faint yawns of plumbing and ductwork.

Hello?

Several hours later he awoke to the sound of a key turning in the lock of his cell. The man looked up to see an archetypal jailer figure. Large, portly, mustachioed, proper, eyes oozing reptilian malice.

You Mason Dewey?
The man nodded.
All right now. Get your sorry ass up. Time to give your statement.
The man staggered to his feet. I don't know what happened, he said.
What do you mean you don't know? You sicked your dog on a man and put him in the hospital. Damn near killed him.
I never sicked him.
That's what you say.
It sure is. Will the guard be all right?
What the hell do you care, sackashit. Let's go.

The jailer led him roughly down the corridor.
What about my dog?
What?
I said what about my dog?
Never mind about your dog.
What do you mean never mind? Where the fuck is he?
Watch your language. Sackashit.
What happened to him? Can I see him?
Suddenly the jailer hurled his skull against the bare cinderblock. A red stain bloomed in his vision. The jailer leaned in and whispered.
All right, you want to know what happened to your dog? They stove his head in. And you know what I say, sackashit? Good riddance. That was damn near the ugliest thing I've ever seen. Fucking overgrown rat. Pathetic.
The man slumped out of the jailer's grip and spilled onto the floor. He began to sob violently.
The jailer stood and witnessed the scene.
Go on, pansy. Cry it out. We're still gonna charge you. Now come on. Here we go.

*

The walls of the room were also of cinderblock, but had been painted institutional green. A guard presided over the man as the detective behind the desk asked him questions. His left hand been cuffed to the desk for good measure.

Mason Dewey.
Yes.
That's got a nice ring to it. I like that. Mason Dewey. So. What have we here.

The detective peered over to top of his glasses at the papers on the desk.

So what is it you have against Better and Better Soaps? What would drive a man to terrorize the headquarters of a soap company?
I don't have anything against them. I just wanted a refund.
Is that right. And setting your dog loose on one of their security professionals was your way of stating your case, is that it.
I never sicked the dog on that man officer. He did it himself. Not to mention I warned the guard. Why would I want to sick my dog on someone and get in a pile of trouble?
Why do people murder their mothers, Mr. Dewey? I have at least four witnesses willing to testify against you. They all say you were being aggressive and disrespectful. Allowing your dog to attack that man fits the pattern.
That's what they say. You can't listen to them. The whole place had it in for me from the start.
The detective scribbled, muttering. Paranoia...irrational...possible conspiracist...
Mr. Dewey, let me ask you something. What line of work do you follow?
Work? Officer, as a man of the law...all I wanted was a refund for my shampoo. The people at Better and Better were meaner than hell, and then they turned violent. That's what set my dog off. I didn't do anything wrong. And who's going to compensate me for the dog?
Mr. Dewey, let me be clear on one point. I will not sit here and twiddle my thumbs as you rattle off bald-faced lies. I won't. And let me give you a piece of advice while we're at it: This will be a hell of a lot easier on you if you cooperate. So tell me, what is your line of work?
The man regarded the detective uncertainly: I can fit pipes, I can weld seams, I can lay tile, I can plane wood. You name it. But there isn't any work officer. You know that.
Drifter, then. That'll win the judge right over.
What the fuck drifter? I don't drift anywhere. I don't have any work now is all. I'd like to see you get a job in construction the way things are.
The detective's eyebrows were raised. The man noticed that they had been painstakingly groomed. Then the detective shifted his gaze upward, almost imperceptibly. A fist crashed into the man's neck, slumping him over into a gagging heap.
I won't have you swearing at me Dewey. I can't allow it. Now if you'll abide by these simple rules, I think you'll see that we can get through this thing painlessly.
The man was was still coughing painfully and was over a minute in gaining his breath. All right, he said. All right. What do you want from me?
I'm glad you asked, Dewey. Why, all I want is for you to sign this little piece of paper.
What is it?
It'll set things in order and start to make good on the harm you inflicted to day.
I said what is it?
It's your confession.
Shit fire. I'm not signing any confession.
The detective arched his carefully groomed brows.