©2012 Raminar Dixon
This work of fiction and parody is intended for mature audiences only. All characters represented within are eighteen years of age or older and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This work is property of Raminar Dixon, please do not reproduce illegally.
I met Tyler on a cross-country flight from a rural town in Tennessee to San Diego. He was one of those people you meet that seem so friendly it almost comes off as fake, and you tell yourself to get ready for the pitch when they throw it to you.
He was wearing a pair of gaudy shades and a red leather jacket he must have picked up at some homeless shelter. Far be it for me to say anything about what a man wears to a perfect, albeit friendly, stranger on an airplane.
“I sell designer perfumes,” Tyler had told me, while crunching on a mouthful of stale complimentary peanuts.
“That’s nice,” I replied, waiting for the pitch. Tyler was cute, but I didn’t really feel much like talking to a salesman hocking his goods.
“It’s real easy. Go into any drugstore in America, grab a few bottles of the cheap stuff, put it into fancy bottles with a fancy name, and sell it for ten times as much. The women that buy it pay over $200 a bottle for it, and swoon like if only they sprayed enough of it on, they could have that orgasm their husbands are too soft to give them.”
“Uhhh, yeah,” was all I could muster. His crudeness and open admission to ripping people off took me off guard. Why the hell was he telling me all this?