It stood as a testament to man’s creativity, ingenuity, and his need for the perfect road machine. It had taken a staff of more than thirty men over ten years to design and build it, and now it sat like a silent monument to their abilities.

Albert Deems stared at the car like a child gazing through the window of a candy store. Ever since he’d read the first article on the experimental vehicle, he’d begun collecting everything he could about it, while saving every spare dime. "My car fund," he’d called it. For more than eight years he’d denied himself the simplest of pleasures—an ice cream cone, a movie rental—whatever it took to save that extra dollar or two so that he could be among the first in line to own one of the new models when they finally rolled off the assembly line. He had also taken on a second job, and even moved into a smaller, cheaper apartment complex so he could build up his savings.

And now, years later, he stood in the showroom with a fatted savings account, the most wonderful car in the world, and a sales man who couldn’t find his ass if he were sitting on it with both hands.

"But I want that car," he emphasized each word very clearly, very distinctly.

"Sir," the salesman began again, leaving over his black Lucite and chrome desk. "As I’ve said before, you can have the car. I would love to sell you the car, but it must be as is. The model does not come with the option for additional decoration."

Rolling his eyes, Deems tried to compromise. "Surely there is somebody in your body shop who can do a decent paint job? Hell and damnation! How much trouble can it be to add a few simple racing stripes?" Feeling the heat rise up into his face, he realized he needed to calm down or his doctor would order him back on his blood pressure medicine.

"If I’m gonna pay sixty-eight thousand for a car, the least you can do is get some red paint and put two or three of those real pretty, skinny lines all the way down the sides, just above the fender line. Crap, I’d do it myself but I haven’t got a real steady hand. Not at my age, anyway." And I’m too damn old for all this nonsense, too, Deems thought as he pulled a hand across his forehead.

The salesclerk stood up. "Look, do you mind if I go talk with my manager for a minute?" The impasse had to end somewhere, and it was obvious it was going to take the intervention of someone higher up before any further progress could be made.

"Please do!" Deems snapped. "And if he won’t agree to my request, I’ll want to have a talk with him myself!" he yelled at the retreating back. "Haven’t you people ever heard the phrase ‘the customer is always right’?"

Wearily Deems slumped down into the upholstered chair and looked around the showroom floor. As he had countless times before, he sought out the simplistic, almost futuristic beauty of the Orion 2400 LX. Under the recessed spotlights, it almost appeared alive and breathing, a machine of power and precision unlike any other in the history of automotives. Its pristine, pure white outer skin literally glowed with good health. The leather interior the color of deep red cranberries seemed to call out to him, beckoning him, as if it had been made just for him.

Albert Deems, sit in me. Feel my seats caress your back and thighs. Notice how the soft contours of my control panel welcome you like open arms. See how my gauges are just your height. My steering wheel was made for your hands. The pedals are where your feet fit naturally. The stick shift is an extension of your arm, and shifts as smoothly as oil on a baby’s butt.

Shaking his head, Albert reached for the checkbook in the back pocket of his jeans. For the umpteenth time he went over the figures tallied inside. All these years he’d scrimped and saved had barely been enough. It wasn’t until he’d cashed in his insurance policy that he finally managed to have enough to buy the car.

What was it about this car that fascinated him? Hadn’t he asked himself that question untold number of times? Was it because the Orion was no ordinary vehicle?

This car was a breakthrough in both bio-genetics and engineering. It was a car that lived. But if the car was compared to a human being, it would also be labeled simplistic or child-like. It had intelligence, but at a very basic level. Sometimes it acted more on instinct, rather than being able to solve problems or make rational decisions.

It was a car that handled its own survival. In test after test its sense of self-preservation prevented it from crashing into another vehicle, and thus the Orion became the safest mode of transportation in the world. Drivers who fell asleep behind the wheel need never worry again. Sensing lack of driver response, the car would pull itself over to the side of the road and shut itself off. People who became distracted as they drove would feel the steering wheel tug in their hands as the Orion automatically slowed down.

Even the outer skin of the car regulated its interior temperature. When the weather turned cold, the Orion warmed its seats. In the summertime, it checked its cooling system. And all without any programming or preliminary settings.

And that was just a few of its incredible innovations.

Albert replaced the checkbook when the salesclerk emerged from the manager’s office along with the manager. The man in charge looked a lot more competent than the flunky Albert had been arguing with. Beside, Albert knew that at the age of sixty-seven he’d never be able to own a fast car again in his life. For all the years he’d dreamed of cruising down the interstate with the wind in what was left of his hair, for all the years he’d had to settle for the latest "family vehicle", it would be a cold day in Hell before he would "settle" again for something he never truly wanted in the first place.

Both the manager and salesclerk—Mr. Rommers or Remmers? Damn memory loss.—walked over to the Orion 2400 LX and studied the sticker on the window. They spoke briefly before turning and walking over to where Albert sat.

"Mr. Deems?" The manager extended a hand. "I’m Stan Fisk. What seems to be the problem?"

Albert stood and shook the hand. "The problem is I want that car. I can even pay cash right here and now, if you want. Just call my bank if you don’t believe me."

"Oh, we believe you, Mr. Deems. Mr. Rimmers here mentioned something about racing stripes?" The last statement ended with a questioning tone, as though the man was unsure what his salesman had been trying to tell him.

Albert grinned. Now he was getting somewhere. "You bet!" he said. "Red racing stripes. Three of them, if possible, down both sides of the car, but I’d settle for two, or even one if it could be made to look like flames."

There was no mistaking the flinch both salesmen expressed at the visual image. "But Mr. Deems, the LX does not come with racing stripes," Fisk told him.

"I’ve already been through that argument with him." Albert gestured to the clerk shifting angrily from foot to foot behind his boss. "I’m willing to pay extra to have somebody in your body shop paint them on. Aww, what the hell, just sell it to me and I’ll take it to a detail shop myself."

Keeping his eye on Mr. Rimmers, Albert could see the man was definitely looking red-faced, but not because of embarrassment. He suspected the shouting match between them wasn’t over yet. What was with these people anyway? Why were they so damned set against a little exterior decoration?

"I’m sorry, sir. We can’t do that. Yes, we have the facilities to custom design certain trucks, vans, and automobiles, but the Orion 2400 LX is unlike any car ever created."

"Oh, I’ve kept pace with this car since it was first announced," said Albert. "You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know."

"That may be," the manager continued, "but let me try and give you a little more information about this unique vehicle. The Orion is the first of its kind on the market from the field of bio-mechanics. It’s been designed to come in specific colors—"

Albert interrupted angrily. "You’re fence-straddling! You want my money but you don’t care if I’m a satisfied customer? Fine! Fine with me!" He threw up his hands in surrender. "Just sell me the damned car as is, and I’ll drive it over to the body shop and let them worry about putting on my racing stripes!"

Rimmers could not contain his temper any longer. "See? See?" he burst out, tugging on the manager’s arm. "I told you he wouldn’t listen! I told you he was hardheaded! He wants to take our Orion and put trashy stripes all over it! He has no concept of how special this car is! It’ll ruin the car, not to mention our reputation, Mr. Fisk! You can’t put stripes on its skin!"

Grabbing the man by the shoulders, Rimmers whirled his superior around. "Just think! Motor Car of the Year! Of the decade! The car that’s promised to win more engineering awards than any other car in the company’s history! Imagine it spoiled because an over-aged teenager with a bent toward the fifties who never got the hot rod he wanted!"

"Mr. Rimmers..."

The clerk turned and pointed a finger at Albert. Purple and white splotches mottled his cheeks and forehead. "The public will laugh at us! The company will jerk our distributorship from us when they find out we’re selling their award-winning car just so—"

"Mr. Rimmers, you’ve been warned before about flying off the handle," Fisk spoke more firmly. Sadly, Albert realized the salesman was quickly going to hell in a handbasket.

Rimmers backed toward the Orion. "He won’t listen to us, Mr. Fisk! You heard him! If we don’t do it, he’ll take the car to some cheap paint and body shop—"

"Mr. Rimmers, that’s enough. We’re here to sell cars, not to pass judgment on our customers. And we sure as hell can’t tell our customers what they can or can’t do with the car once it’s in their possession."

"But, Mr. Fisk, the exterior skin of the Orion won’t tolerate it! You read the manual! You were there at the conference! It’s a living, breathing organism!" Sweat sparkled on the salesman’s face. "He’ll mutilate it! He could kill the car! He could irreparably damage it to where—"

"Mr. Rimmers, sell the man the car," the manager ordered wearily. "We cannot stop him if he wants to put some red racing stripes on it." The salesman took a step backwards in shock and surprise. "What?"

"You heard me. Sell Mr. Deems the car. And after you do, report to personnel, sign out, and go home. And don’t come back. I’ve had it with your tirades. You were hired to sell the cars, not to determine which customers are deserving enough in your eyes to own one."

A coldness permeated the small office. It was as though an arctic wind had suddenly blown in. Several seconds passed as Rimmers glanced from one man to the other like a general deciding which side presented the greatest threat. His breathing grew short and raspy, and with his voice cracking, the salesman pulled a pocket knife from his pants and jerked the short blade from its sheath.

"Okay," he softly replied. "I get it now." He took another step back. "So... if the customer wants red racing stripes, let’s just show him what the car would look like with red racing stripes, shall we? Remember though." He pointed a finger directly at Albert. "This is all your fault."

Before anyone could stop him, he turned and dashed toward the car, and plunged the short blade deep into the unique bio-fabric over the left front fender. The car seemed to shiver from the shock of the intrusion. The white exterior darkened inexplicably, and a small, thin wail of anguish filled the showroom. Albert could swear the cry came from beneath the hood, but that would have been impossible, wouldn’t it? He quickly dismissed it as other people in the large showroom stopped and turned to see what was going on.

With a brutal tug on the knife, the salesman began to slice an uneven line around the body of the car, across the door, and over the rear wheel well before circling around the trunk to mark the other side.

This time there was no denying the effect of the knife on the car. There was no squealing of metal on metal. The car literally cringed from the torture, unable to move on its own to avoid the torture. The keening sound of pain whistled from every vent and speaker in the vehicle. Albert watch incredulously as the Orion writhed and screamed from the salesman’s sadistic attack.

Yet, all eyes were no longer following Rimmers’ insane path around the car. Albert felt his gorge rise as, with increasing nausea and horror, he watched the bright, cherry-colored liquid seep out of the slit and roll down the blanched, now chalky gray sides of the car in an obscene parody of red racing stripes going in the wrong direction.

Red Racing Stripes by Gail Smith
Copyright© 2007 Linda Mooney
Please note that Gail Smith is the horror personification of Linda Mooney. This book is published and owned by Linda Mooney.

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