On Monday mornings, I send out a story via email: ultra-brief tales of 1,000 words or more, usually in genres including horror, science fiction, and the supernatural. Those stories collectively are called Once Upon A Time. I’ve also published several ebooks and compendium volumes of those stories so far.

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Here's story 216, of 240 so far.

Manager's Special

McGowan walked into the dealership with a spring in his step that he hadn’t felt in at least the latter half of his sixty-eight years of life. The day had finally come.

He bypassed the twenty-something lad with the patchy little beard and the cheap, boxy suit, not giving him so much as a glance. McGowan went straight on by, searching for a salesman within a decade or so of his own age. He found one readily enough and continued on an intercept course amidst the chrome and the rubber and harsh lighting. The cars smelled the same as they always had, even though they couldn’t have looked more different to the vehicles of his youth, and there was a smell missing too. Long gone was the petrol age.

Other things had changed since those days. For more than a decade now, every vehicle on the road had been capable of fully autonomous driving. Battery technologies had leapt forward several times, and all-electric ranges of several thousand miles were universal. Paintwork used sunlight to recharge the car, and of course everything was controlled by voice.

In McGowan’s opinion, cars had lost their souls along the way. They felt less like machines and more like robots, from behaviour to appearance. Cars should respond to control and skill, not to spoken commands and computer navigation instructions. But that battle had long since been lost. In the mid-2040s, everything in sight was loaded with technology.

The middle-aged salesman smiled as he approached, and behind him the date and time hovered disembodied just in front of a wall, a display constructed from light and magnetism and some other things that McGowan neither understood nor cared to.

“Welcome, sir,” the man said, and McGowan nodded.

“I have a special order for a vintage 911,” he replied. “I got a message that you’d sourced the car. I’m here to make arrangements.”

The salesman’s smiled dimmed slightly but remained in place. His hunting ground was strictly the showroom and forecourt stock, and whatever financing could be put in place. The rare and unusual additional orders which the dealership catered to from time to time were beyond his purview — and more importantly, didn’t contribute to his commission.

“I’d like to talk it over with the general manager, if he’s in,” McGowan continued, and the salesman clearly thought this was an excellent idea.

“Right this way, sir,” the man said.

The salesman disappeared quickly after escorting him into the single large office at the rear of the building, and McGowan diplomatically ignored the pointed look the silver-haired man behind the big wooden desk was sending after his departing subordinate. The note of tension passed, though, and the manager settled back into his chair after shaking McGowan’s hand and inviting him to take a seat.

“So it’s the classic 911,” the man said. “Full restoration, custom paint, and of course we’ll have to put in the basic tracking and self-drive systems required by law. Expensive job, but what a beauty it’ll be. A gift to yourself?”

“Today is my birthday,” McGowan said. “I promised myself I’d have it before I’m seventy, and that’ll be in two years.”

“Happy birthday,” the manager replied. “This all seems to be in order. We’ll need about three weeks for the work, and that’s after the vehicle arrives here, which will take about a week from today if you’re here to pay.”

“I am,” McGowan replied, “but we need to talk about some details first.”

The manager just nodded, clearly used to this, sitting forward a little and clasping his hands on the desk surface. “Fire away,” he said.

“The first thing is that I’d like to leave out all computer stuff,” McGowan said. “Navigation, monitoring, autonomy, all of it. And I want to keep the petrol engine too.”

The manager’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s against the law,” he said, not unkindly. “And where are you going to get petrol these days anyway? Even if you did, the barriers wouldn’t let you get onto any motorway or major road when they can’t identify the car, and all the emissions fines would ruin you.”

“I know,” McGowan replied. “But that’s the thing.” He also leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I’d like the manager’s special.”

There was silence in the room as the two men looked at each other, and then the manager slowly nodded.

“That’s going to cost you,” he said. “It’ll triple the price of the whole job. For the risk on my part, and for the transportation.”

McGowan waved a hand. “I’ve budgeted for all that. I wanted this thing since I saw one when I was a kid, back when most people didn’t even have the internet, and when cars were cars.”

“I just have to make it clear that this is a crime,” the manager said. “Quite a few crimes, and one of them is major.”

“But you’ll do it, because you understand, and that’s why I came here,” McGowan replied. The other man didn’t deny his conclusion.

In fact, the manager laughed, dismissing the display screen on his desk with a gesture, and instead opening a drawer and taking out a paper notebook and pen. McGowan hadn’t seen either object in years.

“No evidence means no prosecution,” the manager said, partly to himself, and McGowan just nodded. “It’s full payment up-front, personal asset transfer, no biometrics, and no records. I’ll burn this page once our business is concluded. And as far as anyone outside the room is concerned, you decided not to proceed with the vintage vehicle restoration and we went our separate ways. You also won’t ever return to this dealership for any reason. All OK?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” McGowan replied, and the manager sighed, but with a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

“When would you like to take delivery of the car?” the manager asked, and McGowan smiled.

“August the twenty-third, nineteen ninety-six,” he replied. “On my 21st birthday.”

JINX

KESTREL face a new and terrifying enemy: an all-seeing mastermind who already knows exactly who they are, and many of their deepest secrets. Nothing stays hidden forever, and the line between privacy and liberty is razor-thin…

Book 3 in the KESTREL action-thriller series.

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