The Haunted Pricing Gun

That ill-fated morning, that morning that the price gun first started talking to me, began like any other day. Except, of course, for the fact that the price gun started talking to me. Have you ever seen the original 1958 The Fly? Remember at the end of the movie when the fly with the small little human head gets caught in the spider web and pleads "help me!" in that squeaky, quiet, spiderlike way, and Vincent Price ignores it? Well, it was nothing like that.

No, my price gun talked to me all right, but it did so with a much more baritone kind of voice. It sort of sounded like that guy from Everybody Loves Raymond, I think his name is Pat Garrett or something. Or maybe that's Billy The Kid's friend. Either way. The price gun sounded either like Raymond's older brother or Billy The Kid's sidekick; I can't be bothered to figure out which is right, and, frankly, is it really that important? I mean, Christ, the price gun started talking to me, and you want to argue over which historical figure it sounded like? Please.

"Hey Hank," the price gun said innocently enough that morning, "whatcha doing?".

(Actually, now that I think of it, the price gun sounded a bit like Bea Arthur of "Maude" fame. But that's neither here nor there).

Of course I ignored this query, coming as it did from an inanimate object. The price gun, however, would not be ignored.

"Hey! What's your problem? I'm talking to you!", the price gun continued.

I made a furtive look around to see if anyone else had noticed or heard the rude comments issued towards me. No luck. I was the first one at the store, besides the shelving crew, of course, and they hardly counted.

I glared at the price gun in my hand, not really believing what was happening... from a clearance gun no less.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you, jackass", the price gun continued.

"Look, what did I ever do to you!!", I yelled at the price gun, giving it a few hard shakes for good measure.

A frightened SIM looked at me with horror and darted into the bowels of SIM-land when we made eye contact. She didn't appear to take to heart my efforts to convince her that I was sane, and frankly me stopping in mid-explanation to tell the price gun to "go to hell" didn't help matters. Clearly, I was on my own.

Throughout the rest of the day the price gun spat out commands and comments:

"Price that book at $3, you jackass! What are you thinking!"

"Oh, so you're going to price this book $7.98, even though the exact same title is sitting on the same shelf, priced $5.98? You moron!"

"Faster!! Faster!!! Dammit, that dude who whistles prices faster than you!!"

Et Cetera.

Needless to say, it did nothing for my self-esteem. This obnoxious talking price guns evidently knew which of my buttons to press.

"$2?! $2?! What the hell? Tell me, what's the difference between a $3 book and a $2 book? Or a $2 book or a $1 book. THERE IS NONE, JACKASS!"

"SHUT UP!!" I yelled at the price gun, having put up with about as much as anyone should have to put up from a brainless piece of plastic.

Several startled customers slowly started walking away, protectively guiding their children and small dogs to the nearest exit, as if I was some sort of book-pricing madman.

I'd had enough. I gathered about 40 South Beach Diet books onto a pricing table.

"And just what do you think you're doing, mister? Don't you dare!"

I ignored the bastard price gun from hell and slowly changed the price to read $29.98.

"Don't you even THINK about it, Jackass!!" the price gun yelled... but I could sense the dread in its basso voice now.

Slowly, I started pricing the books. Then I built up tempo. Faster and faster. Faster still.

*whomp-ka-chick* *whomp-ka-chick* *whomp-ka-chick*

Each time I slammed the pricing gun down harder on the face of the book, and each time its pleading voice got weaker and weaker.

"NO!!!!..... No!!!..... no!!!!! .... no! ....."

*whomp-ka-chick* "no" *whomp-ka-chick*

Faster and faster, harder and harder, until the pricing gun was nothing but smashed bits, shards of blue plastic flying everywhere along with my spittle, as I went faster and faster until the last book was priced.

When it was over I struggled to catch my breath, only to see Benedict, our store manager, slowly shaking his head.

"Yeah, Hank: About your pricing method.... Yeah. We're going to have to work on that. Thanks"

It was time for lunch.