He makes cold calls for a living. His quota is 5,475

contracts. He signed his in blood, and he has been

working it down, one call at a time, ever since.

Clinton Forrest owes Faust and Sons fifteen years of

work in exchange for fifteen years he should have spent

in a federal facility. Tonight he is on the phone with

Esther Johns, eighty-seven years old, fixed income,

and harder to close than he expected. He operates

under two rules: the sale is not over until the

customer says no three times, and he cannot tell a

direct lie. The gray area around the definition of a

lie is his to inhabit entirely.

Original horror fiction from Macabre Miscellanea —

every week, without comfort.

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