Valkyrie Yeong

The Salesman stands behind his desk and smiles. In a few minutes, The Puppet Factory will once again be open for business. While the clientele is limited, The Salesman always turns a profit; his services include recommendation, the handover and renting of product, dealing with…problematic…stock and, most important to his clients, discretion.

The clock strikes 9am and the doors open, the area outside clouded with darkness. He doesn’t know where the doors lead; anyone who wishes to find The Puppet Factory can find it anywhere, if they look hard enough, if they desire the unique product on offer. Discretion is paramount in the business of Puppets, but thankfully the monetary input of many influential, powerful people ensures the business can continue.

After all, what’s the point of being the 1% if you can’t get a taste of the forbidden fruit?

It’s not all rich people, however, and the First Customer is anything but. He walks in slowly, eyes darting around, drenched in nervous sweat. He’s barely out of his teens, if he even is, with dark bags under his eyes. He’s wearing loose fitting clothes, clearly hand-me-downs or picked out from a bargain bin, with scruffy black hair that falls in tangles around his face.

“Welcome, sir,” The Salesman says, flashing his too wide smile at the First Customer, “How may I help you?”

The First Customer runs a hand through his greasy hair, visibly shaking with anxiety, gooseflesh rippling as he steps forward. He refuses to meet The Salesman’s eyes, staring down at the desk as he fidgets with his fingers, shuffling his feet.

“H-Hey…” he starts, his voice quiet and crackly, constantly gulping. The Salesman watches his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down with each swallow, sweat trickling down the young man’s neck. “I-I’m l-looking for a p-p-puppet…”

The Salesman lifts his gaze back up to the First Customer’s face, his smile somehow growing wider as he produces a booklet, placing it on the desk between them. His hand remains on top, not that the First Customer tries to open it yet.

“Of course you are,” The Salesman’s voice is smooth, a higher-class British accent resonating from deep within his stock-still body, his breathing not even noticeable. “What kind do you have in mind? We have enough to fulfil the needs of all our customers…”

The man gulps and licks his lips, taking deep breaths. The Salesman can practically hear the hesitations flying through his brain, but he knows that the First Customer will be buying today. They always do.

“Do…um…d-do you have an-any that would be m-more…” he licks his lips, finally lifting his eyes to The Salesman, “w-w-willing?”

The Salesman lifts his hands, rubbing them together in celebration of securing yet another sale, and opens the booklet. An outsider may think he turned to a random page, but this wasn’t the case; The Salesman knows what is on every single page of the booklet and always turns to the correct one for the Customer. His organisation is meticulous, exact, everything in its perfect place.

On the page he turned to: photographs, names, ages, histories, price. These Puppets were the more “willing” – those so broken by now that they can’t see a way out, which works perfectly for The Salesman and his Customers. People do talk about the Puppets – that they need saving, protecting, to be freed from monsters like The Salesman – but nobody actually does anything about it.

Besides, most of those with the power to stop it are his favourite Customers.

The First Customer’s eyes roam the photographs; some Puppets are wearing clothes – barely – and some are on full display. He reads all the details, drinks in the images, wiping sweat from his forehead as his breath hitches. He places a greasy finger against the page, pointing out his choice. The Salesman takes note and claps his hands joyously.

“Wonderful selection, Sir,” he says, pressing a button on his desk. The door behind him opens and he steps through backwards, his ever-present smile fading into the dark. A few minutes pass before he comes back out, dragging the selected Puppet behind him. She wears a blue sundress, modest, and her porcelain skin is smooth and clear of any blemishes. Strawberry blonde hair falls down to her shoulders. Her body makes soft scraping sounds as her joints rub against each other, her body intricately moulded, the pieces fitting together to create the perfect product for The Salesman.

The First Customer gulps (yet again) and reaches his clammy hand out, gently taking a lock of the Puppet’s hair. She flinches back, but The Salesman’s firm grip on her shoulder reminds her of her place, of what she is.

“Even better than the pictures…” The First Customer whispers breathily, before paying the agreed price and leaving, dragging the Puppet behind him. The Salesman returns to his place behind his desk, putting the booklet back and standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He’ll have the Puppet back in a few hours, then she’ll be sent off to be tidied up and put back into storage for the next Customer.

At 10 o’clock, the Second Customer walks in. A slender woman with dark eyes, and even darker hair, strolling in confidently. She’s a regular at The Puppet Factory, instantly recognised by The Salesman. She wears a dark blue suit with a matching tie, her shining black shoes clacking on the floor.

“Ah, Mrs Walker,” The Salesman says, not bothering to reach for the booklet just yet, “Will it be the usual? Or are we going to branch out today?”

“The usual, and make it quick,” she replies sharply, checking her watch, “I’ve got a meeting in two hours.”

“Very well,” he replies, once again pressing a button and sinking into the black of the doorway behind him. Almost immediately, he reappears with another Puppet. This one is clearly male, with short but messy brown hair, wearing a loose shirt and a pair of shorts. He struggles against The Salesman’s grip on his arm, before noticing the Second Customer and increasing his attempts to break free.

“No!” The Puppet cries out, “No no no not her please not her I’ll-”

His cries are cut short with a swift smack to the back of his head, courtesy of The Salesman, reducing the disobedient Puppet to a whimpering, snivelling worm. This one always whines, as if it could appeal to The Salesman’s non-existent empathy. He doesn’t feel pity, or remorse, he only cares about the sale. The profit. He leans down and looks into the Puppet’s cracked face – damage that the Second Customer dealt to him on his last despatch to her, for disobeying her wills – getting in too close for comfort, his smile never wavering.

“This is your last warning.” He whispers, the joyful tone to his voice replaced by a deeply unsettling growl, “Any more disobedience and you won’t be coming back in one piece. Understood?”

The Puppet sniffs and nods, trembling in The Salesman’s grip.

“Good boy.” He says cheerfully, ruffling the Puppet’s hair before shoving him towards the Second Customer. She quickly pays before dragging him away, still whimpering, crossing the threshold of the front doors and vanishing. The Salesman returns to his spot, briefly glancing up at the clock before clasping his hands and waiting.

Less than an hour later, the doors open and the Puppet is unceremoniously thrown through the gap, clattering on the ground. His clothes have been removed, showing the cracks that splinter roughly across his entire body. Some of them new, many old. The Salesman steps out from behind his desk, stalking towards the unresponsive Puppet. He waves through the doors as they close, nudging the product with his foot.

“Finally broken? Shame, you were a popular one…” he mumbles, grabbing a wrist and hoisting the Puppet up. After a few steps, the arm pops free, the body dropping. The head shatters on the ground, splinters of porcelain scattering around The Salesman’s feet. He shrugs and stomps on the torso, shattering that too before holding out his hand. A broom appears in his grip, and he begins to sweep the shards of Puppet into a pile. A hole opens in the floor, and he pushes the remains in, dropping the broom in after them and brushing his hands together as the hole closes.

It’s 11:30 when the Third Customer arrives at The Puppet Factory. A large man, sweat clinging to his pallid flesh, wearing a clearly expensive three-piece suit. The shirt is stained with sweat, the waistcoat and blazer struggling to contain the man’s form.

“Mr Tusk,” The Salesman exclaims, clapping his hands in joy, “How wonderful to have the pleasure of your company today. I assume you have an order to place?”

The Third Customer clears his throat and steps forward, smiling and shaking The Salesman’s hand. He is a powerful, influential man – and he happens to be one of The Puppet Factory’s biggest financial supporters, donating black market funds to keep the business running.

“Yes, I do,” he replies, his eyes filled with the lust these monsters feel for the immoral pleasures they demand, “I’m having one of my…conferences…and I need some Puppets to entertain all my guests.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” The Salesman smiles and produces his booklet, “Anything specific?”

“Got any fresh ones that we can break in? Nice and tight.”

The Salesman’s grin widens, placing the booklet back in its place, “We have plenty of fresh stock, yes, how many do you require?”

The Third Customer thinks for a moment – something he doesn’t do much of, having built his public image around his supposed genius while leeching off the true talent – before replying simply, “Let’s go for 8, preferably no older than that too.”

“Of course, Mr Tusk,” The Salesman bows his head in a sign of respect, “When do you need them?”

“Couple days yet, I trust you can deliver?”

“Of course.”

“Good man!” The Third Customer laughs and clasps his shoulder, feeling the hollow space under The Salesman’s suit, “Put it on my tab, I’ll be sure to cover it in my next donation.”

And with that, The Third Customer’s reservation is made in The Salesman’s mind, and he leaves, the doors sliding shut behind him. The Salesman turns and walks through the door behind the desk. A moment shrouded in darkness, and then he is in the warehouse. Screams and cries echo around him, emanating mostly from the section reserved for recent additions to his stock. On the other side of the warehouse are those whose hope vanished long ago, having given up on pleading for mercy.

The Salesman wanders over to the new additions and admires them. They all wear the clothes they arrived in. Some beg, some cry, some just lay on the floor in a heap of exhausted porcelain, weakly rocking themselves.

The Salesman stands and listens to his Puppets’ song of sorrow, and he smiles.