‘Cancer for sale’.
The sign on the lawn was written in crude, childish letters, which puzzled me even more than the message itself. As my next client had cancelled, leaving me with an idle hour, I decided to walk up to the door, knock, and ask what the sign meant.
It took a while for someone to arrive. Some cluttering and muttering was audible, followed by a slow shuffle, as of someone dragging a bag of sand behind them, before the door was opened and a small girl came peeking through the askew door with big, inquisitive eyes.
“Mummy and daddy aren’t home,” she said off the bat.
“Did you write that?” I asked.
“What does it mean?”
“It means what it means.”
“It says you sell cancer.”
“Then that’s what it means. You interested, mister?”
I was, I suppose, if only to quell the nagging enigma.
She flung open the door completely.
“You can park your keester on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
Though her face had not been different from that of any other girl, her body showed a wear and tear uncommon at her age. The dragging sound, heard before, came from her club foot. It wasn’t yet prevalent on the quaint picture that hung on the living room wall however, that saw her posing with a thirty-something couple, feigning a smile.
“Head’s up, mister.”
I turned around and in a reflex caught the green, glowing rod. Its radioactive energy soared through me like instant lightning.
“What have you done?” I yelled in agony, as I sunk to my knees and caught the pungent odour emanating from under the floorboards.
“I gave you what you wanted,” she said, her gloved hand picking up the rod.
“That’ll be 50 bucks.”