by W. Arthur
Tom Forman was feeling exceptionally full of himself as he sat across the table from the owner of Jeffers Pharmacy, the largest of the three drugstores in the town of Salem. Although it certainly wasn't the largest contract he had ever negotiated, Tom was still surprised and very pleased that he was able to convince the conservative pharmacist to stock so much of Tom's new line of power foods and beverages. The success definitely made his two day swing through Blaine County worthwhile.
It was three o'clock on Friday afternoon. However, Tom wasn't particularly anxious to make the two hour drive back to the stark one bedroom apartment he had been calling home ever since his wife divorced him a year ago. He gulped the last of his second martini and looked across the table at his companion, Frank Jeffers, a man at least twenty years older than Tom. "So, Frank, what do you folks do for fun around here on a Friday night?"
Frank gave Tom a fatherly smile. "Go home and spend time with our families," he replied quickly. "Of course, the Pizza Hut over on Salem Road is popular with the younger crowd."
Just then, the waitress approached the table. Tom, who fancied himself a lothario, noticed that she was reasonably attractive for a woman who was at least thirty. He reasoned that under any circumstances she was probably the best this town had to offer. And she wasn't wearing a ring on the third finger of her left hand. "Can I get you anything more here?" she asked cheerfully, her blue eyes moving back and forth between the two men.
Frank shook his head. "Nothing more for me, Franny," he said. "I've got to get back to the store."
Tom flashed his best smile toward Franny. "I certainly wouldn't mind buying you a drink, honey, as soon as you're all done here."
Franny's pleasant smile turned to ice and she glared at the salesman. "No, thank you," she said in a very controlled voice. Then she dropped the check on the table, turned around, and walked away stiffly.
Tom huffed and looked over at Frank. "What's with her?" he questioned rhetorically. "I was just trying to be friendly."
Frank slid out of the booth and stood up. "She's not looking for that kind of friend," he answered. He turned toward the door. "Tom... I hope your power bars sell better than you do. Thanks for lunch." He walked away without waiting for a reply.
Tom flushed slightly, took a deep breath, and gathered himself together. He had been rebuffed before many times. He was determined not to let it bother him, especially the rejection of some small town yokel who was probably way past her prime. He picked up the check and studied it for a few seconds. Then he took out his wallet and set down the exact amount plus fifty cents. That will show her, he said to himself as he moved to the door, taking a detour to the men's room.
Outside, the weather was beautiful for May. The sun was shining and the temperature was hovering in the low seventies. There was very little traffic. He got into his Sebring and directed it south toward Highway 46 and the edge of town where the houses were further apart. When he had gotten about two miles away from the center of Salem, his gaze was captured by a large white two-story house that appeared to be a well-restored nineteenth century farmhouse. However, more interesting than the house were the two women working in a flower bed near the roadside. Both had long flowing hair; both were trim and buxom. Both were wearing white short shorts that were so tight that he could see the outline of a thong underneath the thin cotton. Both were wearing a tank top with no bra underneath.
Almost as if it had a mind of its own, the Sebring drifted so close to the side of the road that it clipped the mailbox and newspaper holder at the end of the driveway. The sound of metal bumping up against wood shook Tom, and his fantasy dissolved quickly. Once he realized what he had done, he was very tempted to speed away, to try to forget the whole thing. However, when he saw the two women standing up and pointing in his direction, he knew he had to stop. He definitely didn't feel like risking an unpleasant encounter with the local police.
With that in mind, he stopped the Sebring, backed up, and pulled it off the road in front of the house. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. "I am so sorry," he declared as he boldly approached the yard. "I... thought I saw something in the road and tried to swerve out of the way." He paused and looked at the two women, hoping that one of them would say something, give him something to react to.
Neither said a word. They just continued to glare at him.
Once again, he gathered himself together. He was, after all, a salesman. He resolved that he would approach the situation as if he was trying to make a sale. "I'm sorry about your mailbox," he said. "I will pay for the damage, of course."
For several seconds, the two women stayed where they were. Finally, one of them looked at him as though she was appraising him. "Why don't we go into the house and talk about it?" she said.
Tom consciously suppressed a smile. Perhaps this will turn out better than I thought, he told himself. "Sure... whatever would satisfy you," he said. He couldn't help thinking how he would like to satisfy them... if only they would give him the chance.
"Follow us," the woman said, turning on her bare feet and walking toward the garage. Her companion followed close behind.
Tom also followed, admiring how their taut bottoms filled out the shorts. He could feel his penis grow inside his briefs. It felt uncomfortable, and he had to restrain himself from reaching down his pants.
A few minutes later, he found himself in the middle of a large and well-appointed country kitchen with a picture window that overlooked a massive backyard. The beauty and immensity surprised him and he couldn't help wondering just who these women were. Quickly, he noted that neither was wearing a wedding ring. He also noted what he thought was a strong family resemblance and he determined that they must be sisters. He became excited at the possibilities: two very attractive and unmarried sisters living in a beautiful old house in the midst of yokelville. They must be lonely and in need of sophisticated male companionship, he reasoned.
For at least a minute, he stood in the middle of the kitchen admiring the view both outside and inside the house. Then it occurred to him that no one was saying anything. "Beautiful house," he exclaimed, mostly to break the awkward silence.
"Thank you," one of the women said without any real sincerity in her voice.
"You're obviously not from around here," her companion said, her eyes studying him.
Tom started to feel very uncomfortable. "No," he said. "I'm a sales rep passing through town."
"What do you sell?" the first woman asked.
"I represent a relatively new line of power foods and beverages," he replied. "Frank Jeffers is going to carry the products in his pharmacy."
Both women scowled and continued their hot glare. "You said something about paying for the mailbox," the second woman said suddenly.
Tom seemed almost relieved. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to stay in the house, in spite of the potential offered by the two women. "Yes," he said. "Just tell me how much you think it's worth."
The two women looked at each other and smiled. However, before they said anything, the sound of a car door slamming in the driveway penetrated the thick air. "Our cousin will be the best person to answer your question," the first woman said.
A few seconds later, the door that led from the garage opened. Tom turned to see the waitress from the tavern. He gasped.
She walked to within a few feet of him. "You still want to buy me that drink?" she asked coldly.
He tried to meet her gaze but couldn't. He was being outmatched and he knew it. "Look... I'm sorry," he said.
"What are you sorry for?" she questioned.
"I... I... if I offended you back there... I apologize... I... was just being friendly... I'm a salesman... I can't help it," he stammered.
"So... your invitation didn't mean anything to you?" the waitress persisted, obviously enjoying watching him squirm.
"I didn't mean it that way," he said. All of a sudden being alone in his one bedroom apartment was looking good.
"What about our mailbox?" the first woman reminded him.
"And that insult of a tip you left?" the waitress added.
"Wha... what do you want?" Tom asked.
The three women looked at each other and nodded at the same time. "We don't want your money," the first woman declared.
"No," the second woman continued. "We want to take you to the basement and teach you a lesson about how to treat women."
"And then maybe have some fun with you," the waitress said.
Now Tom was both scared and angry. "This is ridiculous," he exclaimed. "All I did was hit your mailbox. A hundred dollars ought to cover it, plus sweeten your tip."
"We already said we don't want your money," the first woman said.
"Maybe we should call Clinton," the second woman said.
"Who's Clinton?" Tom questioned.
"The duty sergeant for the Salem PD... and another cousin," the second woman said.
"Yeah," the waitress affirmed. "You had at least two drinks at the Gristmill."
The first woman shook her head. "They take drunk driving very seriously around here ever since Junior McCarthy rammed into that hay wagon two years ago."
"But... I wasn't drunk," Tom protested.
"You can tell that to Clinton," the second woman said, picking up a cordless phone.
Tom could feel himself begin to panic. "No... stop... please."
The second woman put down the phone. "What's your name, salesman?"
"Tom," he said.
"Well, Tom," the second woman began, "we are the sirens of Salem... and probably every filthy chauvinist's worst nightmare."
"The sirens?" Tom echoed.
The three women laughed. "Didn't you ever read the Odyssey?" the first woman said.
He shook his head.
"Well... no matter," the waitress said. "You can either come downstairs with us or you can explain to our cousin why you were swerving all over the highway."
"Then," the second woman started, "after you clipped our mailbox, you got out of your car and tried to assault us."
"But..." Tom tried to think, but was too scared to finish.
The second woman picked up the phone again. "You have five seconds to decide."
Tom had never been so confused in his life. His first thought was that this was a dream inspired by his ex-wife. He dared to scan the faces of his three tormentors. They looked deadly serious. This definitely wasn't a dream - more of a nightmare.
"One... two... three..." the second woman said, her long fingers twitching over the buttons on the phone.
"Wait... wha... what do I have to do?" he stammered.
"Put yourself in our hands," the first woman said.
The waitress chuckled. "Yeah... we'll take good care of you."
"You might even enjoy it," the second woman added.
Still, Tom hesitated. "We're wasting time," the waitress declared after a few seconds. "Call Clinton, Joanne."
The second woman responded by pressing a few buttons on the telephone. This act got Tom's attention. "All right... all right," he said. "Please don't call the police."
"Good call," the waitress said.
"Let's go downstairs," the first woman said, turning toward a door that opened onto a set of steps.
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