Three men, sitting in a semi-circle. The room was cramped, and dark. Only the faint silhouettes could be made out through the darkness. The ambience of the night added an eery twinge to the surroundings. It was apparent that the main thing on everyone's mind was getting out of there.
The situation was delicate, you see. One wrong move, one wrong sentence and you wouldn't leave this room. It was difficult to comprehend, impossible, really. The only way one could understand was to actually be there, to have this weight bearing down on them. The silence was deafening, the beads of a nervous sweat could be heard sliding down the rough skin of one of the room's occupants. A voice broke the silence, startling, yet welcomed. The sound of a human voice in a scary situation can always be comforting.
"I'm not lying. You all know it's true. Things come, and things go. But this will stick because it's a good idea. It IS the new thing, you know." Came a nervous, shaky voice from a corner of the room. Another, deeper, more confident voice, "You're a liar, a cheat. You make up these crazy scenarios and expect people to believe them. Expect to draw them in like you have so many other times. I don't appreciate it, Mr. Creazil most certainly doesn't appreciate it," The silhouette of a well built, broad shouldered man pointed a long, thick finger at the still silent man sitting in a wooden chair to his left, "and somewhere in your subconscious, I'm sure you don't appreciate it either. But that's not really the point, is it"
It seemed like a quick flash of light as a picture of some other habitat flashed into each man's vision, horrible images. Car crashes, house fires, murders, all flickering in their minds and disappearing faster than they had appeared. Tears welled up in all of their eyes, and they all tried to hide it and keep debating.
"It's not a scam, it's not a cheat. I'm not a fraud. Traffic signs. I'm serious. They will be driven far and wide, all people will drive a traffic sign. Cars are over with. Forever, permanently. Some models will surely fade, of course. The yield signs and railroad crossing barricades won't last. But the stop signs will be a hit! And I'm sure people will come up with interesting, creative designs. Like... perhaps a lime green sign? Maybe a plaid one." The man paused for a moment and took a deep breath, trying to ward off the shakes that had overtaken his body, "A checkered design... A checkered stop sign! It's perfect. Everyone will want one, EVERYONE will want to drive their very own checkered stop sign. You know the little cars clowns drive at the circus right? That will be replace. Clowns will drive their checkered stop signs, and do tricks! Children will applaud and adults will be shocked and appalled, and overtaken by a grim amusement!" This man had become more animated as his theory of traffic sign driving become more and more clear, unfolding within his mind. The well built, silent and skeptical man remained seated, and still. However, one could tell that his mood was growing more and more irritated. A small, black object had made it's way to resting on his knee. Closer inspection would reveal that this object was a small handgun. The traffic sign salesman was pushing his point across with hand gestures and pacing about the small room. "Children will beg their parents, beg them to buy a checkered stop sign so they can impress their buddies, ride to the movies with them, take a road trip and put their snacks in the trunk"
The well built man snapped. With a sudden jerk of his hand, the handgun discharged it's bullet. The mini-explosion was ear shattering, and the muzzle blast lit up the room momentarily, just long enough to see the twisted, contorted look on the salesman's face. Then the room was dark again, everyone's ears were ringing, their hearts racing, adrenaline pumping. The silhouette of the salesman staggered slightly, and a groan escaped his lips. He took a half step forward before tumbling to the ground, hitting his head on the seat of his wooden chair. All was silent. The quiet man in the other corner, who had still not said a word, looked pleadingly at the now-gunman. The well built man smiled through the darkness, though it was seen by no one. He lowered the barrel of his smoking gun and let the handle slip through his fingers and hit the floor with a startling clang. Nonchalantly he withdrew another, similar pistol from within his suit jacket. He carefully pulled the slide back, let the gun rest of his knee, and spoke, looking directly at the remaining man.
"Your turn."