The Soil Satan Goes out of Business

“Going out of business” commercials are made especially sad by the fact that the disenfranchised owner has to muster a smile for the camera during what must be an arduous time. These ads are akin to capitalistic concession speeches for defeated entrepreneurs, and while politicians who find themselves in a similar situation tend to land on their feet, I usually get a premonition that someone like the protagonist in this story may find himself stealing pills from a pharmacy and peddling them to teenagers in order to survive.

I've always wanted to see a brutally honest “going out of business” commercial. Hopefully I'm not the only one.

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A middle-aged bald man wobbles in front of a cameraman, a director, and crew. The onlookers remain hushed and awestruck by the spectacle. The man is shabbily dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt with fringed edges and suspenders that pinch his flabby chest and gut. Atop his head is a crudely assembled dunce-cap with the word “Bangkrupt” (sic) printed on it in black marker. A display of red and black vacuum cleaners are racked behind him. He blows into a noisemaker, inducing a flair of short, colorful tassels and a high-pitched, outrageous toot.

Howdy-do, cruel world. I'm Vince Wally Vincent, the Vacuum Guy, owner of the Soil Satan Outlet—which is bad news for me, 'cause the place is going out of business! My soon-to-be ex-wife had her doubts when I spent most of my rich uncle's inheritance on funding the Soil Satan Outlet. Well, honey, I sure hope you can pry your head out of your new fling's lap long enough to glare at the TV screen and say, “I told you so.” How the hell is Chad, anyway? Still the day manager at the Blockbuster across the street with a penis reportedly wider than mine? What a catch. The son-of-a-bitch is practically the reincarnation of James freaking Dean.

Any-hoo, by now, you have all read enough newspapers and Internets to know the story of the Soil Satan Outlet. In 2007, yours truly, Vincent Wally Vincent, a lowly worker of the Dirt Devil corporation, worked up the balls to start his own line of vacuum cleaners. I designed and crafted a mechanism to enhance the suction power of the standard Dirt Devil. Having one-upped my ungrateful employers, I decided on a name that admittedly sounded similar but was more emphatic. I mean—if you really want to erase every trace of that dog-barf stain before the company arrives, which seems like a stronger option: The Dirt Devil or the Soil Satan?

I had faith that American consumers would salute my clever touch of wordplay, that the gag would be understood and nobody was going to protest my very existence with charges that I'm an “Occult Monster” or a “Doomed Heathen.”

Yikes! Having faith really backfired on me that time.

Vince exerts a concerted gust of air into the noisemaker.

In the early days, my business attracted a great number of Satanists. The Godless hooligans clamored in vain for black cloaks, jugs of goat's blood, and Slayer albums. Few showed any interest in buying a vacuum cleaner. Some purchased key chains and spare parts on occasion—and I shudder to think of the horrible things those degenerates did with all those extension tubes.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is my eBook, and I honestly don't know what more you could possibly want from me. More Stories, and Additional Stories... Plus Stories? To hell with that last part. It's gratuitous, ya know?