Zebo Notori

Loosely based on a vague half-dream.

I reached into my right pocket, hoping to find some form of object that would help me defend myself against the scum that is salesmen. This one, in particular seemed uniquely threatening, I didn’t know what he was trying to sell, but he seemed awfully confident of himself, and terribly zealous.

Salesmen like that ought to be avoided. I dug deeper into my right pocket, knowing that somewhere, in that myriad of junk I carried there I would have something that I could use against him. Salesmen like this one always made their sales, backing those slightly timid customers into a corner and pointing their products at their foreheads like guns, and threatening to shoot if they didn’t buy it from them. The customers would buy it just to be rid of the salesman.

I was not about to be taken advantage of. The problem was, though, that in most cases, the salesman has more experience with customers than the customer does with salesmen. So he did take me by surprise when I opened the door and found a man who whipped out a card in a semi-circular manner, bending the card in a sort of semi-circular manner, held it in front of me, and with the same tone of voice as “Bond. James Bond” said, “Zee. Zebo. Notori.”

I stood, unwilling to ask him to repeat himself, determined not to take the card from his hands, despite the fact that he was actively pushing it towards me passively.
I knew he was a salesman from the general way he carried himself, with a briefcase in one hand, with a white collared shirt and tie, and brown-black full pants, and that menacing smile that was supposed to be charming. I’d seen it before.

I decided to see in what way I could outwit the salesman, short of throwing the door in his face. I stood in front of him, silently, not asking any questions with my voice, eyes, or nose.
The silence held itself for about a few minutes.
Then, “Zee. Zebo. Notori.”

Again, I asked no questions, made no response, simply standing in front of him, looking him straight in the eye with a blank look, like I was staring into space. I did not want to stare him down. That would make him realise that I was challenging him. I wanted to confuse him, drive him to madness out of the frustration that would be spawned from my silence.

We stood, staring at each other, for about a while.
“Zee. Zebo. Notori.”
I was getting bored. It was as if I had already defeated this salesman, but he refused to admit defeat. His hand was still outstretched with the card. His arm ought to have been exhausted by now, but he held it straight, unflinchingly. I could certainly give him credit for that, and his patience. But this was going nowhere. To shut the door on him after spending so much time on this pointless activity would certainly be a waste of time, so I decided to make it a little interesting for myself.
“Egg. Zebo. Notori,” I said.
“Jhi. Zebo. Notori,” He responded.
“Jhi. Zebo. Notori,” I said back to him.
“Jhi. Zebo. Notori,” he said again.
“Jhi. Same. Notori,” I said, wondering what he would do if I changed the second word.
“Jhi. Krose. Notori,” he said.
“Jhi. Zebo. Notori,” I said, changing it back.
“Zee. Zebo. Notori,”

This salesman was keeping such a straight face, I found it hard to believe that he was playing a game with me. I pulled the card from his hand.
It read:
Zee Zebo Notori
Jhi Krose Halawis
Mri Artix Jyenewus
Ami Nitwas Liadun
Upi Itido Maprapo

I studied the card, trying very hard to find a pattern linking the nonsensical words. Not looking up from the card, I said, “Zee. Zebo. Notori.”
“Zee. Zebo. Notori,” he responded.
“Zee. Zebo. Engine…?” I said.
“Zee. Zebo. Halawis.”
“Zee. Zebo. Halawis,” I repeated.
“Zee. Zebo. Maprapo,” he said.
“Zee. Zebo. Halawis,” I said again.
“Zee. Zebo. Liadun.”

There definitely had to be a pattern.

“Mri. Artix. Jyenewus,” I read out of the card.
He did not respond.
“Ami. Nitwas. Liadun,” I tried.
“Zebo. Notori. Zee.”
He had changed the order of the words upon my saying Ami Nitwas Liadun.
“Zee. Zee. Zee,” I said.
“Upi. Mri. Zee,” he replied. All three of these words were on the first column of the card.

Then I turned the card around. It read:
WATCH OUT!!!
I read those words again, confused, and I looked up. His fist connected with my face and I fell to the ground, my nose bleeding.

“My name is Zebo Notori. Have a nice day,” he said, and ran away.
I reached into my right pocket and pulled out a pocket knife. A little too late, perhaps. I knew I needed to defend myself against salespersons.