“Red hots! GET YOUR RED HOTS!!!“
That was the sound of me in action, bringing all my marketing prowess to bear in the name of selling hot dogs, peanuts, sodas, and beer to the literally unwashed masses. No need to ask if I was shifting a lot of units; I’m a pro. Shifting units is what I do.
“Say buddy, gimme a dog and a beer,” said a disheveled man-thing who shambled up to me from the cheap seats.
“You?” I replied, giving him a noncomittal once-over. “I don’t know.”
“Whaddya mean, you don’t know?”
“Listen, nothing personal. You just don’t look like hot dog and beer material to me. I’d wager that tuna fish and cheap wine are more your thing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” I said, blowing on my fingernails and avoiding eye contact. “Just a feeling.”
“Yeah? Well you’re wrong. For starters, I hate tuna fish. Like really fucking hate it, man.”
“Hey, whatever you say.”
“And I only drink wine at fancy occassions. And this here ain’t no fancy occassion!”
“Goddammit man, you are really ringing my bell. Now are you gonna give me my order or what?”
“Like I said. I just don’t think you mean business.”
“Tarnation!” he wailed, madly pulling fistfuls of wrinkled bills from his pants pockets. “I’ll show you how much business I mean! Gimme all of it! Every last thing you got on the tray there, I’m buying it!”
“Well now,” I said, smiling broadly. “Yes sir! That changes everything. A thousand pardons for my earlier churlishness.”
“Fuck you, man,” the mark said as he trundled off with his purchases. “Tuna fish and wine my ass!”
And that, dear readers, is how you shift some units: a healthy dose of disinterested reverse psychology with a brown-nose chaser. Feel free to quote me on that.