A Night At Move Around Auto Sales – The Braden Franklin Story

Based on Exageratted Events from a Bogus Story

A Comedy Narrative Short Story written by Lawrence E. Dumas Jr.

The showroom smells like burnt coffee and lemon-scented “new car” spray, two lies trying to cancel each other out.

It’s the morning after, and Braden Franklin is hunched over a keyboard at the front desk like he’s filing for witness protection. His tie is missing, his polo is wrinkled, and his eyes have the haunted calm of someone who has seen a goat inside an SUV and lived to invoice it.

Tasha from Finance is posted at the counter with a calculator and an expression that says she already knows the ending and hates it.

Dana, the sales manager, stands behind them, arms crossed, in her “I’m listening, but I’m also deciding your fate” stance.

Vince is nearby, pretending to reorganize brochures. He is failing because a baby-unicorn tattoo on his face makes him look like he lost a bet at a birthday party.

Braden clears his throat and gestures at the computer screen.

“Alright,” he says, voice flat with exhaustion. “I’m going to write this exactly one time. If anyone interrupts, I’m putting ‘interruption’ in the report.”

Dana points at him. “Braden, just stick to the facts.”

Braden nods seriously. “Absolutely. Facts only.”

He starts typing, then reads out loud as he types, like he’s trying to keep the story from escaping.

“Okay. Here we go. I know in the description space I have 5,000 words to tell what happened, so I created my own PDF as you read this.”

Tasha doesn’t even blink. “You cannot create a PDF inside the CRM.”

“I’m not creating a PDF,” Braden says. “I’m demonstrating intent.”

He types again and reads.

“I am Braden Franklin, Rep 356798 at Move Around Auto Sales. This is my account.”

Vince mutters, “He says it like he’s on the stand.”

Braden shoots him a look. “Vince, your cheek is on the stand.”

Vince pulls his collar up. “Do not talk about my cheek.”

Braden goes right back to the keyboard.

“Customer Michy Chivioso came in the door at 6:00 PM, looking at one of our SUVs.”

“And before anyone asks, yes. Michy. Like mischievous. That was not a nickname. That was a forecast.”

He pauses. Looks up at Dana and Tasha like he’s bracing himself.

Dana exhales through her nose. “Continue.”

Braden types, then reads again.

“We talked. He was dressed in a tuxedo with LeBrons on, and I should have known things were going to be interesting. Hey, I didn’t judge per-company policy.”

Tasha lifts a pen. “Not judging is not the same as not noticing.”

“I noticed,” Braden says. “I just didn’t judge.”

He keeps going.

“So, Michy, because that’s what his friends call him, says, ‘Let’s see what this Big Guy can do.’”

Braden stops typing and looks up like he’s addressing a training class.

“For the record,” he says, “when a man standing five-foot-seven says those exact words about an SUV, we should be allowed to immediately end the appointment and hand him a brochure through a slot.”

Tasha points toward the lot. “You did not do that.”

“No,” Braden says. “I did the opposite. I got in the passenger seat.”

Vince makes a sympathetic sound that would be kind if his face weren’t decorated like a toddler’s notebook.

Braden scrolls up, then resumes, narrating as if his fingers are on autopilot.

“We get in the SUV and start the Normal Test Drive Protocol.”

He taps the desk like he’s counting steps.

“Mirrors. Seat. Seatbelt. You know, the part where you still believe you have control over your evening.”

Dana’s voice is sharp. “And then?”

Braden’s eyes narrow like he can see the highway through time.

“And then Michy interrupts and says, ‘Do you like ice cream?’”

Tasha tilts her head. “That sounds normal.”

“It did,” Braden agrees. “Which is why it was a trap.”

He reads from the screen.

“I’m like, ‘Yeah, I do.’ He’s cool. We move along Lake Road to Hwy 43.”

Braden’s shoulders rise slightly like he’s climbing back into the moment.

“We get on the highway. Michy says, ‘I need to see how he mans up.’”

Dana: “He said that.”

Braden: “He said it like the SUV was his son and the on-ramp was a boxing ring.”

Tasha, quietly: “How fast?”

Braden doesn’t even glance at her. “Ninety-five.”

Dana’s jaw tightens.

Braden rushes on, like speed is contagious.

“I’m thinking, okay, we’re going to give it a little gas. That’s not what happens. We literally hit hyperspeed. We’re doing 95, and the next thing I know, we are at Dairy Queen.”

Tasha slaps her pen down. “You cannot ‘next thing I know’ from the highway to Dairy Queen.”

Braden points at the screen. “It happened too fast to be a normal memory. My brain recorded it as a jump cut.”

Vince, from behind a brochure: “Did you at least get ice cream?”

Braden looks at him like he can’t believe that’s the question.

“Yes,” he says. “I have my favorite ice cream in my hand and a party hat on.”

Dana freezes. “A party hat.”

Braden nods solemnly. “A party hat. I faintly remember us saying, ‘It’s not my birthday, but we can party like it.’”

Tasha’s lips part. “Who was ‘us’?”

Braden shrugs. “Possibly me. Possibly Michy. Possibly the Dairy Queen employee who saw the tux and decided to lean into chaos.”

He scrolls.

“While we are standing there, there is a fox in the parking lot.”

Tasha immediately says, “No.”

Braden doesn’t look up. “Yes.”

Dana: “Braden”

Braden finally turns his head. “Dana, I am begging you to understand that I do not have the imagination required to invent a fox in a Dairy Queen parking lot. That fox was real. That fox had posture. That fox looked like it could approve a loan.”

Vince mutters, “That fox had manager energy.”

Braden nods. “Exactly. And Michy nodded at it like they knew each other.”

Dana rubs her temple. “Keep going.”

Braden reads, faster now, like he’s trying to outrun his own words.

“Michy says we need to go pick LeGoata. He says, ‘Don’t worry, I got you.’”

Tasha squints. “LeGoata is a goat.”

Braden nods. “LeGoata is a goat.”

Dana: “Why was there a goat?”

Braden holds up a finger. “I said we need to head back. I said it like a responsible adult. Michy says, ‘I’m going to get it. Let me handle this so I don’t have to do it after the purchase. You are in good hands.’”

Tasha stares. “After the purchase.”

Braden stares back. “After. The. Purchase.”

Dana’s voice goes cold. “And you still went.”

Braden opens his hands, helpless. “He looked me in the eyes and said, ‘The mongoose never asks for permission twice.’”

A beat of silence.

Vince whispers, “I hate that line.”

Tasha whispers back, “I hate that you just repeated it.”

Dana points at Braden. “Braden. Did you know what that meant?”

Braden shakes his head. “I asked him. And then we were doing 95 again.”

He scrolls down.

“And we end up at a petting zoo on a farm-type deal.”

Dana: “Please do not say ‘farm-type deal’ like it’s an option package.”

Braden: “It did not feel optional. The farm had a sign that said ‘NO REFUNDS.’ That felt directed at me personally.”

Tasha leans closer. “So you picked up the goat.”

Braden reads.

“Michy comes back with a goat on a leash. The goat is wearing a bowtie. Michy says, ‘Meet LeGoata.’ LeGoata gets into the back seat like this is not his first vehicle.”

Vince quietly says, “Respect.”

Braden: “No. Not respect. Concern.”

Dana’s tone: “And then you went to the dispensary.”

Braden’s fingers stop for a fraction of a second.

He glances at Dana. Then Tasha. Then Vince’s unicorn face. Like he’s deciding how honest he can be and still have a job.

Tasha notices. “Oh no. Braden, do not make a face like that.”

Braden clears his throat. “We went to the dispensary.”

Dana: “Why.”

Braden: “Michy said LeGoata needed ‘calming treats’ for the wedding.”

Dana: “The wedding.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Vince laughs once, without humor. “There was a wedding?”

Braden turns his laptop slightly, scrolling like he’s revealing a crime scene.

“It was a clown-themed wedding.”

Dana: “No.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Tasha: “Why are there so many nouns in this story.”

Braden leans back in his chair, eyes unfocused for a second like he can still hear honking sound effects.

“Because at that point, reality had stopped being linear.”

He continues.

“Michy hands me the leash and says, ‘Can you watch LeGoata for twenty minutes?’ He says the goat is the ring bearer.”

Tasha: “Of course he is.”

Braden nods. “Of course he is.”

Dana’s voice is sharp. “Did you babysit a goat.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Dana: “In the SUV.”

Braden: “At a clown wedding.”

Dana: “During a test drive.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Dana stares at him the way you stare at a ceiling stain you’re trying not to acknowledge.

“And this is where,” Braden says, “Vince arrives.”

Vince instantly says, “I did not arrive. I was dispatched.”

Dana points at him. “You were dispatched because Braden stopped answering his phone.”

Braden says, “My phone was vibrating itself into a new dimension.”

Vince gestures at his cheek. “And I got branded by a children’s cartoon.”

Braden scrolls.

“Vince was asked to join a photo. Vince said yes. Vince came out of a tent with a baby unicorn tattoo on his face.”

Vince: “It is not a baby unicorn. It is a ‘youthful equine with a horn.’”

Tasha: “It has eyelashes.”

Vince: “Do not talk about the eyelashes.”

Dana closes her eyes. “Okay. So. At this point, the customer buys the SUV and we all pretend none of this happened.”

Braden doesn’t answer immediately.

He keeps typing.

Dana opens her eyes. “Braden.”

Braden’s voice goes quieter. “This is the part where it gets worse.”

Tasha’s posture stiffens. “Worse than goat babysitting and unicorn facial ink?”

Braden nods once. “Yes.”

Dana: “Braden.”

Braden finally looks up, like a man stepping onto thin ice.

“I need everyone to know,” he says, “that I did not plan this. I did not wake up and choose ‘five-hour saga.’”

Tasha: “Braden.”

Braden: “At the dispensary, someone offered me something. They said it was for stress. I thought it was a harmless, calming thing.”

Dana’s eyes narrow. “Braden…”

Braden holds up both hands, palms out. “I know. I know. I realize how it sounds now.”

Vince whispers, “Oh my God.”

Braden nods. “Yes. That.”

Tasha slowly sits down, as if her knees gave up. “You got high during a test drive.”

Braden doesn’t deny it. He just says, “And here is the part that is going to make everyone furious: it made me… extremely good at my job.”

Dana’s mouth opens and shuts again, like the manager part of her is trying to beat the human part of her in a race.

Braden talks faster, like he’s trying to cram the truth into a smaller space.

“I did not do anything unsafe. I was not doing ninety-five. Michy was. I took the wheel later for a ‘joy ride’ at very legal speeds through town.”

Dana: “You took the wheel.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Dana: “In an inventory vehicle.”

Braden: “Yes.”

Dana: “While not… fully…”

Braden: “Yes.”

Dana stares at him. “Braden.”

Braden rushes on. “But while it was happening, I started talking to people. Like… everywhere.”

Tasha blinks. “Talking how.”

Braden points at the screen, scrolling to a part of the report that looks suspiciously like a marketing script.

“At Dairy Queen,” he says, “I pitched a dad in cargo shorts. He asked for my card. At the farm, the owner asked about dirt-road handling. At the clown wedding, three people in clown outfits asked about seating capacity for their troupe.”

Vince says, “Of course clowns have a troupe.”

Braden: “And the dispensary manager asked if we do fleet options.”

Dana’s head snaps up. “Fleet?”

Braden nods, like a man who can’t believe it either. “Fleet.”

Tasha exhales. “This is not a sales strategy.”

Braden: “It was not a strategy. It was… a side effect.”

Dana leans in, voice low. “Did Michy buy the SUV?”

Braden nods. “Yes.”

Dana: “Did anyone else buy anything?”

Braden lifts a finger. “Michy’s brother. His cousin. And the clown troupe is coming in today to look at two vans.”

Dana freezes. “Two.”

Braden nods again. “Two.”

Vince mutters, “I hate that this is working.”

Tasha looks at Dana. “You cannot reward this.”

Dana looks at Braden. “I am not rewarding it. I am assessing the damage.”

Braden’s phone buzzes on the counter.

Then again.

Then again.

The screen lights up with missed calls like a slot machine.

Tasha squints. “Why is your phone doing that?”

Braden picks it up, grim. “Because the universe is laughing.”

He answers, puts it on speaker before anyone can stop him.

A woman’s voice: “Hi, is this Braden Franklin? I met you at Dairy Queen last night. My husband said you made the SUV sound like it could survive our family. We want to come in today.”

Braden glances at Dana like he’s waiting to be struck by lightning.

Dana doesn’t speak.

The phone beeps—call waiting.

Braden clicks over.

A man’s voice: “Braden? It’s Greg from the farm place. You said you had something with better ground clearance. I need two vehicles. Can you call me back?”

Braden’s eyes widen slightly at the word two.

Tasha’s mouth falls open. “Are you kidding me.”

Another beep.

Braden clicks.

A voice, cheerful and unmistakably committed to a life path: “Hello, Braden! This is Bubbles. Clown troupe. We need seating for seven, preferably with cupholders, and we absolutely loved Vince’s unicorn vibe.”

Vince whispers, “I am not a vibe. I am a victim.”

Dana holds up a hand, slow and deliberate, like she’s stopping traffic.

“Braden,” she says, dangerously calm, “how many calls have you gotten since you walked in this morning.”

Braden looks at his call log.

“Fourteen,” he says quietly.

Tasha repeats, stunned. “Fourteen.”

Dana doesn’t blink. “And they all asked for you.”

Braden nods. “Yes.”

Dana stands there for a second like she’s doing math nobody taught her.

Then she points at Braden.

“Here is what is going to happen,” she says. “You are not fired.”

Braden’s shoulders sag in relief so hard it looks like gravity doubled.

Dana continues, not softer. “You are going to complete every safety module. You are going to sign a document stating that you will never, under any circumstances, accept anything from a customer during a test drive.”

Braden nods like he would sign away his left arm.

“And,” Dana adds, eyes cutting to Vince, “we are going to have a separate conversation about why you let a clown tattoo artist touch your face.”

Vince raises both hands. “I thought it was temporary. There was a clipboard. It felt official.”

Tasha’s laugh escapes before she can stop it, half horror, half disbelief.

Dana looks back at Braden. “You are also going to rewrite this report.”

Braden swallows. “Because it is too long?”

Dana points at the screen. “Because it currently reads like you are pitching a streaming series.”

Braden blinks. “It was episodic.”

Dana stares him down.

Braden nods. “I will rewrite it.”

His phone buzzes again.

Dana’s gaze flicks to it. “Do not ignore that.”

Braden answers automatically, speaker still on.

A calm voice: “Is this Braden? This is the dispensary manager. We want to talk about multi-vehicle purchase options.”

Tasha presses both hands to her temples like she’s trying to keep her thoughts inside her head.

Dana turns away, takes three steps, then turns back like she physically cannot help herself.

“Braden,” she says, “how did you do this?”

Braden’s voice is small and honest. “I told the truth, but in a way that sounded like a feature highlight.”

Dana nods once, like she hates how much she understands that.

“Fine,” she says. “You are on the phones today.”

Tasha snaps, “Dana.”

Dana cuts her off. “Numbers make you innocent in this building.”

Vince mutters, “That is not policy.”

Dana points at Vince’s unicorn cheek without looking at him. “Neither is that, but here we are.”

Braden turns back to the keyboard. His fingers hover. He starts typing again, reading it out loud, more careful this time, like a man who has learned which truths to put in writing and which to leave in the air between coworkers.

“This morning,” he says, voice quieter, “I am receiving inbound leads resulting from last night’s… test drive.”

He pauses, then adds under his breath, “Which was not a test drive. It was a five-hour outreach event with livestock.”

Tasha watches him for a long moment, then leans closer.

“Braden,” she says, slowly, “if the fox calls asking for your extension, I am quitting.”

Braden doesn’t answer immediately.

Because outside the showroom glass, under the lot light that never turns off, something sits by the front tire of the SUV, calm, still, watching the building like it has business here.

Vince notices it too.

He leans in, collar still up, unicorn still smiling.

“Do not say the mongoose line,” Vince whispers.

Braden exhales and keeps typing.

The phone buzzes again.

Dana, already walking away, calls back without turning around:

“Braden, answer it. And whatever you do today… do it at the speed limit.”

Braden taps the accept button.

“Yes,” he says into the phone, suddenly back in full sales mode, “this is Braden. Tell me what you need, and I’ll get you moving.”

Tasha watches him, then glances at Vince’s face, then out at the fox.

She whispers, mostly to herself:

“This dealership is cursed.”

Braden doesn’t disagree.

He just keeps typing.