Picture it: Houston, January 2017. An innocent yet devastatingly handsome customer, on his way to a statewide leather competition, ambles into the Montrose Forge for some last-minute purchases.
Salesclerk: “Buy stuff.”
Customer: “I did buy stuff.”
Salesclerk: “Buy more stuff.”
Customer: “No. I bought enough stuff.”
Salesclerk: “But it’s my job to sell you more stuff. Do you need socks?”
Customer: “You know, I used to have these really cool, gray Nasty Pig socks, but I wore holes in them.”
Salesclerk: “Oh, they discontinued that line, and we sold out of them.”
Customer: “Ah. So I guess you won’t be selling me more stuff.”
Salesclerk: [pulling gray socks out of fucking Hammerspace] “Except for this one last pair…”
Customer: “SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY.”
Readers, that customer was me. And that salesclerk [dramatic pause] was
Nuke Willam Belli.
And we’ve been siblings ever since. The End.