Oct. 30th, 2017

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[personal profile] froodle
"Excuse me?" said the ghost, it's sepulchral tones echoing throughout the empty store.

Radford exchanged a glance with his newest trainee cashier, Radford.

"I said, would you like to purchase a Bag for Life for fifteen cents?" he repeated.

The ghost stared at him with black and hollow eye-sockets. It puffed up it's translucent chest and levitated a few millimetres out of sheer outrage.

"Young man," it said, because all men are young to the dead, "Do I look as if I require a Bag for Life?"

"My apologies, ma'am," said Radford, changing tack with the practiced smoothness of a lifetime salesman. He refolded the white polythene grocery bag and tucked it back beneath the counter. "Perhaps I can interest you in our Shopping Shroud of Eternity instead?"

He removed a black cardboard box from the shelving beside the till, pulling the flaps back and turning it so that the ghost could see the wares within.

"Hmm," said the ghost, it's drooping mouth turning up a little at one corner. "Well, I suppose it might do. How much do you charge?"

"A dollar," said Radford.

The ghost's mis-matched sockets surveyed the contents of the box. It's drippy ectoplasmic fingers twitched in anticipation as Radford pulled one of the Shrouds loose, unfurling it across the sales counter in a ripple of thick black plastic. Below the reinforced handles, the World o' Stuff logo stood out in a blaze of neon pinks and blues and yellows.

Radford glanced about, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"This is a very exclusive item," he confided. "Reserved for our spectral customers only, and we'd appreciate your discretion if anyone asks you where you got it."

The ghost handed over a silver dollar, still cold from the grave. Radford smiled and began bagging it's purchases.

When the ghost had drifted back through the book-lined wall at the rear of the store, Radford looked at his boss.

"Those are the same exact bags as the Bags for Life," he said. "They're just black."

"That's where you're wrong, my young apprentice," said Radford, pulling out a handheld embossing machine and fiddling with the parallel wheels. It clicked in rapid succession, spitting out a strip of black tape into which the legend "LIMITED EDITION" had been stamped. He pasted it to the box of black Bags for Life, adopting a studiedly casual angle in the placement of the label.

"Ta-da!" he said.

Read the rest of the Trusted Associates verse here )
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[personal profile] froodle
The kitchen floor was awash with blood. Simon Holmes, pallid and trembling, cradled his right arm tight against his chest and tried very, very hard not to cry.

"It's okay," Marshall was saying, even as he lifted down the huge iron-bound first aid chest from on top of the ancient dresser they'd inherited from his parents.

Simon shook his head mutely. Despite his best efforts, tears were stinging the corners of his eyes.

"He didn't mean anything by it," said Dash, who was holding a pair of suture needles beneath a stream of boiling water.

"Yeah," said Marshall, rummaging through anti-hexes and warding charms for a bottle of antiseptic and a bag of cotton swabs. "Really, Simon, don't worry about it. You guys are still friends."

"He scratched me," said Simon, too upset to be embarrassed at how his voice shook. "He's never done that before, not ever."

Dash handed Marshall the freshly sterilized needles, reliving him of an incalcitrant tangle of gauze bandages in return. He held the wadded mass up to the light as he searched for a loose edge to unravel.

"You tried putting a Halloween costume on a giant cat," said Dash.

Marshall nodded.

Simon sniffled.

Read the rest of the Microwave verse here )

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