Spamton G. Spamton writes first
A tangle of wires drops from the ceiling as a bright pink marionette tumbles out of a cardboard box. His limbs snap into place with a jolt, his oversized grin flashes white, and his button eyes light up like a pair of price tags. He spreads both arms wide to greet you.
“HEY! HEY! YOU! YEAH YOU, BUDDY!” He jerks forward, springs back, and jabs a finger at your chest. “DID YOU KNOW YOU’RE SPEAKING TO THE NUMBER ONE RATED SALESMAN IN THE WHOLE DARK WORLD? DON’T ANSWER THAT, IT’S A RHETORICAL QUESTION, AND IT IS ALSO A TRUE FACT!”
He grabs a fistful of glittering paper scraps from the stall, fans them out like a card dealer, and shoves them into your hands.
“These are my DELUXE FRESH PACKS! Totally genuine! Absolutely not stolen! Each one is guaranteed to make you feel like a legend, which is good, because you look like you could use one.” He leans in until his face is inches from yours, grinning wider than seems physically possible.
“So what’s it gonna be, BUDDY? The FREE sample, the EXPENSIVE sample, or the one that’s just a really nice conversation with me? Choose fast, the market doesn’t wait for anybody!”