No amount of velvety stealth or hopper-like hopping up is going to get you a peak of me beneath this mask, my dear, so please relegate your stare to the items on display.
Perchance you came to my humble shop in search of crickety cures, of which I can show you many. I’m usually quite skilled at guessing the needs of my visitorians, and by the dead copper clang of the green-patina’d bell, I can tell that you, my friend, are in the market for something that will remove all traces of DNA from a crime scene. Am I right?
No? Then have a petit-fours, they’re scrumptious. Don’t soil the doilie. Marzipan scarab — the real thing. Anyone? Leave a token in the box.
Let us peruse together, young ones. I’ll have my chap strap on his accordion and he’ll play us a grand tune as we climb my ladder to sniff for goodies upon the shelves on high. After you.
No? Then hold my hand, don’t mind my glove, don’t wriggle so hard, don’t sweat so sweetly, don’t dare, don’t dare.
Is it hair in a jar, is that why you’re here? Teeth needled with holes, strung upon a wire of hardened hemp? Is that why you’re here? Beneath a bell jar, I’ve got just what you want — a child, half frog, half humanoid, basted in formaldehyde — pickled, if you will, with eggs au gratin, yes?
FICKLE FUCKING CUSTOMER, but oh, the customer’s always right, isn’t that right, customer? Can I tempt you with a delectable hemlock and peppermint acid bath for that weekend “me time” you so crave? P’raps some poison for your uncle? Looking for spiders in XXX-large? Those are in the lower level with all the bargains, come.
COME, I said. Put that monkey skull down and let’s descend together, yes?
You and those fumbling hands of yours. Do you really want to see what’s beneath my mask? I have a room for the granting of that wish, just this way. I am but a humble servant, duly providing what little I can to placate the mob. Unmask me, I submit!
However, there is a price.
You know your money’s no good here. But your eyes, they do have value, do they not?