This is an old wooden table. Round. Old. Made of wood. Deserving of respect. Reverence, even.
And for you to claim that it doesn’t “match” your inventory. That you have “no idea” what it’s worth. Well…
I think all you antiquers, you little junk-dealers, should be preserved in formaldehyde. Embalmed. Like world-record tapeworms.
Like the parasites you are.
Well, I wouldn’t use the word “killed.” More like “exterminated.”
Listen—I chose you over all the others. All the other dirty, money-grubbing, orifice-mouthed, slimy, disgusting, segmented, wriggling junkers.
Because they said you were different. Borderline human. At least 10% more homo sapien than Alien Facehugger.
And because your shop is right next to the gym I work out at.
And you know what? I think you do have an idea of this table’s worth. I think you have an idea so big it scares you.
Which is exactly the size of an idea in your head I want you to have.
I can see it in your compound eyes, by the way you move your mouthparts. You know this table.
You know it’s haunted by multiple demons.
And you guys could become friends if you play your cards right. I don’t know, maybe more than friends…
You could birth the Antichrist. Is that something that appeals to you? Birthing the Antichrist?
Come on, you’re hard up. Look at you. You’re like a… a nematode or something. Some kind of worm. Liver fluke, maybe. Why not get impregnated by Asmodeous or the like?
Well, shoot your shot, I don’t know. Just chat ’em up. They like baseball, I think. They’re always talking about it.
You know what this is, you know what you are? I just figured it out: You’re a woodphobe. Yep. Just admit it. Oh, a “wood-o-phobe,” excuse me. Sorry I don’t know all your little junk-monger jargon.
I didn’t even think this would be necessary to get into but—and I’ve got a signed document from the town Museum Lady backing all this up—but:
More than 75 great men—Railroad Tycoons, Oil Barons, Hotrod Enthusiasts—have sat at this table and played paper football and built gingerbread houses. World-record G-bread houses 20-stories high with indoor plumbing and fully functional Wi-Fi.
How can you explain that? How could anyone fabricate Wi-Fi components that small? I want you to imagine a fiber optic cable the size of a licorice spaghetti noodle…
You know I could bulldoze your whole store to the ground in 15 minutes, right? You know I know the Mayor?
Yeah, well, he doesn’t like antiquers. Uh, because he doesn’t like clutter? What, do you live under a rock?
You’re making me fucking crazy. You realize that, right?
You know what? 10 pushups. Right now. Yes, I’m serious, I don’t care who’s watching.
All the way down. Touch your chest.
Alright, now open your ears and turn your brain on:
You. Will. Buy. My. Old-Wooden-Round-Wooden-Brown-Old Table. Say it.
No, say it exactly like I said it. Word for word.
No, try again. The second “wooden” comes before brown.
Uh, OK, can somebody get me a big old jug of formaldehyde?! I got a parasite here who can’t remember a simple sentence…