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You limp over to the P WN SHOP and push open the door. A bell tinkles as you enter.
The interior of the shop is dimly-lit, and smells of dust and sour milk. As your eyes adjust, you can see that it is mostly filled with piles and piles and rows and rows of cardboard boxes. There are shelves stacked with more cardboard boxes. A few boxes are open, and inside them, under a layer of dust, you can see miscellaneous items sealed in mylar bags.
Behind an equally dust-covered counter, there is a wizened old man and a hapless young one. You find yourself wondering why this shop needs two people behind the counter, a question that is made more pertinent when the young man, looking shocked, says:
"A customer!"
Much in the manner that you might say "A two-headed unicorn!"
The young man takes off his glasses, rubs them with a corner of his checked lumberjack shirt, replaces them (none the cleaner), then nudges the old man, who looks up and seems to notice you for the first time.
"Do you anything you wish to pawn in exchange for cold, hard cash?", he asks. "We'll keep it secret, keep it safe." |
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