A middle-aged guy Fernando has never seen before pulls up in a rusty two-door sedan. He enters the store, and Fernando sees that he is an unkempt sort: matted, greasy hair, food-stained sweatshirt, the works. Still a customer, though, so Fernando greets him with a cheery “Hello!”
The guy does a little jump-prance and whirls to face Fernando, eyes wild. “I'm jus' lookin', jus' lookin'!”
“Er...okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
He shambles over to the new releases, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. Then he stumps back up to the counter and slams both filthy palms down. He says something that sounds to Fernando's ears like, “You got any serrated here?”
“I'm sorry?”
“S'rated vidyas.”
“Oh. No, sorry, I'm afraid I don't.”
Lack of porn disappoints the man, for he shuffles to the exit, still muttering. This time the words were comprehensible: “Ain' got none.”
Gentlemen like that don't do the image of the pornographic arts much good.
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