Annual Abscondments IV: In Closing

2013 was a busy, busy year for Fernando's more roguish clientele, though the nefarious acts of thievery came in bursts: first late February/early March, then a second wave in July, and finally an end-of-year push in November. It proved Fernando's worst year yet in terms of lost inventory; twenty-one of Fernando's beloved and not-so-beloved movies were torn from his loving embrace and taken into the unexpected custody of a great wide spectrum of ne'er-do-wells.

This is their obituary.

Expendables 2, Wanderlust, The Notebook: A lady comes into the store, one who hadn't been in since the days of the old Keeper. She had some late fees from that elder age, $21. Fernando informed her of this fact and, against all odds, she agreed to pay them off.

So how'd that work out for you, Fernando? You earned $30 only to lose about $60 in inventory. Look on the bright side: if you keep this up there may be room for you on the executive board of a major financial institution. And on the brighter side, you no longer have a copy of The Notebook available to recommend as a dumb-silly romantic chick flick.

I Am Number 4: High school kid comes in and sets up account, rents one movie, never returns it. He came back to the store on one occasion in the company of some of his less-lawbreak-y peers and Fernando shamed him so thoroughly that he actually put down five bucks towards his debt. 

He still owes Fernando $35.

The Greatest Game Ever Played: Because if you're a thirty-something woman setting up an account whose sole purpose, apparently, is to steal something, best make it a mediocre movie about golf that had otherwise never been rented in all the years Fernando worked at and owned the Dominion.

New Year's Eve, War, 24: Redemption: Remember the guy from way, way back who trashed a copy of Ice Age and then visited the store not long after Fernando took over in the misguided hopes that new ownership would erase his debt? Yeah, he, Fernando later learned, at some point hooked up with a gullible young lady who set up an account and, apparently, rented for him by proxy. Three pieces of Fernando's inventory went missing but at least two of those three were uninspiring renters even when they were fresh and new and the third, while a decent, testosterone-laden popcorn flick, was not of any particular importance in the grand scheme of things.

But hey if either of them ever return to the store down the road I can feel justified affixing the "saga" tag to this affair.

Warm Bodies, Cabin in the Woods, 127 Hours: Kind of a twofer with the next entry. See below.

Beautiful Creatures, Real Steel: Okay, so, two guys in their late teens/early twenties come to the store at the same time and both of them set up accounts to rent some movies. One of them is from Happyrock, about thirty miles away; the other is more local and claims an address in Melvinsburg. Fernando checks out the licenses and gets phone numbers from them (one of which is a local land line) and rents to them.

When the movies had been out for three days, Fernando calls them up in turn to request that they bring them back in. The cell phone goes to not-set-up voicemail and Fernando leaves a message. The other one rings and rings and no one picks up. The following day, Fernando tries again. Still voicemail, still no response.

This repeats for a number of additional days until, finally, somebody picks up on the landline, a woman.

Fernando explains the situation to her and asks that she inform the young man that his movies are still out and if he could return them promptly. The woman tells Fernando that he is "out of state for work." Fernando asks that she pass along his request and to check around if, perhaps, the movies were sitting there at home. She agrees to do precisely that.

Buuuuut she never called him back, and Fernando also never did get in contact via cell phone with the guy from Happyrock.

Stand Up Guys, Prometheus: A middle-aged woman comes in to rent a pair of movies and they don't make it back. When he calls her up to find out what is going on, she tells him that she gave them to her son to drop off on his way back to school. Fernando lets her know that her son never did drop them off, and that he would appreciate it if she could double-check with him to make sure they make it back the next time he comes home.

Nope.

Star Trek: Into Darkness, The Muppets: Okay, sometimes people wake up on the stupid side of life. This pair of customers set up an account back in April, after having just moved into the area, and had been absolutely exemplary renters up til then. They were genial, treated Fernando like an actual person, and almost never late; when they were, they killed off their late fees immediately.

Then, one afternoon, they rented the above movies and they didn't make it back over the next three days. Fernando found this peculiar, so he called them up. One of them answered and told him that their car had taken a dump on them and that they were terribly sorry about everything, and that they would bring them back promptly once they found someone to give them a ride down to the Dominion, for they resided well into the boonies. This sounded good to Fernando, so he wished them the best and told them they could hash out everyone once the movies got back in.

Alas, they never did, and all of Fernando's subsequent calls went unanswered. What a pity, what a waste.

Now You See Me, Despicable Me: The girl who'd gotten a sorta-but-not-really divorce from her boyfriend a few years back dropped by and rented these movies, which never came back. She ignored Fernando's requests to return them, and now Fernando's sympathies lie with her jilted ex, wherever he may be.

The most embarrassing part is that she used a full stamp card for a free rental on Despicable Me. Would she have had it if Fernando had been less kind when she initially asked him to divvy up their communal stamps?

The Purge, Disaster Movie: Fernando tries not to judge people based on their last names and familial relations, but sometimes circumstances make it so incredibly hard to do. The young lady who rented this, by all appearances, comes from a family of thieves: her parents rented some things back under the Old Keeper's watch and never returned them. Then her older sister rented some things a few years back and never returned them.

Now, of course, she has rented some things and never returned them.

Fuck it, the next time somebody with that last name stops in, Fernando is going to be King Dick and let his prejudices run their fullest course.

Not a day goes by on which Fernando does not lament the passing of every one of these unfortunate abductees. Yes, even you, The Greatest Game Ever Played, even you. In fact, your loss is felt most keenly of all.

The question remains: What promises does 2014 hold? This Fernando cannot say. Truth be told, he seems to have driven away most of the assholes and recent weeks down at the Dominion have been, well, enjoyable. No entitled women coming to manipulate him into free things. No characters from days gone by stopping by to put into motion their inscrutable goals. No curious and random new faces with wretched spatial judgment.

Just the normal, genial customer base who rents movies, returns them mostly on time, and clears up any small late fees with a humble apology.

In short, the Chronicles seem to have wound down. Like in every closed system, the occurrence of random and interesting things decays as entropy increases and said system approaches a uniform, vacuous state. Rather than continue to draw out the unnecessary by milking a franchise (such as this is) until even its bones have been rendered down and snorted by a dwindling number of consumers (such as it is), as is the case with a certain industry that revolves around the production and distribution of motion pictures, it is time, I feel, to bring this book to a close.

There shall be other happenings, other tales of woe and dread, and even occasional tales of uplifting experience, I'm certain. Entropy is almost inevitably stalled out in the short term by random occurrences. Perhaps a fluctuation in fate will jar a new wave of content appropriate for the Chronicles of Fernando H. Stevens.

But until and unless there is such a time, let me tell you of a man who, in the late summer of 2010, made the lifechanging decision to cast his lot into the realm of weblogging through the collation and recording of happenings of great intrigue and of possible interest to souls other than himself. The wrangling with irate word processing programs, the mostly-kept rigor of deadlines, and the random acts of God which threatened the stability and structural integrity of his Chronicles did not daunt him. 

That man was one Fernando H. Stevens.

He had a blast, and he hopes you did too.

Priority

One of Fernando's regulars comes into the store one afternoon not long after opening and takes a quick look at the new release rack. "All your Wolverine is already out?" he asks, scowling.

"More like they haven't yet gotten in. I'm expecting all of them back today."

"Okay, how about this," Fernando's customer says. The Keeper hears the skritch of velcro as one of the other rental tags is torn off its case. "Hold this one for me and when the other comes in I'll come down and pick it up."

"That I certainly can do," Fernando says, taking the tag from the gentleman and placing it reverently on the desk in his office. "Did you want me to give you a call?"

"Nah, I'm gonna be running around for a little while anyhow. I'll stop by after I get gas at the station and see if you got it in."

Fernando nods. "Sounds good. If it gets in, I'll hang onto it for you. No promises, though."

And so Fernando's customer departs to complete his errands. A few minutes later a car pulls into the parking lot and a family of father, mother, and daughter clamber out. Fernando is fairly certain they owe him money, but not positive; he could not recall their names, since they had not visited the store in a rather long while, but verification would be swift and sure once he asked their indentity and he took a gander at the late list.

Anyhow, they fan out throughout the store and the two adults chat amongst themselves. Mainly they complain that all of Fernando's copies of Wolverine are out and they rather rudely, in that passive-aggressive not-a-whisper, point out that the Dominion "never has anything good in."

Ignoring or overlooking, of course, that if copies of the goddamn movies are present at opening from the night before without having been rented, the business model is doing something terribly wrong.

The daughter asks if they can rent something else but the mother (who is the one Fernando suspects of owing money) puts her foot down and tells the youngster that if the movies the grown-ups want isn't in, she "doesn't deserve" to rent Smurfs 2. At this moment, two more vehicles crunch over the snow in the parking lot simultaneously. One of them is the gentleman who had just been in. The other one is a truck owned by a man who had, on the previous day, come in and rented Wolverine. Fernando rises from his chair, scoops up the other tag which he had been asked to hold, and walks up to the counter to begin filling out a rental slip in anticipation of things to come.

Fernando's earlier visitor parked slightly closer to the front door, so he is the one inside first. "Did it make it?" he asks.

Fernando points over the man's shoulder at the second gent crossing the parking lot, who carries a stack of three movies. "He's got one, right there."

"Attaboy."

The mother, having deduced something potentially interesting albeit irrelevant to her own sad life is amiss, has since sidled closer to the counter to listen in on the conversation. The father and daughter are off in the kids' section of the store doing Pazuzu-knows-what.

The chimes tinkle and the second man enters. Fernando takes the films from him. "Thank you much." He sets two of them behind the counter and leaves the third, Wolverine. The second man squeezes past the mother, who lurks near the archway, with a low, "Excuse me," and browses the rental racks.

"Which ones did you bring back?" she asks him.

"Uh, The Thing, 2 Guns, and Wolverine," he answers.

Meanwhile, the transaction between Fernando and the first man has been completed. "Thank you much," Fernando says as the man walks out with his movies. "Have a good evening." He gathers up the rental slip and sets it on his desk, then goes about returning the rental tags for the other two movies to their cases out on the floor. He is peripherally aware of the woman approaching the counter.

"Yeah, I heard you got a Wolverine in." the woman tells Fernando.

Fernando briefly glances over at her. "I did, but it just went out again," he says, replacing the remaining cases on the shelf.

"I wanted that one."

"I'm sorry," Fernando tells her. "I am expecting my other copies back, if you would like me to hold one for you and let you know when it gets in."

"Why did you let that other guy just have it?"

Fernando blinks. "Because he asked nicely for me to hold a copy for him." He pauses, mulling over precisely how large a dick he wanted to be at this moment. He arrives at the conclusion "titanic." "And if I had put it out onto the floor, I would not have kept that promise."

The woman's mouth becomes a hard line and she fixes a death glare upon Fernando's uncaring self. The Keeper repeats his earlier offer, "Did you want me to hold one for you and give you a call if I get it in?"

"No," she hisses, sotto voce. "We're leaving."

"Alright. Have a good evening." With that, Fernando weaves through the rental racks to return the other two tags to their homes.

He ignores her so thoroughly that he does not even give a cursory glance over his shoulder when the door chimes jingle twice in rapid succession from the family's departure.

The second man rents three movies and has the social grace not to comment on what had just transpired.

Here We Go Again

Firearm deer hunting season looms and with it come the entitled outsiders who expect Saladolsa and its businesses to cater to their every selfish need. The Dominion is in no way exempted from this farce and, while Fernando has a few hunters come in during the bow hunting season immediately prior to firearm season, they are much fewer in number and, overall, less dickish.

One day, Fernando has just headed into the back room to turn on the exterior lights, for it was about five in the evening and the sun has sunk below the horizon, and he does want for the parking lot-slash-road in front of the store to be illuminated. While he's back there, he fixes up a cup of coffee. He hears the door chimes jingle but thinks little of it. Then he hears an unfamiliar voice addressing someone else: “Goddamn, Hangover Three. They never stop.”

Fernando peeps around the corner of the door which separates the store's front from the sanctuary in the back and sees a couple of gentlemen in their late 30s or early 40s perusing the new release rack. They wear forest-colored attire and have taken no heed that the Dominion's office is unoccupied. To their credit, they also didn't immediately make a beeline for the back room. Fernando feels a niggling in the back of his brain, a sense of vague familiarity that he nevertheless cannot immediately place.

“Hello,” Fernando greets them. “I'll be right out.” His coffee preparation takes another thirty seconds or so, then he pops back out to the front and shuts the door to the back room behind him. In the meanwhile, the pair of gentlemen have continued scouring the rental racks for something to watch, but they have either, apparently, seen everything Fernando has to offer or have no interest whatsoever in seeing, say, Oblivion.

In fact, one of them gives rousing and insightful commentary that changes Fernando's outlook on life forever regarding Katie Holmes, her overall physical appearance, and the voluminous and frequent sexual urges she inspires in anybody “who isn't a closeted homo like that jackass [meaning Tom Cruise].”

And then Fernando remembers where he'd seen them. They'd came in the previous year and made similar sorts of observations among their runnin' crew before they turned to Fernando for film-watching advice. On the bright side, at least Fernando has the one dude, Thailand, in his records so he would not have to do the un-fun song and dance which is account creation this time 'round.

Speaking of the homos, Thailand, the less-crass of the two gents, points out World War Z to Vietnam as a possible night's diversion and Vietnam responds with vitriol, “I seen it. It's not a bad movie. The ending's weird but the biggest problem is it has that fag in it.” Now, Fernando is by no means an expert, but he strongly suspects that Mr. Brad Pitt can pull more tail in a week than good ol' Vietnam has in his entire life. Perhaps instead Vietnam was taking a zealous stand against cigarettes?

Enough of this. Fernando wishes to spare his ears and brain of as much bigotry as possible. “Something I can help you with?” Fernando asks them. It worked last year, after all.

“We're just trying to find something good, y'know. Something with action,” Thailand says.

Action, got it. “Iron Man 3. Have you seen it?” Both men shake their heads in the negative. “It's better than the second one. Not as good as the first, but what ever is in sequels, right?” Fernando shrugs as though sheepish.

“You're telling me,” Vietnam murmurs. Fernando surmises this to be another reference to Hangover Three, one which he does vehemently share. But Thailand plucks a tag off the case and heads up to the counter with Vietnam, while Fernando takes an alternate path behind selfsame counter through a parallel rack arrangement

“You'll have to forgive me, I misremember your name,” Fernando asks of Thailand when everyone is ready to complete the rental process.

“Thailand. We were in here last year a couple times.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” Fernando says, as though he only just remembered now. “It'll come to four dollars.”

Thailand digs out a five dollar bill while Fernando retrieves the movie. The swap is made, change is doled out, and Fernando bids them a good evening.

At least this time it wasn't an election year.

Teleportation Tech

The doorchimes jingle half an hour before closing time while Fernando helps another customer by retrieving movies. Since he is somewhat distracted by his task, he does not immediately see who enters, but once he finishes up with his other customer he sees two young men around the age of sixteen, seventeen milling about the new release aisle. They wear canvas jackets and dun-colored pants, and their boots track clods of dirt across Fernando's carpets, a sure sign they had been mucking about in the forest at some point during the day.

“Good evening,” he greets them, and they do not respond. Instead, they wantonly pluck tags until they are satisfied to at last approach the counter and spill four of them upon the glass.

“Under whose name tonight?” Fernando asks.

The pair exchanges a glance before the shorter of the two replies, “Mine, I guess.”

Fernando flicks his pen back and forth between his fingers. “And that is?”

“Suriname Elohim.”

Fernando looks the lad in the eyes. “Do you have an account here?”

“No.”

“Easily fixed.” Fernando heads into the office and retrieves a matriculation form, then places it upon the counter and hands over his pen. The young man fills out his name, his city, and his date of birth, then pushes the paperwork back across the counter in Fernando's direction. Fernando, upon reading what his guest had written, saw that he apparently hailed from Pearpound, which lay nearly a three hour drive away to the south.

“I'll need your address, phone number, and a driver's license,” Fernando tells him.

“Oh. I don't have those. I rode here with my cousin.” His eyes dart to left, where the taller member of the duo stands.

Fernando shrugs. “That's fine. Perhaps he could fill it out then.” Fernando retrieves a fresh application and tears up the first. The second young man fills it out and provides eerily similar information, except for the name. Most specifically, the Pearpound residence.

“I'll need your driver's license,” Fernando repeats, for that line had been left blank yet again.

“I don't have one.”

“Hmm. Then how did you get here?”

The pair exchanges another glance, then both leave.

Peek-a-Boo

A pair of high school age young men come into the store one evening. Fernando has never seen either of them before. They are loud and abrasive and general annoyances who run up and down the new release aisle opening case after case, then replacing the plastic DVD houses on the rack, still ajar.

“Hey, how come these are empty?” one of them asks after they've gone through and peeked inside the case of every film on the Top Ten list.

“I find it a risky proposition to keep my wares out on the floor where anyone can help himself to them without oversight. Is there something I can help you with?”

Rather than take Fernando up on his offer, they depart.

That's Why

Late one evening, a few scant minutes before Fernando is set to close for the night, a scruffy man enters. He wears a sweatshirt stained with dirt and food, and his jeans are likewise worn and besmirched. He also has sheath upon his belt which holds a knife with a blade maybe four inches long, and he smells of pine resin.

Fernando chalks him up as an out-of-town hunter.

“Hey, do you have Open Range?” he asks without preamble.

Fernando scratches his cheek. “I had it at one point, but somebody rented it a while back and failed to return it.”

“I've been looking everywhere for that son of a bitch movie and can't find it.”

“Well, if you like, I could order in a copy for you to buy. I don't know how much it would be, probably around ten bucks or so, and it might take a couple weeks to get it in, but I'm more than happy to if you'll be around to pick it up.”

“Yeah, do that.” The guy turns and marches towards the door.

“Um...I'll need your name and number.”

“What for?”

“So I can tell you the price and let you know when it gets in, if you end up interested in ordering it at that price.”

“I already told you I'm interested.”

“I know. But this way you'll know.”

So the man leaves his first name and a cell phone at which he can be reached. The area code, once Fernando besought Goo-Gol's insight, turns out to originate from southern Indiana. This bodes quite well, indeed.

But, Fernando is a man of his word and he performed the appropriate research, locating a copy of the film in question and pricing it for the gentleman. After opening the next day, Fernando calls the number provided and leaves a voice message informing the gent what the price will be and that he will go ahead with the order once he receives confirmation, and once a deposit of five dollars has been placed.

Time passes, and a few hours later the phone rings. The caller ID reads OUT OF STATE.

“Hello, Dominion of Movies.

“Yeah, this is Greece. You called me about the movie?”

“I did indeed. I just wanted to let you know I've got a price for Open Range and I'll put in the order on that once you come down to place a deposit.”

“Just go ahead and order it.”

“Right, I will, but I need the deposit first.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll come in to get it, don't worry.”

“That's nice, but I still need the deposit.”

“I told you that I'll come in to pick it up, and we'll square up then. I really want that movie.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem coming down to pay the deposit.”

A long pause, at least ten seconds in duration. “Alright, fine.”

The guy hasn't yet come in to provide aforementioned deposit.

Conspiracy Conspiracy

One afternoon Fernando is trying his hand at Dungeon Crawl: Stone Soup when a man enters the Dominion. He approaches the counter and Fernando greets him.

“Yeah, do you have any documentaries on 9/11?” the man asks.

“Not really documentaries, no,” Fernando replies. "I've got the Oliver Stone picture, off the top of my head, if that was something you would maybe be interested in.”

“No, I'm looking for ones that are about covering up the truth.”

“The...truth? No, sorry, I know I don't have anything you're looking for with that particular...slant.” Documentaries are piss-poor renters to begin with, and the most recent one in the store is Michael Moore's Sicko...which came out around two years before Fernando even took hold of the Dominion's reins of leadership.

Notwithstanding most social and political so-called “documentaries” are attention-whoring malarkey with an investigatory and explanatory outlook about on par with the average 24-hour news channel, in that the creator holds to a normative position, rather than an empirical one, and then seeks out examples to shore up this preconceived notion. No scholarly or investigatory work can be wholly objective, as the researcher always imprints some of his or her views into the investigation at hand. But biased, histrionic bullshit is what sells to the average American; and even then “sell” is grossly overgenerous. As stated above, the Dominion's customer base doesn't care to watch the newest Michael Moore schlock; and Fernando would rather spend money on titles that turn a profit rather than pandering bullshit which, while it aligns itself politically with the plurality of nearby ignorant customers, they still don't rent.

Anyway, the guy wandered the store for a few minutes and then left.

The Ordinary

Fernando sits at his desk one afternoon enjoying a rousing play at Dungeons of Dredmor when a truck pulls in. It does not appreciably slow. Normally this is nothing of particular note, as the road which passes in front of the Dominion leads to the nearby gas station and eatery, and many people opt to turn in from the highway in front of the Dominion when headed to these locations because the road-orifice is wider.

This truck, though, had a set of deer antlers mounted on the cab's roof, in a desperate plea for attention and uncouth display of masculine prowess. The prongs of this fine rack jutted skywards like defiant fingers aimed directly at God...such as there were, since it was not a truly epic set of antlers, the sort of which men sing songs for all the ages. No, it was a six- or seven-pointer, eight-pointer at absolute best. The truck itself was clad in the colors of House Camo and the cab's rear window proudly bore two crests: the head of a deer centered in a gun's crosshairs, and a Peeing Calvin who loosed his urinary load, FATAL-style, upon the disembodied head of Osama bin Laden.

Though the driver of this vehicle did not stop into the Dominion, Fernando found himself imagining, as his masochistic self is wont to do, what could have transpired if this alpha male of mythic proportions were to drop by for a visit and ask something inane of Fernando.

Maybe, some day, we will know.

Fernando's Fifth Quest

Saturday started with a bang: Macombo and Natasia informed Fernando and Ronaldo straightaway at breakfast that a crazy French lady had spent most of her breakfast time berating the waitstaff over the paucity of choice provided at the meal and the overall low quality of the food and drink which had been provided. Alas, not every breakfast can be the delicious continental European spread. If it were, Fernando would eat far more breakfasts.

As decided the previous evening, in no way would the party endeavor to be timely at the convention. They would late, fashionably so, and hopefully avoid the glut and torrent of people. They watched some of the other convention-goers who shared the hotel clamber into the shuttle from a position of safety and semi-comfort in the lobby. The chairs were Victorian, high-backed and rather narrow, and the gathered crew exchanged ribald tales of past adventures at the Dungeons and Dragons table, for both Macombo and Natasia expressed interest in attending. Furthermore, Fernando would host a going-away jamboree for Ronaldo the following week, as that man would functionally exit from Fernando life for always and ever in short order—this journey was, after all, one last adventurous huzzah before the Fellowship's breaking, and the pair received formal invitations to this gathering. Fernando plied them with promises of ginger ale and of delectable, hand-crafted vittles, and they did swiftly agree to attend.

The gang's ride carried them to their location without trouble and the busiest day of all the days began. Fernando first panel of the day featured a comic book writer who had been in the business for thirty years sharing kernels of wisdom he had gained over his tenure in “the biz” with regards to plotting and storytelling. Mostly, of course, as it applied to the medium of comics and graphic novels, but Fernando took away the notion of fractal plot pacing: that every subsection of a given story arc, novel, D&D campaign, whatever, ought to have a miniaturized dramatic arc to call its own. This is something that Fernando had grasped on a subconscious level but had, to this point, never had overtly explained to him, and it is the single most edifying thing he encountered at the convention, something he shall endeavor to insert into his own literature in order to become a better storyteller.

A long, long stream of guest panels ensued. Fernando sat in the same room as Stan Lee and a loud, annoying guy who served as a combination of interpreter and question-gatekeeper. This gentleman was also the one who'd attempted to rile up the crowds by being a dumbass over the intercom the previous day. What more can be said? It was a Q&A with Stan “The Man” (seriously though why was this little appellation appended to every single instance Fernando encountered the dude's name at the convention?) Lee.

Fernando sat in the same room as Manu Bennett, who is actually a surprisingly small man only of about Fernando's height. His roles in Spartacus and The Hobbit skewed Fernando's understanding of the man's size, but Mr. Bennett explained that onlookers fill in size narratives on their own, so long as you carry yourself like someone who is large and in charge.

Truly, the human mind is an easily manipulated thing.

Fernando and Ronaldo then met up and sat in the back of an overcrowded room of five thousand-ish people who waited for Mr. Norman Reedus. Natasia and Macombo mingled with the pair for a while, but they had VIP tickets and so were granted access to actually decent seats once the panel was to begin. To help pass the time until the Guest of Honor made his grand debut, Jon Berethal entertained the crowd, and it was glorious. In stark contrast to Michael Shannon's halfhearted dipfuckery, Mr. Berethal was a genuine (albeit not classy...he swore like a sailor), genial guy. He wanted to be there and wanted to engage the horde of Walking Dead-ites. He pimped his new show and convinced both Fernando and Ronaldo to give the premiere a look-over.

Norman Reedus then apparated and sprayed silly string all over the table, which of course caused everyone in the crowd go apeshit and all of the ovaries to explode in miniature big bangs. He was forbidden to discuss the show by his contract with AMC, which deflates a significant portion of why many audience members wanted to be there, but he did hold forth at length about Boondock Saints and how they are making a third movie in the series.

Hollywood. Stop.

Once Norman Reedus stepped out of the building, Fernando decided that he would go on a solitary adventure, splitting the party and forcing the Great DM Above to cater to the Keeper's selfish player character whims. He would visit the city of Chicago proper, using public transportation, transforming into a regular city mouse like he had been in the days when he'd resided in Vienna! What would he do? Mysteries, left to the DM's graces! But just that he did, and he did randomly encounter many unique characters in his travels. More amusing characters and situations, daresay, than he did over the full weekend at Comic Con.

First, the fistfight! Fernando stood against one of the stripper poles which he has always favored on public transport, as he believes in keeping the seats open for those who must sit, and standing burns more calories besides. As the train pulled into one of the many stops, a pair of men, one white and one black, hopped off and started stripping down. The other passengers on the train seemed to take this as a bit of street theater, for they immediately readied their cell phones for a kingly performance. It seems the while man had said something offensive and sexually suggestive to a lady in the vicinity of the black man, and the black man had come to the woman's defense, and the white man had taken offense at the defense, and now two shirtless men were punching the everloving fuck out of one another on a subway platform while everyone recorded the fight.

The black guy won the first round of combat and, to his credit, turned and headed for the stairs rather than to continue whaling on his stunned and helpless victim. The white guy, upon stumbling to his feet, escalated the conflict by threatening to retrieve his “twenty-two” and “pay [him] a visit tonight.” The black guy stopped at the top of the stairs, turned, and said in one of those scarily calm voices that his “posse” (perhaps this is a Chicagoan term for adventuring party?) would “teach [him] a lesson if [he] tried that shit.” White Guy's brash response was that he would “fuck all y'all up.”

Quaint. The subway car had pulled out of the station before Cop Dudes could arrive on the scene, so Fernando did not know if, indeed, White Guy carried through on his infantile threat or if it had been all posturing and bluster, like what most assholes are capable of producing.

One of Fernando's fellow passengers, a teenaged African American lad, commented on the situation at Fernando. “Yo, you see that shit happen! Crazy!”

Well, yes, he had. Fernando had been standing right there. “Little bit, yeah.”

“You taking this awful calm.”

Fernando shrugged. “I'm just trying to get from Point A to Point B here.”

TAAL quieted down.

A little bit later, a skeevy, scrawny man clambered onto the subway car scant moments before the doors shut. He addressed the gathered people in breathless, rote cadence, “I'm sorry, this will only take a minute of your time I have been really down on my luck lately and living on subway cars like a dog I'm trying to get some medication but please bear with me--” (Here he hiked up his pants leg and revealed to the world a pus-rimmed, swollen brown sore that blanketed the side of his calf) “--to fight this infection I got and sleeping on subway cars doesn't help at all so please if you could give me some money even the tiniest bit it could go a long way to helping me out please and thank you.”

Then he crouched on the floor in front of the subway car's doorway muttering “I'm sorry I'm so sorry” every fifteen-odd seconds. Most people had the good sense to ignore his solicitous ramblings. A few soft-hearted (soft-headed, more like) souls gave him some dollars. One man even gave him a five. Because encouraging a busker is the way to go through life, right city folk?

At the next stop, Skeevy Stevie slithered out the door, walked down the platform to the adjacent car, and climbed right back on to work another crowd.

Fernando also stumbled across a conservatory in his travels, and it was comforting being surrounded by living things that shared the Keeper's notions of solitude and introspection. None of them tried to consume him, and this is how Fernando knew the DM was fudging his dice rolls.

By the time Fernando returned to the convention center, it was dark. Ronaldo and the rest had gone home, but the dark is just the beginning, for the convention's “after-party” had just begun! Fernando dropped by and had a few, not too heinously expensive, drinks. He, by the grace of Lovecraft, actually received a ginger vodka when he asked the bartender for a ginger vodka.

It was a very loud afterparty. The music could be summed up as generic and forgettable nnn-tss-nnn-tss-nnn-tss electechnotronic. Fernando spent most of his time there nursing his drinks and watching people. He kind of made a friend, in that a young lady named Latisha or Latasha approached him and started telling Fernando about a Superman poster she'd bought from one of the myriad dealers earlier today.

Fernando got bored in short order and contacted Cool Driver Jim for pickup. He took a while to arrive, as he had drop-offs to make at the airport, but the night was warm and mosquitoes nonexistent, and the moths were kept away from Fernando by the abundance of streetlights, so he sat on a curb outside the convention center and waited for nearly an hour. When Cool Driver Jim pulled up, the shuttle was completely empty, so Fernando climbed in and rode shotgun. Cool Driver Jim started telling Fernando about his day, and it was like they shared a series of moments.

The series of moments ended when he swung by the airport and six other people joined the party. Upon reaching the hotel, Fernando exited the van, gave Cool Driver Jim a five dollar tip, shook his hand, and said to him, “You know, I never caught your name, and we've been calling you Jim all weekend.”

“It's Josè.”

“Thanks, Josè. You're a king among men.”

Josè laughed. “I'll see you tomorrow again?”

“Maybe so. I definitely hope so. Have a good night, man.” Fernando entered the hotel and trudged up the stairs to the room he shared with Ronaldo and Teodor, and he did indeed hold to the hope that some year down the road he would share in Cool Driver Jim...no, Josè's company once again.

But, alas, it would not be tomorrow. The adventure drew to its inevitable close.

Bless Me

One day Fernando rests upon his throne and looks out his viewing portal at the great wide world surrounding the Dominion. Across the street, a backhoe which has sat half-buried in a hole for the last two weeks continues sitting. Traffic passes, trucks and semis and sedans. A young man walks along the sidewalk.

Wait, a man walking along the sidewalk? That doesn't happen in Saladolsa, not ever. Or in America, for that matter. And he....Fernando leans forward in his seat and squints to get a better view. The young man wears a checkered, button-up shirt. A navy blue satchel is slung over his shoulder. And his hair....

Fernando leans back in his chair, eyes wide, and looks around his office in shock. The Aryan!

He immediately changes the subject in a conversation he has with his e-companion, Lucretia. “The godmongers are in town! One of them's across the street. What should I do if it comes in? I need a character.”

The Aryan has by this point stopped before the insurance place across the street from the Dominion. He peers through the business's window, then turns the doorknob and lets himself in. Fernando hastily appends to his chat, “Oh yes, he's entering businesses. Just slithered into the insurance place across the street.”

Lucretia answers, “Oh boy. Break out the Russian mobster guy.”

Mobster guy...? Nicolai! There's a name and a face that Fernando does not consider too often. His memories of that man are still...quite fuzzy. Break him out, though? Of where, jail? Was he in some kind of legal trouble? Fernando much prefers not to engage in felonious conduct, if he can at all avoid it.

He also posits his question to others present in the internet world. Cortez responds with a vote for Vinny. Vinny is an asshole. He shit Lorenzo's bed and needs to get his ass kicked. Vinny's pad, though, is a sprawling and chaotic deathtrap. The last time Lorenzo and his posse visited, they would up trapped on another plane of existence entirely.

Vinny is a dick, and Nicolai had tallied more votes by the end of election season. There may have been some stuffing of the ballot box, but that's democracy for you.

As Fernando prepared the tools needed to break out this character from his long absence, the chimes over his door tinkle. A young lady enters, with mousy brown hair and slightly crooked front teeth. She wears a sensible blue cardigan over a white button shirt with a plaid skirt. She bears a satchel identical to The Aryan's, from which publications and papers and pamphlets protrude. “Hi!” she chirps.

“Hello,” Fernando says. His voice is a strange half-gargle, like he is trying to do a bad Slavic accent. This was not as it was meant to be! The Aryan was to have paid Fernando a visit for Round Two! Now he has to converse with a woman? Madness!

Fernando plays it cool and clears his throat. “How can I help you?” he asks, smiling.

“My name is Elizabeth, and I'm visiting everyone here in town to ask if they would like to donate any money to a missionary nurse program.” She rifles through her satchel and withdraws a stack of five books. She does not extend any of them Fernando's way, nor make an immediate sales play. “It's so strange that you own a video store here, in a town this small. How many people are there here again?”

Hmm. Either she was lucky in her guess, or she had been briefed at some juncture on Fernando's existence and credentials. Rather than being a contrary fucker as with The Aryan or Mad Cultist in earlier years, Fernando opted to treat this visitor like a customer. He's never done that with the godmongers.“Oh, around four hundred,” he says, tilting his gaze upwards and to the side. A sizable Guardian Spider lingers in a corner of the office. “Maybe a few dozen more if you count the suburbs.”

Elizabeth laughs. It sounds almost, but not quite, genuine. “So I have a question for you.”

“I may have an answer.”

Now she fishes out one of her tomes, a spiral-bound cheap piece of shit that purports to be a cookbook, the same title which The Aryan bore last year. It made claims of “hearty homecooked meals in minutes.” She places it in Fernando's hands. He opens it to the table of contents, as he had given up on his oxygenarian lifestyle shortly after taking it up last year. He has no willpower.

And, mmm, what a collection of culinary masterpieces. Macaroni and cheese. And meatloaf. Oh, blueberry pie and breaded pork chops. Truly Jacques Pépin would be hard-pressed to match this caliber of comestibles.

“Would you consider yourself to be more the cook or more the eater?” she asks Fernando as he browses the cookbook.

The Keeper arches an eyebrow. “I am of the belief that you can't be one without also being the other.”

Elizabeth laughs again. “Surely you must favor one over the other.”

Fernando shrugs. “I switch it up. Keeps things from getting too stale.” He places the book face-down upon his counter.

Elizabeth smiles and looks Fernando in the eyes. Fernando smiles back. After around five seconds, his visitor tells him, “You seem like you're really intelligent.”

“Well, that depends on how we define intelligence. It takes all sorts and styles of knowledge to truly be considered all-knowing.”

“Are you a Christian, by chance?”

“Afraid not.”

“Catholic?” Weird. Fernando had always assumed the latter to be a subset of the former.

“Sorry, no.”

Elizabeth's smile grows wider, and her voice pitches up a quarter-octave and takes on a guttural undertone, as though her throat did not want to allow the following word to pass her chords unobstructed. “Atheist?”

“Atheism is too strong a position for me to take.”

Her body relaxes a little. “Agnostic?”

“No, I believe that there exists some all-encompassing purpose behind things.”

Her lip quirks. “Skeptic?”

That's a new one. “About most things, yes. Proof ought to be had before conclusions are made, on any topic.”

Elizabeth gives a little sigh and shakes her head from side to side. “I give up. What are you then? Buddhist?”

“All of the above. I live by my own set strictures and rules and don't believe it is ethical for me to use them to unduly impact the lives of others.”

“Oh, it seems like you're a very moral person who seems to put a lot of stock into logic and thought,” she murmurs, withdrawing another book. “This is a book of philosophy and aphorisms, and the history of all kinds of moral and religious movements. It will change the way you look at the world, I promise.”

No doubt, since the book's subtitle makes note of freedom having been under attack through the ages.

Fernando takes the book from her, then immediately sets it down. “Ah, there's the rub. I also believe in quid pro quo in my moral dealings with others.”

Elizabeth smiles at Fernando. “'There's the rub,' that's from Hamlet. Did you quote Shakespeare on purpose to me?”

“I hadn't planned on it, but great minds sometimes do think alike.”

Here Elizabeth begins to quote that particular soliloquy at Fernando. Sling, arrows, misfortune, dying and sleep, the rub, all of it up until the shuffling off from the mortal coil. It's certainly more Hamlet than Fernando had ever bothered to memorize. “Well done!” he says, and genuinely.

“Do you do a lot of reading?” she asks after giving a small curtsy.

Fernando has fielded this question previously and has a canned response on hand: “Indeed so. Roughly equal parts fantasy and nonfiction.”

She withdraws a third book. This one has a placid scene of some tropical paradise emblazoned on the cover, a stereotyped palm tree-at-sunset, waves-washing-on-the-beach image. “Here is another book. It has a number of stories, both real ones and fiction. They're great for relieving all the stress in your life. Surely you must have a lot of it, running your own business.” She flips it over and puts it in Fernando's hands, then slides her finger across the cover to the barcode and price on the back. “As you can see, it is normally priced at nearly thirty dollars, but really anything you can give would be appreciated so very much. Most people give somewhere between twenty and twenty-five dollars for this.”

“Well, truth be told, I'm feeling pretty good about my life right now,” Fernando says, adding this third book to the growing pyramid. And this is true, for later that selfsame week Fernando would embark on an excursion to magical, faraway lands, one which had been planned into his life-schedule since February.

“Everyone runs through rough patches.”

“This is true. But, I feel adequately equipped to parse them through on my own should they arise, or perhaps with the help of my friends.”

Elizabeth's smile falters now, and Fernando sees the merest hint of desperation in her eyes. She hands over one of the two remaining pamphlets in her hands. “Would you like a prayer book? Really, any donation at all is appreciated.”

“I'm sorry. I don't have my wallet on hand here, and I can't take anything from the till. You understand.” Fernando makes an internal promise to provide a burnt sacrifice of amendment to Gord the Lawgiver as penance for his lie. Though, in Fernando's defense, his wallet was not immediately on hand; it rested in his back room, upon his comfy futon.

Now she hands over the last item in her grasp, a feeble postcard with a generic Christian blessing/greeting writ upon its front. The postage is not even paid. “A postcard, then? Even a dollar in loose change could help me with my program.”

“No, I'm sorry.” Fernando uses the postcard as the capstone of the architectural masterpiece of glossy, pulped wood.

Elizabeth shovels the stack back into her arms, holding it against her chest. “In that case, thank you for your time. May God bless you.” She makes the sign of the cross in midair with her free hand, then sweeps that arm wide. “Jesus will return soon, in His Second Coming! I don't know exactly when it will be, but all of the signs are here!” Her rapture swells, as does the volume of her voice, as she passes her edict down upon Fernando. “I will pray for you, that you will find the path to salvation before it is too late.” Then she turns and leaves.

Fernando stands behind his counter for a moment or two after she departs, then returns to his seat. That went much better than expected. Nicolai didn't even need to make an appearance.

One thing, though: isn't Find the Path a druidic spell? Methinks somebody is flirting a little too closely with paganism!

Suggestion

A strange man enters the store one bright afternoon. It is a Wednesday, and quite possibly he visits Saladolsa to attend the music festival which is slated to begin the following evening. “Hey, what's a good movie?”

Fernando provides the exact same sequence of words he always does when someone asks him that question without greater specificity. “Depends what you're looking for. Action, comedy, horror...?”

When Fernando trails off, it is meant as a rhetorical tool to encourage the listener to continue mulling through film genres and styles internally, to perhaps come to a conclusion which can then be shared with Fernando so that the Keeper can try to do his job by using his expertise to guide his customer to an appropriate title. When the man pauses the conversation, Fernando assumes he is mulling over things of that nature.

Instead, when he speaks again half a minute later, his tone is somewhat confrontational, dare Fernando say offended. “Is that seriously all that you got?”

Fernando had not planned on being a pedant and holding the man's intellectual hand any longer than necessary, but it seems he has no choice. Enter the snark. “No, I also have other genres available. Musicals, dramas, westerns, kids and--”

The man interjects, “Okay, I get it.”

“--family films, sci-fi, war, oh, okay, good.” Fernando stows away his staff of snide words and retrieves his carrot. “Good is incredibly subjective. I don't want to recommend, say, Last Exorcism 2 if you think exorcism flicks are a waste of your time and money. If I did that, you would be less likely to take to heart anything I suggest later, because I'd been wrong before. So, what do you like to watch, and we'll go from there.”

The man mentions Taken and Taken 2 as movies he'd recently seen which he really enjoys, so Fernando points out the existence of Snitch with Dwayne “No Longer The Rock” Johnson. The man reads the back of the case and it seems good enough, for he selects the tag and brings it to the counter.

He doesn't even throw a conniption over setting up the account, and the movie is in the drop box when Fernando arrives at the store the following morning.

Imaginary Karma

One Friday afternoon the skies have opened in a cacophony of static bliss and rainfall. Fernando sits in his office at around quarter after one, nursing a cup of coffee. He needs to buy more creamer, as he just used the last of it in the current cup.

As he sips, someone knocks at the door. It is not a polite, regular knock, but instead one which is staccato and brutally insistent, of a like quality as if someone with the exact opposite talents of Dave Grohl had taken up drumming and chose plate glass as the percussive medium. Fernando ignores it, hoping that it will go away.

Alas, the knocking migrates from the front door to the office windows. Fernando's body is doubtless visible to anyone peeking in under the drawn blinds and he would rather face his problems head-on over hiding from them, so he swings his chair around with a resigned sigh and heads to the door to investigate. It could perhaps be one of the cultists who pass through the area around this time of year, though Fernando doubts they have the spiritual dedication necessary to peddle their theological wares in a thunderstorm.

But, no, a tanned, middle-aged man waits there, one who has never visited the store. Fernando pops open the door and leans against the metal frame. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I want to rent movies,” the man says. His eyes are intent and locked on the store's interior beyond Fernando, and he takes a step towards the Dominion.

Under other circumstances, Fernando might have welcomed the wanderer inside the store's walls, as Fernando does much enjoy earning income off the leasing of his properties, but today he does not budge. Spite and ire have taken root and Fernando is having none of it. “I'm sorry, I'm not open yet.”

“The hell, you're here.”

“Yes, but the store is not yet open. It opens at two.”

“What time is it now?”

“About quarter, twenty after one.”

“So if I come back in about half an hour, you'll be open.”

“If you come back at two, I'll be open.”

The man either does not hear or chooses to disregard Fernando's clarification, but the important thing is that he backs away and Fernando is able to retreat into the dark, comforting embrace of an empty store for a while longer. He does not depart, no, but instead chooses to wait inside his vehicle, which sits out in the parking lot.

Approximately half an hour later, at 1:48, Fernando relates the earlier portions of this very tale to one of his companions via the marvels of the internet. Suddenly, someone pulls at the door. Not a gentle tug, no, but a righteous heave the likes of which have not rattled the office's movie shelves in nearly five years. But the Dominion's hymen holds fast, and the invader is denied.

This flusters the mystery guest, who says to himself (loudly enough that Fernando can make out the words through the wall), “This asshole, tells me to come back in half an hour....” Then Fernando hears a car door slam. An engine starts up and revs a few times, and the vehicle pulls out with a defiant and monstrous roar.

Moments later, Fernando hears the piercing shriek of a cop dude's siren from somewhere off to the Dominion's right, perhaps from the lands claimed by Sweaty Bill or Lint's Gas. Its scream lowers in pitch and recedes into the distance. Fernando heads to the front door to check out what is happening, but Cop Dude has vanished around the bend in the highway by the time he reaches his destination.

Fernando chooses to believe Cop Dude was upset at Fernando's untimely visitor for throwing a tantrum and making a loud nuisance of himself when he did not get his way. It is a rewarding untruth, one that leaves Fernando clinging to the hope that justice does exist in some fashion in the world.

Transfer of Ownership

A guy comes into the store one Saturday. The weather is, for a change, not a brutally hot and muggy oven, but instead a nice high-70s, low-80s breezy summer afternoon. Fernando does not recognize him, but the dude seems to know what he is doing, for he marches into the welcome foyer and immediately turns to face Fernando.

The strange man slumps down on the countertop. He's a stocky bloke with a Ron Jeremy-esque mustache decorating his top lip, and when he speaks he reveals to all the world that he falls squarely into the boisterous fat guy category. “Hey, old timer!” he booms at Fernando, who sits about ten feet away.

This even though the gentleman looked to be at least twenty years Fernando's senior.

“Hello. What can I do for you?”

The man scratches at a jowl. “Yeah, I've got a free rental here.”

“Interesting. Can I get your name?”

“Yeah, it's under Kosovo Waterloo.”

Fernando recognizes that name, as it's one of his regular customers. “If it's under him, then why do you say that you have a free rental here?”

“He told me that I could use it.”

“Well, that's awfully genial of him. But I'm afraid I can't do that, not unless you have some proof besides.”

“What, you don't believe me?”

“It's not that I disbelieve you so much as that I am quite hesitant to let people use other peoples' duly earned rewards on nothing more than a say-so. If you had a free rental coming, would you like it if the man in charge of keeping track of it let someone else use it merely on his say-so?”

“Yeah, if I told him that he could.”

“But how would I know that you told him?”

“He'd tell you.”

“If I told you that someone you know said that you would hand over the keys and ownership papers to your house to me, would you do it?”

“Nobody told you that.”

Here Fernando realizes he would be trapped in endless stalemate if he continued his argument, so he cuts short the conversation and puts his foot down. “I'm sorry. I can't do what you ask.”

The strange man heaves back up and walks out.

Turtlefoot V: A Dark Race Becomes Magnificant

Fifteen minutes after Fernando dealt with the lady who argued Fernando should pay her and advertise for them, the phone rings again. The caller ID on this one?

Turtlefoot Enterprises!

Fernando rises from his seat with a curious flourish, leaving the empty chair spinning for a few moments as he crosses the room. Who would converse with him today? Kevin, salesman supreme? Sultry-voiced Kuwait? Nepal, the happiest woman on earth?

Giddy with excitement, Fernando picks up the phone. “Hello, Dominion of Movies.”

“Hi, is this Fernando?” The speaker is neither Kuwait nor Nepal, but a third woman. He picks up the barest hint of a Hispanic accent on the way she enunciates her vowels.

“Indeed so.”

“Fernando, my name is Madagascar, and I'm calling from Turtlefoot Enterprises. We have made some small changes here since the last time you spoke with a representative and I'd to go over a few of them with you right now. We have streamlined our systems to make it more appealing to smaller operations such as yours.”

“I'm happy for you. Do you still maintain the requirement that I spend about three thousand dollars on PoS software kept hooked into your system, whereby you can track my cash flow and skim a fraction of every transaction?”

This questions flusters Madagascar. “Many of our customers are quite happy with the simplicity our system provides. There is no hassle on your end, and we can provide assistance in helping you get that set up.”

“Is there still also an operations fee? Because it seems silly to pay you extra money so you can ensure you're taking my money.”

“Turtlefoot Enterprises has no control over how the software provider--”

“So yes. I'm sorry, an agreement between our respective businesses is not in the cards on this day. You're welcome to try again later. Things change.”

A pause. Then Madagascar says, “Oh, well, we'll be in touch. Have a good day.” She sounds relieved, perhaps because Fernando provided an invitation for another of Turtlefoot's sterling salesfolk to contact Fernando down the road.

That's fine. It makes for good stories.

A Matter of Perspective

The July 4^th weekend and its various exhibitions of jingoistic fervor have come underway, and this brings a surprising number of outsiders through the area. Some are sad and accursed souls who are forced to seek lodging in the area when the sun goes down and the kamikaze deer begin their migrations. Others are a peculiar stripe of masochist which seeks out the lands and celebrations around Saladolsa for amusement and camping.

A white truck pulls into the Dominion's parking lot one day. A man who looks to be in his fifties and a slightly younger woman, probably his wife, clamber out and cross the burning wasteland of asphalt to seek refuge inside the store's air conditioned walls.

“Hey, if we're not from the area, will you rent to us?” asks the man in a raspy voice.

“If you've got a local place at which you're staying and are willing to fill out a member application, absolutely.”

“Well, all I got for my local credentials is this, if that's good enough for you.” The man pulls out a folded sheet of paper from his pants pocket and places it on the countertop. Feranando rises and takes a look at it.

A cursory inspection reveals that the paper is essentially a hall pass which has been given by the man's probation officer which has writ upon it an address for a campground in Norbert, which lies ten or so miles beyond Zail-Kanzin.

“I'll just need to see your driver's license, but this is good enough for me,” Fernando tells him. The man produces the license, Fernando completes the appropriate paperwork and gives his memorized rundown of how the store operates, and the man and his wife select two movies to take home for the evening.

Why rent to the dude? Four reasons. The out-of-state jackasses who Fernando has encountered before do not have any bearing on the quality of character of any other out-of-state person, and why be a stereotypical close-minded small town jerk upon such shoddy reasoning? A guy who is umbilically linked to a probation officer will not do anything irrational like jeopardizing his status by running off with some rental movies, and Fernando would be guaranteed a positive resolution because the legal system already has its eyes on our hypothetical sneak-thief. The man was up-front and unapologetic about the probationary swamp miring him and willing to place responsibility for adjudging his character upon Fernando without simpering pretense or facile apology.

Finally, Fernando likes to make money, and that doesn't happen by arbitrarily turning away customers. He rents to other lawbreakers all the time.

In a Way It's Fitting, Really

A lady who hadn't come to the store in at least two years enters and asks to rent Identity Thief. Fernando does not have any copies in at the moment, but he gives her the song and dance he always does about holding movies and phone calls and assorted other similar trappings. She feels this is a fine idea and gives Fernando a cell number. It has an outlandish area code and the first three digits of the local number are also ones not found on area cell phones.

“That's my friend's. My phone is out of order right now,” she says.

“Oh...okay,” says Fernando, who doesn't really care one way or the other as long as her plan for him to get in touch with her works.

Time passes, a customer returns Identity Thief, and Fernando makes the phone call.

-Ring ring ring-

“Hello?” It is a man's voice.

“Hi, this is Fernando calling from the Dominion of Movies. I just wanted to let you know Identity Thief was back in--”

“Where? I didn't want anything held. Who is this?” Fernando can't place the accent—it's definitely American, but it is not any with which he is immediately familiar.

“--so....Fernando Stevens, calling from the Dominion of Movies in Salasolda. And no, no you did not. But Bhutan Lecithin came in earlier and asked me to call you on her behalf--”

“I got nothing to do with her anymore.” The man sounds perturbed, his voice a crackly growl.

“Oh. Then I am at a bit of an impasse.”

“Guess so. Have a good one.” The strange man hangs up.

Bhutan never came in to pick up Identity Thief.