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On the Shelf: |
Behind the Counter: |
This Week's Special:
Henchpeople caught a secret
agent sneaking around the volcano lair on Friday night, which was not a good
time. Dr Woke was in
between evil plots but super-villainy is a perpetual grind. Usually early to
bed and early to rise, Dr Woke was still awake (ha!) courtesy of Samuel’s Gorge
2023 Mourvèdre. Once secret agent was chained above tank of groupers, it was
technically Saturday and Dr Woke was on the beers.
Dr Woke lost notes in his
pockets, so he had to improvise: 'Well... you... yukon stop me this time...
you... With your feet'nt yaw walking. 'lways take your time at the crossing,
whadonchoo. Got shit to do. So I'm arma make shoes. Every-in move faster. Just
Do It, amiright? Yeah, that's is good one.'
The secret agent responded:
'Your ego got the better of you, Dr Woke. I just tricked you into revealing
your nefarious secrets!'
The secret agent was pulled up
by AI powered bootstraps and he escaped from chains and lair.
'Hmph, fuck.' Swaying, Dr Woke
looked at beer in hand. 'Aright, arma hit the sack, wank out these carbs.'
The secret agent reports to
his superiors in the Straight White Cis Male network's intelligence services. Malcolm intends to
pre-empt Dr Woke's Social-Justice-War-Crimes and so orders engineers to develop
the shoes described. The Crossing Shoes are brandless, non-descript red. They
detect when wearer is crossing the road and flash them across with one electric
step.
Dr Woke's plot will never
eventuate because you were paying attention. Malcolm will come to sell the
Crossing Shoes to someone with an eye for magical fashion. This someone may
dislike the social fracas which road-crossing can become or, more likely, just
want to show off.
That market is Esmerelda.
As Esmeralda is an
upper-middle class white fem-profesh, we may deduce three things. First, she
cares about the environment. Second, she doubles snarling down when anybody
accuses her of cultural appropriation.
Third, she dabbles in the esoteric - unlike most, Esmeralda successfully
charges her crystals.
These factors converge in a
product that Esmeralda will craft on order, if payment can give her a fuck. She
can evoke voodoo-doll magic and write the client's enemy's name on reusable
coffee cup whilst scrolling target's narcissistic Instagram. The Reusable
Coffee Cup of Revenge can be taken to environmentally-conscious cafes and
refilled, again and again. Doing so transfers, instantaneous, any
caffeine-induced bowel movements to the individual named on the cup.
Caveats limit this product's
market. The coffee must be black and cannot be sweetened with sugar or stevia's
ilk. (For reasons unknown, the exception to this rule is date syrup.) Also,
grabbing coffee with nemesis could be awkward if they spot their name on
somebody else's cup. Conversely, if there is mix-up, if heavens perfectly
align, a nemesis may inflict bowel movement on themselves and, maybe, all the
risks are worth it if this infinite-loops impact to bowels.
That market is Yvette.
Yvette was emptying
bins into wheelie-bin when she overheard:
'It's some sigma-male cringe.
It's anti-social.'
'I contest that. Cold showers
are uncomfortable and therefore brief. They save water, and time that can be
used socialising.'
'But what if someone joins
you? Surely you don't want that to be brief?'
'That's fucking in the shower,
not showering. Once both parties are satisfied, they both still have to clean.
And water is bad lubricant. And, eh, can we help you?'
Yvette, caught eavesdropping,
smiles: 'No, but I can help you.' before moving onto next bin.
Because Yvette is a sex
goddess, a side-hustling performer of divine interventions in
bedroom/dungeon/handicapped toilet. With promises of greater satisfaction,
Yvette acquires test subjects for trial-and-error. She consults with all manner
of STEM. Yvette develops
instruction manual for the Sudsy Sally.
The Sudsy Sally, actually
triplicate of positions, props soap within bodies' grinding to clean both
parties to fucking. The manual includes variations accommodating different body
types, queer couplings and shower parameters. Yvette only produces the one copy
because markets love a scarcity and printing is expensive. The market for the
Sudsy Sally is a couple, or someone looking to couple, rather horny but wary of
time.
That
market is Shane and Janessa.
Shane and Janessa
continued to expand - a beer garden, a kitchen, a relative concocting gin under
spin-off brand. Their blog is still woeful, so that is one thing I have
over them. They do (unwittingly) have a small but lucrative livestream
following amongst various gods of beer and/or brewing. Said celestial drinking hall once granted them
a boon, of which they may have a carton or two left.
There is no image more
wholesome than grown man skipping with carton of beer on his shoulder. The
initial release of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA confirmed this. Merely skipping with carton spreads good vibes by
product association, but drinking is usually necessary for skipping. A certain
element of ambiguous markets glommed onto wholesomeness.
Skipping hits the
perambulation sweet spot of ne'er-do-'ells between criminal points A and B.
Walking is too slow but running invites suspicion. Anyone who briefly glimpses
man skipping against traffic will forget to consult
their dash cam. Skipping burns of the calories of beer and alcohol fortifies
confidence over the shorter journey.
That market is Malcolm.
