Four days of running a comic shop has taught exactly one thing: I have no idea what I'm doing.
Eighteen custors total. Eleven sales. Two hundred and fourteen dollars in revenue. Sixty-two boxes of Iron Fist comics still taking up half my floor space.
And a splitting headache that won't go away.
The tingles are getting worse. More frequent. Yesterday I had three of them in two hours—each one bringing these weird flashes of knowledge about comics, about prices, about things that haven't happened yet. This morning I woke up knowing that The Walking Dead #1 is coming out next month and it's going to be massive.
I don't even like zombie comics.
The worst part? I can't tell if this is a gift or a brain tumor.
I'm reorganizing the clearance rack for the third ti this week when the bell chis. A tall, thin guy in a Green Lantern t-shirt walks in. He's got sharp features, a precise way of moving, and he's completely ignoring every comic in the store.
"Excuse ." His voice is formal, almost robotic. "I require access to your facilities."
I blink. "My... facilities?"
"Your restroom." He produces a clipboard from sowhere. An actual clipboard, with a printed form attached. "I must complete a hygienic assessnt before determining if this establishnt ets my standards for regular patronage."
What.
"You want to... inspect my bathroom?"
"Indeed." He adjusts his position slightly, like he's settling in for a lecture. "The state of a business's facilities directly correlates to its overall operational standards. Cleanliness, attention to detail, and bacterial managent are all indicators of—"
"You know what?" I'm too tired for this. "Sure. Bathroom's in the back."
He follows , clipboard raised like a shield. I flip on the light in the tiny bathroom—and I an tiny, barely bigger than a closet—and step aside.
"I'll need approximately eight minutes for a thorough evaluation," he says, dead serious.
"Take your ti."
I retreat to the counter and try not to think about what, exactly, is being evaluated back there. A custor is a custor, even if they're weird as hell.
The store stays empty. I reorganize the new releases shelf again. Consider and reject the idea of eating the granola bar that's been in my pocket since yesterday. Watch a woman walk past the window, glance at my Iron Fist display, and keep walking.
This is my life now.
Eight minutes later—exactly eight minutes, I check—the guy erges with his clipboard.
"I have completed my assessnt." He sets the clipboard on my counter with ceremony. "Your facilities receive a rating of 8.0 out of 10."
The form is incredibly detailed. There are sections for "SOAP DISPENSER HEIGHT RELATIVE TO OPTIMAL ARM EXTENSION" and "TOILET PAPER ORIENTATION (OVER VS. UNDER)" and sothing called "AMBIENT BACTERIAL PROBABILITY INDEX."
He's docked points for generic soap brand and fluorescent lighting frequency.
"I... okay?" I don't know what else to say. "Thank you for the feedback?"
"You're welco." And then, like this whole bathroom inspection thing was totally normal, he turns to actually look at the comics. "Now. Do you carry the complete Justice League collection?"
His eyes scan the shelves with the intensity of a laser sight. He moves through my limited inventory like he's cataloging every single issue.
"I have so Justice League," I say carefully. "But it's not complete. I'm still building up stock."
"Hmm." He picks up a copy of Action Comics, examines the corners, checks the spine, holds it up to the light. "Acceptable condition. What is your policy on comic preservation? Do you store inventory in climate-controlled environnt with humidity regulation?"
"I, uh... I keep them away from the window?"
Wrong answer. His expression suggests I've just admitted to storing priceless artifacts in a damp basent.
"Suboptimal." He sets down the Action Comics and picks up Batman. "However, your organizational system is adequate. Alphabetical by title, chronological within series. This suggests attention to detail."
The weird thing? I'm getting used to him. His precise speech pattern. The way he evaluates everything like he's conducting a scientific experint. It should be annoying, but instead it's almost... comforting?
Why does he feel familiar?
That tingle hits again. Harder this ti. I grip the counter edge and breathe through it.
Images flash: this guy, older, in different clothes. A living room I've never seen but sohow recognize. A group of people laughing. Comic shop Wednesday nights. His voice saying "Bazinga" even though that's not a real word.
What the hell is happening to my brain?
"Are you experiencing distress?" The guy is staring at with concern that seems oddly genuine. "Your pupils are dilated and you've developed a thin layer of perspiration on your forehead. Should I call ergency services?"
"No, I'm fine. Just... low blood sugar." I straighten up. The tingle fades. "Sorry. It's been a long week."
"Understandable. Small business ownership is statistically stressful." He returns to examining comics. "I'll take these four."
He's selected Justice League #1, Batman #655, Green Lantern #10, and a random issue of The Flash. I ring them up, watching him scrutinize every movent like he's grading my cashier technique.
"When do you receive new shipnts?" he asks, pulling out exact change.
"Every Wednesday."
"Excellent. I will return next Wednesday for new releases." He counts out the bills and change with mathematical precision. "This establishnt is now within my acceptable radius for regular patronage."
"Great." I hand him his bag. "Thanks for shopping here."
He nods once, sharp and formal, and heads for the door. Then stops.
"Also, you should upgrade your soap brand. I recomnd Dr. Bronner's Pure Castile. It's statistically superior in both bacterial elimination and environntal impact."
Before I can respond, another guy sticks his head in the door. He's shorter, wearing glasses, looking apologetic.
"Sheldon, are you done terrorizing the poor comic shop owner?"
"I wasn't terrorizing. I was conducting a legitimate facilities assessnt." The tall guy—Sheldon, apparently—walks past him. "The establishnt received an 8.0. Very acceptable."
The shorter guy gives a tired smile. "Sorry about that. I'm Leonard. Sheldon's... particular about where he shops."
"It's fine." I'm still processing the na. Sheldon. "He seed... thorough."
"That's one word for it." Leonard glances around the shop. "Hey, this place is new, right? I haven't seen it before."
"Opened four days ago."
"Cool. We'll definitely be back. Sheldon approves, which is..." He lowers his voice. "Honestly, it's statistically rare. You should feel honored."
Sheldon. Leonard. Comic shop. Pasadena.
The tingle starts again but I shove it down. Not now. Not in front of custors.
"Well, tell him his soap recomndation is noted."
Leonard grins. "Oh god, he gave you soap advice? Yeah, you're officially in the club now."
They leave together, Sheldon already lecturing about sothing—I catch the words "optimal storage protocols" before the door closes.
I stand there in my empty shop, twenty minutes from closing, with sixty-two boxes of Iron Fist still cluttering my floor and a splitting headache that won't quit.
But I have a regular custor now. Maybe two, if Leonard cos back.
This strange man might beco my first regular custor.
I lock the door at six. Flip the sign to CLOSED. Sit on the floor behind the counter in the dim light and let myself think about what just happened.
Sheldon and Leonard. Those nas an sothing. The way they interacted, the physics references, the apartnt building I glimpsed in that flash—
I know them.
Not personally. Not from Stuart's mories. From sowhere else. So other knowledge that shouldn't exist.
The void gave these tingles, these flashes of impossible information. Comic book prices that haven't happened yet. People I've never t but sohow recognize.
I pull out the notebook I've been keeping hidden under the register. Three pages of scribbled notes. Prices. Dates. Nas. Things I "rember" that make no sense.
Bitcoin, I wrote two days ago, during a particularly strong tingle. $0.05 per coin. Buy as much as possible.
I don't even know what Bitcoin is.
On the next page: Apple stock. $12.69. iPhone announcent coming.
And below that, in handwriting that looks increasingly frantic: Why do I know this? What happened to ?
The fluorescent lights buzz. Sowhere outside, a car alarm goes off. I sit in my tiny comic shop, surrounded by boxes of comics I bought by "accident," and I wonder if dying was the worst thing that ever happened to .
Or the best.
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