There Is An Occult Store Near The Seattle Underground Where You Must Never, Ever Go. And Here’s Why.
“I’ll throw in a crematorium black lipstick if you got cash. Each stick has an ounce of real ash.”
“$65, no more.”
Tad split quick glances between Goth-mo and the front door. “Really? Ok, ok.”
Tad slid his hand across the table, leaving it upturned on the other side, as if hiding the act from a surveillance camera that didn’t exist. Goth-mo, turned away to count out bills inside his wallet.
He stuffed a wad into Tad’s open hand as Tad passed him the plastic bag of merchandise and commanded, “Go. Now!”
Goth-mo beamed as he rushed to the door.
Another satisfied customer, Tad thought as he opened the cash register, tossed in a five-dollar bill and pocketed the rest. He bent down and grabbed a shrunken head from a pile in a box marked “made in China – real goat skin” and peeled off the five-dollar price tag, placing it on top of the pile where the “Valet” once sat.
Fleecing the freak patrons was the only thing that brought Tad joy anymore. Keeping Seattle weird was the reason he packed up his Bass guitar and rushed out to the Northwest, a few months too late to meet Cobain, just before grunge died. The move and even this job at W.W.W. was a way to break out of the monotony of living, but what had once seemed so different was all so mundane now.
Occult clients were more worried about seeing each other naked in a spell circle than any real “practice” and the “weirdness” he sought now seemed like a uniform rule. You went out of your way to look different rather than looking different because that is who are. Wannabe fashion weirdos deserved what they got.
When the door opened, Tad sighed as it vomited forth another in a long line of patrons who shopped from the Anne Rice fall catalog, head to toe in black, topped with a paisley brocade tailcoat. Tad admonished himself for even knowing the term “paisley brocade tailcoat.”
Tad’s interest piqued, however, at the sight of the black inked rune tattoos rolling down this new patron’s neck from his black bowler hat to the open collar circling his throat.
Obviously, this guy was the type that went “all in.” This was no simple purchase on Mom’s Amazon Prime account. No, this guy believed in something and, by his intense searching of shelves, Tad could tell that he was in dire need.
“Hey buddy, whatcha looking for?” Tad inquired.
The man turned, looking at him with unmistakable disapproval.
Tad swallowed an urge to fling forth a few sarcastic arrows at the patron, as was his propensity when he felt slighted. Instead he took in a deep breath, counted to five and said, “Uh… how can I help you, sir?”
A moment of uncomfortable silence ticked by; Tad fought the urge to fill it.