The interior of the Cockamamie Subterrany Miscellany was a carnival of chaos. Rubber chickens dangled from hooks on the ceiling, their beady eyes seeming to follow the troupe as they entered. Shelves groaned under the weight of whoopee cushions, fake moustaches, hand buzzers, oversized novelty spoons, and items whose purposes defied rational explanation.
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Behind the counter stood a peculiar figure—a Tightee shopkeeper with an elaborate moustache that curled at the ends like a villain from a penny dreadful. They wore a velvet waistcoat adorned with pins shaped like tiny laughing faces, and their expression suggested someone who took their frivolous merchandise very seriously indeed.
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Tim glanced around the shop, armour clinking softly. "This place is something else," they muttered to their companions. "We'll split up, that way we can cover more of this junk!"
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The shopkeeper's moustache twitched indignantly. "Hey, this is my life's work?"
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"Maybe you should have chose a better calling." Tim replied.​
