Running the Shop
Willow watched lazily as Tara moved to intercept a customer in
the Magic Shop.
"How much does this fake talisman cost?" Tara called from
behind the shelf.
Willow sighed and drew herself up in her seat, fishing out the
price guide Anya had meticulously written out, then given to Willow
with stern words about the dangers of undercharging.
"Money is the important thing," she'd told Willow frantically
before Xander dragged her off with him. "If you ever even think of
giving someone a discount, think of me in rags! Of the despair I'll
feel when I'm poor and starving in the gutter! Of the vengeance I'll
call down upon you with my dying breath!"
Willow now shrugged her shoulders, disregarding Anya's
hysterical plea in the face of the numbers that swarmed at her from
the pages. "Five dollars," she suggested. Really there were too many
items here to truly search for the fake talisman.
"What a ripoff." The customer groused, storming out.
Tara cast a helpless look at Willow. "I guess I'm not the
best salesperson."
"Don't fret, baby," Willow cooed.
"Willow—I have to go to a luncheon now. Will you be okay by
yourself?"
"I'll make do," Willow replied easily. After Tara left, she
felt boredom creep in. She was in no mood to accomadate the customer
in back who suddenly knocked something off the shelf; Willow winced at
the sound of glass shattering.
"Hey!" she called to the person. "You break it, you buy it!"
The thick Russian man she immediately recognized as Joseph
Stalin emerged, flustered, from the shelves. "It fell over by itself,"
he protested.
"That's twenty bucks," Willow intoned sternly. "And you better
pay up, or I'll call my manager."
Grumbling beneath his breath, Stalin fished in his pockets for
a twenty, then slammed it grumpily onto the desk before Willow. He
continued to glare at her as she rang him up in the cash register.
"Were it still the early 1950s, I could have you killed for
your insolence," he informed her. "You would have died screaming in
agony. I could have gutted you myself."
Willow smiled. There was something strangely endearing about
his manner. "Ah, lighten up, big guy."
Stalin's eyes darkened with a soul-shattering despair. "That
was my last twenty dollars. I'll have to get a real job now."
"Panhandlers make a decent living," Willow suggested, trying
to cheer him up. Yet nothing could sway Joseph Stalin's pock-marked
face into a smile.
"It is beneath my dignity to beg for anything. If I still had
the Soviet Union behind me, I could simply take with a brutal hand
anything I wished, and kill any who opposed me."
"Poor guy," Willow thought; her mind fished around for
something to cheer him up. As he turned to walk sadly out of the shop,
she called, "Wait!"
Stalin glanced back at her.
"E pluribus unum!" Willow called, and suddenly tiny fireworks
went off all about her head.
Stalin clapped in delight, watching with awe all the little
fireworks.
"Thank you—Willow, is it?" He said with a smile. "You have
greatly increased my happiness with your wonderful sleight of hand."
"You're welcome," Willow said warmly.
Stalin left her shop, and Willow was happy to have made a new
friend.
THE END
Willow watched lazily as Tara moved to intercept a customer in
the Magic Shop.
"How much does this fake talisman cost?" Tara called from
behind the shelf.
Willow sighed and drew herself up in her seat, fishing out the
price guide Anya had meticulously written out, then given to Willow
with stern words about the dangers of undercharging.
"Money is the important thing," she'd told Willow frantically
before Xander dragged her off with him. "If you ever even think of
giving someone a discount, think of me in rags! Of the despair I'll
feel when I'm poor and starving in the gutter! Of the vengeance I'll
call down upon you with my dying breath!"
Willow now shrugged her shoulders, disregarding Anya's
hysterical plea in the face of the numbers that swarmed at her from
the pages. "Five dollars," she suggested. Really there were too many
items here to truly search for the fake talisman.
"What a ripoff." The customer groused, storming out.
Tara cast a helpless look at Willow. "I guess I'm not the
best salesperson."
"Don't fret, baby," Willow cooed.
"Willow—I have to go to a luncheon now. Will you be okay by
yourself?"
"I'll make do," Willow replied easily. After Tara left, she
felt boredom creep in. She was in no mood to accomadate the customer
in back who suddenly knocked something off the shelf; Willow winced at
the sound of glass shattering.
"Hey!" she called to the person. "You break it, you buy it!"
The thick Russian man she immediately recognized as Joseph
Stalin emerged, flustered, from the shelves. "It fell over by itself,"
he protested.
"That's twenty bucks," Willow intoned sternly. "And you better
pay up, or I'll call my manager."
Grumbling beneath his breath, Stalin fished in his pockets for
a twenty, then slammed it grumpily onto the desk before Willow. He
continued to glare at her as she rang him up in the cash register.
"Were it still the early 1950s, I could have you killed for
your insolence," he informed her. "You would have died screaming in
agony. I could have gutted you myself."
Willow smiled. There was something strangely endearing about
his manner. "Ah, lighten up, big guy."
Stalin's eyes darkened with a soul-shattering despair. "That
was my last twenty dollars. I'll have to get a real job now."
"Panhandlers make a decent living," Willow suggested, trying
to cheer him up. Yet nothing could sway Joseph Stalin's pock-marked
face into a smile.
"It is beneath my dignity to beg for anything. If I still had
the Soviet Union behind me, I could simply take with a brutal hand
anything I wished, and kill any who opposed me."
"Poor guy," Willow thought; her mind fished around for
something to cheer him up. As he turned to walk sadly out of the shop,
she called, "Wait!"
Stalin glanced back at her.
"E pluribus unum!" Willow called, and suddenly tiny fireworks
went off all about her head.
Stalin clapped in delight, watching with awe all the little
fireworks.
"Thank you—Willow, is it?" He said with a smile. "You have
greatly increased my happiness with your wonderful sleight of hand."
"You're welcome," Willow said warmly.
Stalin left her shop, and Willow was happy to have made a new
friend.
THE END