A Fitting End

Predator Press

[LOBO]

“I’m not sure,” says the snooty salesman, “that I understand the problem, sir.”

-The sarcasm behind that ‘sir’ shoots through me like a lightning bolt.

Asshole.

Sensing a confrontation, I take a deep, calming breath. “The label on these bedsheets claim a 1,500 thread count.”

The clerk tilts his head back to eye the merchandise through the rimless glasses on the tip of his nose.

“Indeed,” he agrees.

“Well, there’s at least eight centimeters that barely added up to 1,470. One only had 1,431!”

Puzzled, the skinny man stroked his short beard in thought. “So you want to exchange them?”

“Damn right I do. And don’t bring me any of this shoddy Egyptian cotton crap either. Bring me something of American quality.”

“The same thread count?”

“Do you have anything in 10 to 25? It’s been really hard to get to sleep at a decent hour.”