Disguise Shop

Lockor constantly sweated. No fan, just burly heat – hovering. He’d whip around, though, to no one. Nothing. This wasn’t a problem - maybe he had a few pounds and some time to sweat away. The oil painting of the Stabbed Jester suspiciously overlooked him.

Daylight again. Loud, chest-heaving joggers semi-zoom below, down the street in out-of-shape fury. “Lucky devils, no care in the world for them,” thought Lockor. Just – get in shape, go to mass, procreate, celebrate birthdays, etc. Piece o’cake. Side-note: “Piece o’cake?” Who made it Irish?

So, yes. Daylight. The Jester still hanging, suspicious. Lockor trying, wincing, frustrated – Lockor wishing he could figure it out. Slapping his right palm on the green of the desk, slap! “What the hell…oh, what the hell can I get for little Mr. Gobble? Birthdays – such a stressor. I don’t know… a ball of fancy Lebanese string? An armpit sex-toy?
A drinking bowl flashing neon-blinking “Cat”?

Lockor can brainstorm as much as he wants, but his desire to do the right thing will not cancel this fact – Whatever present he gets for his pet, Mr. Gobble; no matter how much stress Lockor undertakes, the cat will love the present. Love it.

As this realization hits Lockor’s head, so does another…. he’s late for work at the Disguise Shop. Disguise zealots neighborhood-wide must be served.