Flag-bearing Benjer left the wingnut factory early that day, holding a pair of playing cards in his hand (and a little bit of insecurity in his heart). The streets were dark, and he made his way home with the help of a tiny little electric torch that he held between his teeth. Holding it in his teeth was his only option, you see, for his free hand was needed for swatting away the little blood-sucking drones that swarmed around his head.
There are always a few blood-sucking drones swarming around one's head, now, aren't there, poopsie-doodle? Sure there are.
The electric torch led our dear Benjer down a side street that he had not expected to traverse, and with great alarm, he watched rather passively and with horror as the torch led him through a tiny little door and into a dark, dusty shop that smelled of tamarinds, incense, and garlic.
“Poocha-hee!” exclaimed a small amber-skinned man from behind a counter. “Poocha-hee! You have nice electric torch!”
“I'ng sarry...I gnust av ade a rong urn,” said Benjer, the torch still between his teeth and his free hand still waving at the drones. He stopped waving and took the torch from his teeth. “I'm sorry...I must have made a wrong turn.”
“Kalla-longo! You in right place!” said the amber-skinned man. “You come to right place. I show you what you need!” He scurried out of sight, and into the back room. Benjer occupied himself with looking at a stack of old magazines from Indonesia. In less than a minute the amber-skinned man returned, carrying a dented and dusty cardboard box, no larger than a couple of loaves of bread.
Not bigger than a breadbox, you might be led to say.
“Squabbo!” exclaimed the amber-skinned man. “This what you need!”
He withdrew it from the box. It's surface was pitted, but still fairly shiny.
Benjer looked upon it with some fascination. “I never knew I needed one of THOSE,” he said. “How does it, ummm...how does it work?”
“Squabbo-licious!” said the amber-skinned man. “It no work at all. You just carry it. Just carry in pocket of oversized jacket, and let magic genies do work!”
Benjer frowned, for he had no oversized jacket to call his own. The amber-skinned man saw the sadness in his eyes, and had anticipated just such a reaction.
“Kalla-longo! I have jacket for you,” he said, as he helped Benjer into a dusty, oversized jacket. “You look like million bucks!” said the amber-skinned man, clapping his hands together. “Now to see if it fit in pocket!”
The amber-skinned man reached into the cardboard box again. He removed just what Benjer needed, its pitted but fairly shiny surface reflecting the dim lights of the shop.
“Well, it is quite lovely,” said Benjer, opening up the jacket front to reveal the large interior breast pocket. The amber-skinned man slipped it inside and closed Benjer's jacket. He patted him lightly on the chest and smiled.
“Rolla-rolla! Magic genies now do work. Magic genies keep you safe,” said the amber-skinned man.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Benjer, reaching for his wallet.
The amber-skinned man waved his hand. “You just go. You be careful now. You have big day tomorrow.”
Benjer smiled and bounded out of the shop with a new spring in his step. He began to cross the street and was hit by a speeding truck and killed instantly.