In a shadowy wisp, a strange blue clad figure swipes Lieutenant Eagle's dull knife.
"Alliance is for chumps," the vagrant stated, half-turning his face toward the victim he had just streaked past, revealing a most devious smirk.
"Hey," complained the lieutenant, who had just figured out what had happened to his pride and joy, "how could you hear that part? It was said out of story context." The brigand's eyes glassed over to this impossible realization. His eyes rolled back, searching deep inside his shallow mind for something, anything that resembled an answer.
"Umm.... I am psychic?" he answered, although it sounded like a question.
"Oh, oka-- no, wait!" But it was too late. He spirited away the dull edge past either of their reach, and neither followed. The more adept goblinoid stared off into the distant dusty wake of the fleeing vagabond, mostly because it looked to him like a fluffy, skybound cloud.
"Heh, it looks like a bear."
"What did you say?"
"Er, I mean," quickly covered up the green guy, "well kid, I think you have learned one thing on your short adventure so far: you suck."
Eagle lowered his head in shame and realization of the truth.
"However, I, the Great Goblin Thief, am here," he boldy stated, stepping forward in a righteous pose and protruding a clenched fist ahead. "And when a master, such as I, and a lowly apprentice to adventuring, such as your sucky self -"
"- kill one another, then nothing can stop us!" His arm went straight into the air at the highpoint of this speech, exploding the background in a pyrotechnic display.
"But, I was just here," argued the blue clad vagrant. "Don't you recognize me?"
"I think I would remember if you were in here," the shopkeep told, surveying the cerulean-skinned creature standing before him, "ever. At any rate, I highly doubt we just sold you that knife."
"Oh, so just because the knife is a little dull," increasingly screamed the amphibious one, delibrately trying to cause a scene, "and rusty, you assume that it is beyond the scope of your return policy.
"You look here," scowled the vagrant, leaning an elbow to the counterspace and pressing one webbed finger onto it at every point he made, "I keep telling you that I bought this knife here only a few scant hours ago when I wanted to stab my television for telling me that thirty is the new twenty. I mean, I just turned twenty! If this rate keeps up, I'll never be twenty! Forty will be the new twenty next decade and my then-age of thirty will be the new clam chowder, but I couldn't eat it because then I do believe I would die. Halfway back to the junkyard where I keep my TV -- for tax purposes," he inanely added with a nudge and a wink, "I suddenly realize that I cannot use a knife on it since televisions don't exist.
"So, here I am again, ready to return my knife. If it is dull or rusty or bloody, it was like that when I bought it, just earlier today.... it was also one of those bitchin', expensive-looking swords over there, too."
The annoyed, unenthused glare of the keep need not be described here. After giving the vagrant's words proper time such that he knew they would cause no long-term brain damage, he cleared his throat and addressed the patron.
"'Sir', you were not in here earlier today. You did not purchase this knife from us. You are not getting a return on this knife here in this shop located in the Fields of No Return not by that virtue, but because this is a pastry store." Not moving from his stooped position over the counter, the brigand circled his gaze about the room's inventory.
"What about that sword I saw over there?"
"That... that is a danish."
"Hmmmm.... I'll take two."