Bury it Deep

I visited a sale yesterday that was in someone’s house (which always sets off my creeper alarm, but at least this time the door was open). A man walks out of it as I approach:

“You’re too late,” he tells me.

“Huh?” I respond. Too late for what?

“You’re too late. It’s not yours.”

It’s 9:23 in the morning. I look around, thinking maybe the yardsale was yesterday, and this guy wants me to get the HELL off his porch? But no, that pile of soiled Beanie Babies in the living room suggests otherwise, sir. I respond again with: “…huh?”

“You’re too late for this. It’s not yours.” I still don’t know what the hell he’s talking about until he starts shaking the ratty old computer chair he’s carrying out of the house.

“HAH HAH HAH!” I respond, a little too loudly. You’re making a hilarious joke! I get it. I smile, to make sure he knows I get it. He glares at me in return, then pushes past, muttering something under his breath about how the chair was his, goddammit. This is WHY I don’t talk to strangers, in case you’re wondering.

Apropos of nothing, I found this inside (next to the Beanie Babies):

partially-rotted-doll

…Yeah, I’m thinking that one can go right back to the graveyard where they found it.

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