Dear Diary,

  If there’s a patron saint of lost causes, he must’ve blessed my pawn shop this morning because today was a parade of people who made me question why I even open the doors.

  The first customer of the day shuffled in just as I finished unlocking. He was the sort of man who looked like he’d tried—and failed—to negotiate peace with a pack of worgs. His cloak was tattered, his boots were held together with a piece of string, and he carried a bundle wrapped in cloth that stank of mildew.

  When he unwrapped it, I was greeted by the sight of a wooden carving of what I assume was meant to be a griffin. The craftsmanship was… charitable, let’s say. Its wings were uneven, its beak more of a blob, and one of its legs looked like it was melting.

  (To be honest, it truly takes a great craftsman to make a piece of wood look like it's melting.)

  “Carved by the elves of, ah, N-Neldorim,” the man claimed. I pretty sure he made that name up but I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I offered him five copper pieces for the “griffin” and sent him on his way. It’s now sitting on the shelf of curiosities, next to a goblet that's supposed to be haunted (I wish!) and a jar of “fairy dust” that’s almost definitely just glitter.

  Later in the morning, a noblewoman swept in, the kind who dripped wealth and barely acknowledged the existence of commoners (read: me). She carried a jeweled necklace, supposedly “enchanted to ward off evil” (read: me again). The gems sparkled in the sunlight, but as I held it, I felt no hum of magic—just the hum of a piece that had been appraised too high by a jeweler looking for an easy mark.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The question is, was this mark the woman or me?

  She looked affronted when I offered twenty-four gold pieces. “Do you know what this is worth?” she demanded. I gave her my most polite shopkeeper’s smile (which meant showing all seven of my teeth and tusks) and said, “Yes. It's worth twenty-four gold pieces.” She huffed and puffed but sold it all the same.

  Then there was the bard. There’s always a bard. This one was skinny (not that I ever met a bard), with a lute missing half its strings slung over his shoulder. He claimed to have an “enchanted music box” and demonstrated its power by opening it and unleashing a tune so horrendous that even the broom in the back stopped sweeping in protest. I offered him a silver piece just to take the box and run the hell away.

  Truth be told, that was a bargain.

  By mid-afternoon, my patience was thinner than my bedsheets. A young adventurer came in, clutching a sword with a blade so chipped it looked like it had been used as a shovel. “Family heirloom,” he said proudly. I didn’t ask him whether he meant the family of graverobbers, but I offered him five copper pieces. He practically beamed as he handed it over. So much for a heirloom!

  The "sword" now rests in the discount bin, where it belongs.

  Lastly, a wizard strolled in, with a hat so absurdly tall it belonged in the dictionary under "Overcompensation." He carried an object wrapped in a burlap sack and deposited it on the counter with all the reverence of a priest presenting a sacred relic.

  “What’s in the sack?” I asked, bracing for disappointment. He declared it was a sphere of infinite knowledge. He even straightened his hat as though it might help sell the claim.

  I pulled the sack open to reveal a perfectly ordinary glass orb. “Infinite knowledge, huh?” I said, turning it over in my hands. “Then you should know I'm not gonna give you more than thirty silver for it.”

  All in all, a disappointing day, but what else should an honest half-orc expect from a Monday? The only thing consistent about this business is that it never fails to set the bar low and then trip over it.

  Yours in profit,

  Garren

  What should the next chapter be about?