There Is An Occult Store Near The Seattle Underground Where You Must Never, Ever Go. And Here’s Why.

Sebastian Dooris
Sebastian Dooris

“They’re real right?”

Tad stared blankly at the shop’s far wall as it was visible through the gaping hole in the left earlobe of the twenty-something Goth kid currently standing across the counter from him.

“Like authentic?” The Goth asked again, rephrasing his question. “Are they the real deal?”

Maybe he was an emo; Tad had a hard time telling anymore. A grin inched its way to the side of his mouth as he envisioned the “Goth-mo” at 90 years old, his lobes hanging lower than his old man balls. Lobal rejuvenation, that’s a thing right?

“Hey! Spaceman, you want to sell those heads or what?”

“Uh, Yeah. Everything’s 100% grade-A legit. 100 bones each or 175 for a pair.” Tad held up two by his ears and added, ”Hang ‘em from your holes, three heads are better than one. Give one to your special someone. Best to give head to get head.”

Tad air-humped the mouth of the shrunken head in his right hand for emphasis.

“How come you can sell ‘em? Ain’t that illegal,” quipped the Goth-mo.

“Some of the merch is grandfathered in, ‘oh dark one’. Brought in during the gold rush by the founder of Wiccans, Warlocks, and What-Nots. He brought the bunch back with him from the deeps of the Amazon. The pale-ish one on the right was his personal valet, struck down before he could woo the natives with the supernatural fire bringing power of his lighter.”

Tad watched as skepticism moved to curiosity, wheels turning in Goth-mo’s brain, desire would soon move to wanton need. The hook was in. A few more tugs and he would be finished, no pun intended.

Tad squinted, scanning the customer as he finally added, “You look like you might be skilled in the dark arts.”

Tad watched for a reaction. Goth-mo looked around and then leaned in. “My coven’s been known to cast a hex or two.”

Tad winked. “What’cha need is an insurance policy in case you get more than you bargained for.”

Tad raised the paler head up by its hair, turning it to look into its eyes. “The Amazonian natives shrank the heads of their kills to trap vengeful spirits.”

“You mean those big ass warrior chicks?”

What the fuck? Tad contained his surprise at such a stupid statement… almost there. “You know your history, my friend.”

“I watch the History channel, love that Ancient Aliens guy with the hair. Love Xena too. You get to see her titties on Spartacus… The show. Not that lame-ass movie with Michael Douglas’s dad. Xena ain’t in that.”

Tad tried not to sigh as he nodded at Goth-mo and forced a polite smile, though his tone had grown rather serious. Tad said, “Look, the manager’s out for another 5 minutes. I see you are a collector of distinguished tastes. For you, I’ll let the man-servant go for $75.00. Anglo heads are rare, usually fetch double the price.”

Goth-mo hesitated.

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