Pastey the Drunken Sailor. Boy was he. True to his name, a ship did not pass without holding Pastey in a state of ridiculous inebriation. It was common to feel a whip of breeze over one’s head as Pastey swung from ship to ship, determined to be drunken on any and all.

“You know what would be great?” Spector spread a smile over his face. “If we took this here,” he held up the severed foot. “And put it here,” he pointed at where the man’s hand used to be. “I think that would be great.”

Clark frowned. “You want to put his foot where his hand was?”

Spector rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to just put it there. I want to sew it there. Like, with surgery.”

“You want to put a foot where a hand’s supposed to go?”

“Sew. I want to sew it there.”

“Where a hand’s supposed to go.”

“Yeah. With surgery.”

The shopping cart museum was interesting, to say the most. In that it wasn’t that interesting. Percival wasn’t sure why he’d ever started it. Just because his dad had specified the money was to be spent on shopping carts, didn’t mean it had to be spent on shopping carts. Percival knew his dad was crazy. Everyone knew Percival’s dad was crazy. But you were supposed to listen to dad, right? Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? He’d read that somewhere.