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“No. You don’t understand.” The priest said, leaning in slightly as he tapped his gloved finger on the plastic check card, and gazing sternly at the man behind the counter. “This card was specially given to me by the Vatican as an expense card…” He asserted calmly, the rings around his eyes conveying a deep sense of exhaustion. “…I work… For the Vatican.”

He stopped to allow for the weight of his words to set in for a moment before continuing. He briefly licked his lips then spoke slowly, with his thick Italian accent rolling around lazily in his mouth, “I’m here on a special mission for the Pope. And this is my expense card. If you can’t take this card, then I have no cigarettes to take in the car to Tulsa. If I have no cigarettes, then I become fussy and light-headed. If I become fussy and light-headed- then I will be in no condition to drive to Tulsa. If I’m not in Tulsa by tomorrow, I will have failed my mission- you understand?”
“I have no idea what that thing is.” The young man behind the counter said, only allowing his eyes to glance down as he pointed, palm up, to the gold and silver plastic card. His body was rigid, as if anticipating something. “I can’t take that- it’s not a choice of mine. It’s not any of the major credit card companies, so it’s not going to work. It’s not even diners club.”

The priest, raising himself up from the counter, sighed as he removed his gloves and passed his bleach white hands through his hair. He stared up at the cigarette kiosk over the clerks head for a moment. Then, resting his hands firmly back down on the counter, he looked the clerk dead in the eye and said softly. “Just try the card.”
“Look, It’s not anything against…”
“Just try the card.”
“If you can’t pay for this with something else then…”
“Just. Try. The. Card.”
“Seriously, I’m going to call the cops.”
“Hey-sus kris-tee!” The priest whispered as he backed away from the counter and clasped both his hands together so that all the fingers were intertwined and resting over his knuckles, leaving only his index fingers protruding up and uniting at the tips. These, he rested against the indent on his upper lip and closed his eyes. There was a silence, then a loud exhale from his enormous nostrils.

“I am about to tell you something that you are not prepared to hear.” he said, his fingers still positioned on his lip. The man behind the counter slowly slid his hand down beneath the register. “I don’t expect you to believe me but I will tell you anyway- Though you are not deserving…”
“Alright, look.” The clerk interrupted, “I’ll slide it through, but don’t get pissed if it’s rejected. Alright?” he added, his head turning and bowing slightly so that he was glaring at the priest from one side of his face. “This is fair.” The man said after a moment.

The Clerk slowly lifted his hand and took the card, all this done through a keen sense of touch since he never actually took his eyes off the pale, white hands of the priest. Glancing only to make sure that the magnetic strip (which, instead of the standard black or brown, was a glittering white) was facing the right way, he swiped it one way. Then he swiped it the opposite way before finishing it with a swipe in the original direction. The register hummed, then clicked and beeped. Both priest and clerk looked at the display which blinked ‘Call in’. “Weird.” The clerk bleated awkwardly.

He backed a few steps, and felt for the phone which hung on the wall. Reading a number which was scribbled on a crinkled and worn post-it note, he punched in the 1-800 number. Then, when the automated voice asked that he punch in the credit card number, the quite tones of the pressed numbers only chimed four times. Then he raised the receiver to his ear and winced slightly as he awaited the rejection. After a moment a man’s voice spoke, “It’s ok, give him whatever he wants.”
“Wait, what?” The clerk demanded. The mans voice, which had a familiar southern accent, repeated what he had said. “This is ridiculous!” The clerk yelled. “His card is clearly a fake! Who is this?”
“The president of The United States of America, son, Just give him the items he wants and let him get on his way.”
“Fuck it!” The clerk said, slamming the phone down and shrugging his shoulders. Walking over to the register he began pulling out all the bills and tossing them to the priest, who accepted them without any sense of surprise. Then, the clerk pulled an entire carton out from the kiosk above. There was a sliding sound followed by a dull thud. He pulled that carton out as well and handed them over to the priest. “Anything else asshole?” he added as innocently as if he had replaced the word ‘asshole’ with ’sir’.
“No.” The priest said calmly, the words squeezing out of his mouth like play-dough. “This will be fine. Actually, now that I think of it, If I could have your shirt I could use it as a disguise.”
“Oh I know! I was thinking exactly the same thing!” he said as he all but ripped his t-shirt off from over his head.

A few months after that incident, he had began noticing little old women passing by the bay windows of his store. They looked to be in their 60’s and wore dark handkerchiefs over their heads. They always made minimal eye-contact, before moving on. But over time they blatantly stood outside his door and mumbled to themselves, holding rosemary beads and clutching them to their chins and chests. Months after that, he had to wade through the clutter of photographs, candles and flowers that were laid at the foot of his door when he tried to open in the morning. Local news crews came and went, he did an interview or two and eventually quit- never really knowing what all the attention was for. Once, after drinking on the job, he threw the doors open and screamed at the pilgrims demanding to know what was going on. As a response he was flooded with tossed roses and beads.

It was somewhere into the second hour that Rachael decided to take her cloak off. It wasn’t making the search any easier in the way that her sleeve kept getting caught on the end caps or the shelves as she scrambled frantically for the next clue. She was dressed as Hermione, and though her costume far outdid the other kids in the bookstore, she was beginning to wish she just wore a t-shirt like some of the other less dedicated children who were on the hunt. Most of the kids were tearing around the store, frantically pulling books off the shelves. Rachael, after digging around in the ‘world religion’ section, decided to make her way back to the obvious places in an attempt to calibrate her next move- the Harry Potter section.

She pulled her second layer of robe off as she frowned stoically and slowly trudged past all the scurrying kids. She never jarred from thought, even when others elbowed past her or a book flew over her head. All the other horcruxes had been found at this point, and there were only twenty more minutes until the seventh, and final book was released. The first few horcruxes stayed true to the book, but since the last few were yet to be discovered in the final book, they were vague and harder to find clues for. One was a chocolate heart that was under a table in the cafe, and another was a brass bookmark on the top shelf of the world history section. Rachael had narrowly missed getting the that one when, after discovering a clue within a book of Scottish ghost stories, she dashed to the Scottish section of world history to find a chubby boy in a malfoy t-shirt holding the bookmark over his head and declaring his victory. It didn’t matter to her though, it was the final horcrux that really mattered since it was hand-picked by J.K. Rowling her self.

The whole scavenger hunt was done as a promotional event between Rowling’s publisher and the Barnes and Nobel bookstores. Unlike the other events being held at other bookstores, this one had a real impact on finding out the outcome of the final book. Rumor had it that Rowling deliberated on what the final horcrux should be so that the owner of it would know the books ending, while not allowing it’s existence to leak on the Internet. Rachael had to have it. She felt that she was destined to. She had an emotional bond to the books, and especially Hermione, that she knew few others had. She was certain that Rowling had intended that this final item on the hunt was only meant for bright little girls like herself,  not something to be stumbled upon by just anyone. So she had spent the majority of the evening focusing on that alone.

When she reached the Harry Potter section of the store, it was as if a tornado had blown through. The store clerks, like rescue workers, crouched over the pile of books and muttered to themselves. “Leave them,” One clerk said, “There’ll just be more kids back to pick through them again.” The others stood up exhausted and wandered, eyes glazed, to different areas of the store. Rachael, now alone with the books, sat on the floor with her legs spread out like a V before her. There was a deep feeling of despair that sank in her stomach as the realization hit her that she wouldn’t find the horcrux in the time remaining. Then, under her right foot, she saw the open page of a book with the words, “When you need help, just ask for it.” She leaned in closer. It was a quote from Dumbledore when he was telling Harry that he shouldn’t be too proud to ask for help. ‘That’s it!’ She thought to herself, rising up from the mound of paper. ‘Sometimes the only answer is to just ask for help!’

She walked steadily toward the help desk. Children of all shapes and sizes flew past her, including one child who was pulling his mother by the arm while crying. Stepping firmly up toward the desk, she laid both hands steadily on the counter and said calmly, “Excuse me”. The lady at the desk was busy filing some things by her feet. “Excuse me.” She said a little louder, the excitement rising to her throat.
“Yes?” The woman said, her head popping up from below the counter. She had a lightening scar on her cheek- fool. “Can you tell me how to find the last horcrux?” Rachael said quietly, her eyes staring intently into the woman’s.
“What?” The woman said, almost offended.
“I’d like to know where the last Horcrux is please…” Rachael repeated, steadily.
“You can’t just ask…” The woman bleated, her eyes narrowing as if ready to scold Rachael. But another woman popped up from below the table and said, “No, that counts. It was in the memo Stacy.”
“Stacy,” Rachael interrupted, her eyes never leaving the woman’s, “I’d like to know where the last horcrux is please.” She said slowly.
“I’m sorry, Stacy was a fill in for another who was sick. It’s busy here as you’d expect… Look in the gift certificate end cap.” She whispered, then she winked.

Stacy ran to the display. ‘Of course!’ she thought as she tore through all the green, plastic cards in their little slots.
“What the fuck!” A clerk pleaded from a few feet away. He was hushed by another, older clerk who muttered something to him about watching. Then, she saw it. A little, gold box at the back of one of the slots. She pulled it out timidly, almost expecting J.K. Rowling to emerge from behind a curtain to congratulate Rachael in person. Carefully she opened up the box an reached in to pull out it’s contents. Other children, sensing something was up, began to gather around her. She let her fingers feel it’s contents. Something hard and smooth. She pulled it out, and her eyes crossed from the confusion of what she saw. It was a Barnes and Nobel gift card with an print of Lord Byron on it’s surface. The older clerk dashed up to her and held her arm up to show the others the card, “She found the last horcrux! It’s a Barnes and Nobel gift card redeemable for forty dollars or less on any purchase between now and December 24th of 2008!” Even before he could finish what he was saying, a deafening cheer grew from the crowd.
“A what?” Rachael muttered, confused and on the verge of crying.
“It’s a Barnes and Nobel gift card redeemable for forty dollars or less on any purchase between now and December 24th of 2008!” The clerk whispered excitedly to her as he knelt down next to her.
“But… but how does this tell me about how the last book ends?”
“Isn’t it obvious to a smart little girl like you? You can use it to buy a copy of the book!” He said, teeth and eyes shining with glee.
“But…” Rachael trailed off.
“J.K. Rowling would of wanted you to have this.” The clerk said, looking very serious as he handed the card back to her.

It was on the ride home, clutching her copy of “The Deathly Hollows” that she resolved to spend the rest of her life extracting her revenge on J.K. Rowling. Nineteen years later, she would make the same resolution while in jail for lighting Rowling’s trash can on fire in the driveway of her mansion. She was suspected in a string of vandalism cases that had emerged since the writing of the final book. Her time in court was going to be long and drawn out, and it only strengthened her hatred of the author.

“And this…” Mr. VanHauseman said as he gestured calculatedly toward the item that sat on a lighted pillar. All his movements were deliberate because of the tight, double breasted suit he was wearing. It was an antique, and it looked that any movement on his part would break the shoulders at the seams. “This is a comb.”

The group of teenagers that had straggled in from the rain, all glanced sideways at each other as if looking for reassurance that this man was a loser. Mr. VanHausemen stared intently at each of them as he gave the weight of his words time to settle in. Then he continued, “Is a comb.”
“I know, but- so what?” One of the girls piped in. The others laughed, relieved that someone had pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll tell you ’so what’.” Mr. VanHauseman replied Cooley. “This comb was used by the great Sullivan McCormith in 1849 during one of his coal mining excavations!” He ended with a flourish.
No one moved, all their little eyes wide as they stared at him in disbelief.
“His luck in finding lucrative coal mines was impeccable…” He added, reducing his tone. “And when he died, he willed all his good fortune into this comb, with the intent of having it passed on to his estranged son so he could continue the family business. But it was intercepted by his business partner and was never returned to it’s rightful owner.”

At this point, Mr. VanHausemen again gestured to the ebony comb which sat lightly on the plaster surface. It looked as old as described. It’s surface covered in thin cracks, with dirt in it’s corners and wear on it’s teeth. One of the kids leaned in for a closer look while asking, “So, whoever has this will get money?”
“So Mr. McCormith’s business partner thought! Until, on an excursion to the dark continent in search of new mines, he suffered a spoliation at the hands of a rhinoceros.”
“Spoliation?” One asked.
“Defloration.” VanHausemen added for clarity. There was moment of silence before he burst out, “Rape!” He did little to hide his disgust. There was a collective gasp from the teenagers.
“He continued on, undaunted in this setback. And made it to a mine that was rumored to hold vast veins of gold. But he didn’t survive the rain of unrelenting pellets of coal!”
“Huh?” One of the girls mumbled, as she continued to snap gum.
“He died you strumpet!”
“From small pellets of coal?”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Seriously?” One of the boys asked.
“Yes.”
“How big were the coal pellets?” Another asked.
“That’s not important. The point of the story is, that there have been a select few who were able to wield the comb successfully, and had become rich beyond their wildest dreams! But the others suffered a gruesome death.”
“Tits.” One of the other boys quipped. The rest laughed.
“I’m going to leave the room now, I’ll be back in about an hour. So I’ll leave you to wander the museum of your own accord.” He said with a slight grin.

The kids walked around the dark room, peering into glass cases and joking at the contents. There was a pocket watch with a small card beneath it which read, “Used in the murder of Molly Stanford in 1893.” And a fountain pen which was implicated in the abduction of Daniel Rosen. But all focus went back to the unguarded comb. There were a few nervous jokes about how intelligent it was for Mr. VanHausmen to leave the group alone with this important object. They all circled it and dared each other to touch it. After a few were bold enough to prod it gingerly, the jokes about stealing it changed in tone. Soon it was a matter of who was actually going to take it. One, the meekest of the group stepped forward and said quietly that he would.

As they rushed themselves out the door, one of the girls felt something small hit her in the back of the neck. The others inspected her and found a small, red welt swelling near the collar of her raincoat. A few blocks away, a boy nearest the one who took the comb, felt a sharp sting on his temple. Again, a welt was found and they all looked around the empty streets. It was drizzly, Sunday afternoon, so no one was out on this small main street. Unnerved, they quickened their pace back to one of their homes. All the way each were pelted by something, and yelped in fear. They all came to the conclusion that it was the curse of the small coal pellets until the theif was hit inside his mouth. He doubled over, clutching at his mouth. One of the girls squealed, asking what was wrong. They all gathered around him expecting him to die a twitching death before their eyes, until the boy stood up. He put his index finger and thumb into his mouth and pulled out a small, metal ball. They all leaned in and looked. One finally announced that it was a bee bee pellet. Confused and angry, they all pivoted around to see where it came from. Since they had left the empty gaze of the main street windows for the neighborhood, they could easily see where the source was.

Squatting behind a tree, frantically pumping a air rifle, was Mr. VanHauseman. Cold wisps of air trailed from his lips from behind the tree, giving his position away to the gum snapping girl.

They beat the shit out of him. It was the horror of one of the girls producing a primal scream as she rushed him, that sent him running. But it was the repeated blows to his head that finally had him crumpled up in a ball on the wet grass. And as they repeatedly kicked him in his head and ribs, they thought they could hear him say, “I was just trying to put some wonder back in your life.”

“I can’t be your B.F.F anymore.” She stated. It was dry, and without emotion as if she had done this days ago.
“What?”
“You can not be my B.F.F. anymore. I wanted to call and tell you that I am breaking my B.F.F. with you.” She repeated. Her thick, staccato-ridden, accent putting stress on the wrong syllables.
“Oh I get it. I forgot about that, it’s been something like a year since I saw you- How have you been? How’s Tokyo? You finally get a boyfriend?”
“I’m serious. I only called to tell you that we can not be B.F.F. anymore. I’m not your friend.”
“Mamiko, that was just a joke! You kept saying I was the first American friend you’ve ever had, so I was kidding when I said we should be Best Friends Forever.”
“No joke.”

“Yes, it was just a joke. ‘B.F.F.’ is something little girls do. For an adult to have a B.F.F. is silly!”
“Not silly. This is the last time we talk.”
“Seriously?” He asked after a moment. He almost thought he could hear sniffling on the other end. “Did I do something to piss you off?”
“No.” She said, “You were… Best friend-” Then broke off.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I have met another. She is my new B.F.F.. But she told me there can only be one B.F.F., and you can’t be my B.F.F. anymore.”
“Wait, so she’s saying you can’t have any friends besides her? Is she the only person you’re going to ever talk to? Even at work?”
“No, she said only I can’t have B.F.F.. I can still have friends.”
“You’re friend is nuts.”
“Never talk about my B.F.F.! She was right about you. You’d say anything to be my B.F.F.!”
“Let me change that, you’re nuts.”
“I have to go. This is the last time I talk to you… Good bye.”
“Yep!”

“Ma’am, you can’t sit here all day.” The store clerk said sternly, as his hand rested lightly on the plush, leather vibrating chair.
“I don’t see anyone here, is there a line?” The large woman said, sitting up to dramatically look around the Sharper Image’s show room floor to prove her point.

She was right, there was no one there. No one was ever at the Sharper Image on a week day. The store sold random trinkets which were aimed at wealthy people with nothing to spend their money on, or traveling business men who needed miniature radios for their hotel rooms. Weekends were packed with people who wanted to play with their useless flashlights that held built in compasses, or life-sized spider man statues- but they never buy anything. The leather massage chair was another one of those items. They put them out in the front windows so it would draw people in to sit and try them out, but the nine thousand dollar price tag ensured that no one would actually purchase one. This woman did just that, but the difference between her and the average customer was that she came in every day carrying a duffel bag of food and water.

She wore a tight tee shirt with a lizard on the front, sitting in a lawn chair with sun glasses and holding what looked to be an iced tea. On the top, right across her breasts which were unencumbered by a bra, were the words “Thank God It’s Friday!” Which curved and stretched as it tried to cling to her form. She also wore a pair of tight sweat pants, stained from the diet cola that glided around between her thighs. The chair was vibrating with enough force to shake every portion of her body, but since she had been there so long, the chaotic pattern of the vibrations had settled her body into an equal rhythm that gave the illusion that she was still, but her body was in a type of slow-motion as if she were swimming underwater. The clerk found it hard to maintain eye-contact as he spoke, because of the hypnotic motion of everything between her neck and knees.

“Honestly ma’am. We’re not allowed to have one person sit on this chair all day.”
“Fine, then I’ll move over to the other one.” She bleated angerly as she tried to sit herself up. But, like when spending too much time in a hot tub, her muscles were weak, and she struggled.
“You don’t understand. If you continue to sit on any of these chair for hours at a time, you’re taking advantage of us. If you like the chair so much, you could just buy one. We have a payment plan if you can’t afford it right now.” As soon as he finished, he could tell by the pleading look on her face that buying one of the chairs was the last thing she wanted to do. The clerk looked away after a minute, not able to figure out what her reasoning was, and not able to look at her body sliding around like raw eggs on a skillet. Finally, he went back to the counter, muttering something about giving her a few minutes before calling the mall security. He pretended to file papers, and went on to arrange the items on a shelf behind him but she didn’t move. People walked past and peered in as they always did. Trying to catch a glimpse of the chrome and wood items within, but when they laid eyes on the woman they quickly averted their eyes and hurried on. One child, who’s parents had clearly just taken him to Master Cuts, pointed at the woman- to which the parents instantly covered his eyes and moved to the other side of the hallway while they walked past. The clerk realized that this problem was only going to get worse when he finally mustered up enough strength to walk towards the woman.

As he came up behind her, it all revealed it’s self like a crime scene. First he saw the back of her matted hair, then her red neck, then the top of her T.G.I.F. shirt and the horrors that writhed inside. He lifted his eyes to the store front window and saw something he hadn’t expected. Just beyond the reflection of the woman with his own image rising above her, stood a man. He was holding a over sized “Baby Gap” bag and a cup of Starbucks coffee. His nose was practically pressed to the glass as he gazed lovingly at the woman. Confused, the clerk looked at the man, then re-focused his eyes on the reflection of the woman. Her expression was that of hopeless yearning. The two of them stood there for a long time looking at each other, with the hum of the chair swirling around them. The clerk stopped like that of a man who had just encountered a fawn grazing in the forest. He took a step back, but stopped for fear of breaking this spell. He looked to the man again and thought he could make out a single tear trailing down his cheek. Then, he looked at the floor, ashamed that he was intruding on something so private. He didn’t look up until he heard the woman get out of the chair with labored breaths. She stood up straight, and then bent over to pick up her bag. The man was no longer at the window. Without looking back at the clerk, she walked slowly out the double doors, and what he supposed was the opposite direction from where the man had gone.