I gripped the steering wheel with one hand, occasionally sneaking glances in the rearview mirror at the four… let’s just call them my “ancestral deities” sitting in the back.
Honestly, I couldn’t even remember the last time this junky pickup truck passed inspection. The engine coughed like a tractor with asthma, the steering wheel squeaked like a haunted door every time I turned it, and the brakes felt like soggy toast. But I had no other choice—legendary figures from across time were riding in the back, and I was their humble chauffeur on the way to the town’s biggest supermarket.
The atmosphere inside the truck was... “active,” to say the least. Da Vinci was deeply fascinated by the A/C vent on the passenger side, muttering something about “aerodynamic flow” and “cold air diffusion principles.” Tesla was drooling at the telephone poles outside the window—either dreaming up a new invention or planning how to siphon electricity. Miyamoto Musashi clutched a supermarket flyer like it was a battle plan and kept asking if potato chips were part of proper samurai training. And Holmes? Holmes was silently observing people out the window, clearly deep in thought about something mysterious.
As soon as we got to the supermarket, they scattered like elementary school kids let loose in a toy store. Sure, they’d had some “modern orientation,” but you can’t train away curiosity. Holmes pushed a shopping cart like he was investigating a crime scene, muttering, “These shelves were clearly rearranged… someone snuck in last night.” Da Vinci grabbed colorful markers and a canvas with a spark in his eyes that screamed “inspiration.” Tesla lugged around an entire espresso machine, claiming he needed it for a “microwave energy oscillation experiment.” And Musashi? Musashi was already squatting in a corner, chomping through five bags of chips, two buckets of instant noodles, a whole rotisserie chicken, and a pile of snacks I didn’t even recognize.
When I saw the apocalyptic mountain of items on the checkout counter, my heart dropped.
My hands were literally trembling as I swiped my credit card.
Even the card reader seemed to sigh, “Are you sure about this?”
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Just as I was about to flip the POS machine out of sheer panic, I remembered what Loki had told me before we left the house.
“Jason, I get it—you’re not thrilled. But think about it: Da Vinci’s paintings sell for millions. Holmes consults for billionaires—imagine your commission cut! Just treat them like startup investments. Nurture them well, and when the profits come in, don’t forget to give me my share.”
At the time, I cursed him for being a capitalist weasel. But now… well, I guess I’ve been thoroughly capitalized.
So I closed my eyes, signed the soul-crushing receipt, and recalled licking that McDonald’s box and Tim Hortons coffee cup last night. Humans really are flexible creatures.
After shopping, we strolled around the town square. The great figures of history were mesmerized by bronze statues, pigeons, and a street performer’s electric guitar—Tesla nearly dismantled the speaker, mumbling something about “optimizing vibrational frequencies.”
To prevent a full-blown incident, I treated them to McDonald’s. Also, to soothe my overdrawn credit limit which had now boldly stepped into next month.
By the time we got home, it was well past 10 p.m., and the sky was dark like someone had spilled ink across it.
I backed the dying truck into the thrift store’s backyard, and the “VIPs” hopped out with their bags like they’d just come back from Disneyland. Tesla was raving about converting the coffee machine into a wireless power transmitter. Da Vinci clutched his canvas, mumbling about capturing “the apocalyptic beauty of consumerism.”
And me? I stared at my overdrawn credit card bill and quietly wondered how soon I could get these guys to start bringing in some cash.
Once everyone had retreated to their second-floor bedrooms, I sat alone in the living room, staring at the mountain of plastic bags, wrappers, snack crumbs, and even a mouse—probably drawn in by the scent of fried chicken.
After cleaning everything up, I dragged my exhausted body back to my room. The door creaked shut behind me as I lay on the bed, debating whether I should call the actual owner of this thrift store and let him know about the “minor developments” happening lately—like, you know, four historical icons taking over the second floor and turning the kitchen into a laboratory.
But the words just wouldn’t come. I was still tangled in hesitation when—click—the door creaked open.
It was Holmes. Wrapped in his coat and holding a cup of tea like he owned the place, he stepped in casually.
“I usually don’t meddle in other people’s affairs,” he said, settling into the only decent chair in the room. “But you… you seem alright. So I figured I should warn you.”
I blinked, confused. “Warn me about what?”
He took a small sip of tea, blowing gently across the rim, his eyes peeking over the steam.
“You’re in danger.”
