Ok, let's do the story about the time my old boss, Jim, almost killed us all in a fire.
If you've heard it before, please look away now.
So anyway, the comic shop where I worked was housed in an extremely old building.
Shakespeare probably shopped there.
Vikings probably raided it at some point.
If you've heard it before, please look away now.
So anyway, the comic shop where I worked was housed in an extremely old building.
Shakespeare probably shopped there.
Vikings probably raided it at some point.
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Because Jim was tight with money, when we moved it, instead of using drywall, our internal walls were made of wood and thick cardboard.
A cardboard shop, full of comics.
All kindling.
This was all housed in Jim's cardboard office at the back of the shop.
Jim's office was FULL of all the chemicals you could imagine. Glues, turpentine, varnishes, deadly paints, you name it.
He kept his ashtray on the corner of his desk, and directly beneath it was a big wooden box full of balls of steel wool, which he used for rubbing down and ruining antique clocks.
The windows were supposed to be an additional emergency exit, but Jim, in his wisdom had fixed metal bars over them, for security.
Trapping us inside.
Neighbouring shopkeepers called our place "Fort Cocks".
Firefighters inspected the place once, and one said to me, "The whole place is a giant funeral pyre."
Another hugged me and said, "You're very brave."
It would be the biggest loss of virgins by fire since the time of dragons.
They said the only thing we had going for us, the ONLY thing, was all the damp, which might buy us a few vital minutes.