Alert as a coma patient

He wandered in and I knew I was in for one of those special customer adventures. He was in his mid-twenties, white as mayonnaise and possessed of similar qualities; thick, slightly oily, and rapidly turning off at room temperature. He was wearing a ball cap screwed over his spiky blonde hair like an afterthought. His shirt hung off his stooped shoulders under a large jacket. His jeans hovered precariously at half mast.

Apparently he'd been the victim of a random drive-by where he'd been darted with enough sedative to put a rhino in a coma because he blearily focused on me and drawled the question of whether we happened to have an arcade. Call it a wild speculation, but I think he may have been having difficulty tracking.

I answered to the affirmative, gesturing grandly to the huge sign and display of the various titles currently playing.

He riposted deftly by asking if we had an arcade.

Against my better nature, I swallowed back my immediate demand to converse with someone who didn't test-pilot the "Deluxe Pith-Yourself-at-Home kit." Instead I baldly offered that it's possible he might find one if he followed the direction I was pointing.

"Mr. Hawking" blinked at the relevant expanse of real estate for about a minute before taking three times the normal span of time to enunciate an inquiry as to whether we had any gay videos. I told him where they were. He took about a dozen steps in that direction before coming to a halt.

He then wanted to know, in his snail in slow-motion way of talking, if we had any good gay videos.

The last thread of my patience snapped. I summarily informed him that he appeared to be ill or under medication and that perhaps he needed to leave until he felt better.

Of course, he blinked at me in incomprehension until I said he had to leave the premises immediately.

He had to collect his pants from around his ankles not less than three times before he made it out the door at low speed.

Too bad I couldn't test him out as a piñata.