Oh great, now they're networking.

The grungy, white curb-surfer sporting America's greatest argument that dreadlocks should never be attempted by anyone without African descent made a repeat appearance at my store. Yes, he was still substituting those plastic caps used to protect and cover twisted together wiring as hair tips. I'm sure he feels all Mad Max every time he looks in a mirror, though I doubt that can be often considering.

Anyway, he had ventured inside in the hopes of encountering his buddy. At least, such was his account when I directed my attention to him. Inexplicably, he had been engaged in following another gentleman from the parking lot into the middle of the store as his erstwhile companion attempted to fend him off with polite statements of disinterest.

But he came in after his other friend, actually. Right. His assessment of my credulity made me wonder how it was someone hadn't already permanently interred him in last week's detritus and club vomit. He is now officially persona non grata. Happily, he beat a hasty retreat when no help was forthcoming in his direction.

Oddly enough, his buddy was in the arcades. Who'd have thought it possible? Indeed, he issued forth from the privacy of the booth to not only inquire as to whether he'd heard his friend, but described him to a tee. Given that this guy was also teetering on the crumbling edge of my tolerance, his manner fairly shouted "Tweaker" to the heavens, no good could come of it.

I'm increasingly thrilled I was an impediment to their meeting up. Shady dealing and skullduggery in my domain is something to be assiduously averted if possible.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have brain-dead strumpets to banish.