The man, whose name was Mal Mechant, looked about the oddly named store and immediately decided he did not like it. He glared, as villains often do, at everything his dastardly eyes found themselves upon as he surveyed the interior of Will’s Watcha-ma-call-its. The place was enormous when compared to any shop he had ever been to in the city, lined with ridiculously long aisles packed full of anything and everything. Mal judged that it would likely take someone close to ten minutes to walk their length, he could barely see where they ended. Next to him was a stand of ugly looking shoes with buckles where laces should have been and a large sign that read, “Nadir Veeners On Sale!” Mal shot the merchandise a particularly hateful stare as he contemplated finding this Nadir Veener and kidnapping him so he could discover what had possessed the man to create such a despicable abomination of modern fashion. Turning away from the horrid display of Ratherston foot ware Mal tried to find some signs of human life in the quaint but gargantuan establishment. Peering down the lengths of a few the frustratingly long aisle didn’t reveal anyone that was likely to be an employee or the owner, just a couple of tired shoppers with their bags that looked like they desperately needed a glass of water slowly making the long, long, long trek back to the exit at the front of the store.
Throwing his dark blue coat open so he could shove his hands into the pockets of his designer pants, Mal chose an aisle and resigned himself to walking towards the back of the store. The shelves were stocked full of every boring item he could imagine, all given completely ridiculous names. He saw cans of tuna fish labeled as conserved seine, brooms named feculence prodders, cups as cannikins, chairs as cathedras, books as octavos, flowers as efflorescent verdures, and canes marked as children disciplinary tools for the elderly. Well if nothing else, Mal thought, the name of the shop was at least fitting.
Mal walked down the aisle with a long confident stride as he surveyed the misnomer merchandise. Each step filling him with greater frustration at the absurdity and audacity of the shop’s owner. After he had made it very nearly a quarter of the way down the aisle, that is to say, after he had walked for a very very long time, Mal could take it no longer. Removing a hand from his designer pants and growling menacingly he snatched a very nice looking bowl off the shelf and smashed it viciously on the well kept floor. Usually breaking someone’s very nice bowl, or making a mess on their well kept floor, would cause a person to feel terrible. Usually they would make large apologies for their clumsiness and offer to clean up after themselves or pay for a new bowl of equal attractiveness. It must be remember however, that Mal is not an ordinary person. He is in fact a villain, and for this very reason smashing a very decorative piece of dining ware onto an immaculately maintained aisle way did not make him feel guilty in the least. It cheered him up.
“What fun that was,” thought Mal as a grin grew on his face. “I feel much better now.” Mal crunched the remains of the bowl under his feet as he set off once again. “The shopkeeper really should take better care of his business,” he thought as he crushed the ceramic pieces under his boots, “the floor is a mess.” Now in a good mood Mal found the time passed very quickly as he made his way to the back of what had appeared to be a small shop from outside, leaving a long trail of broken and destroyed wares in his wake.
Mal’s legs were sore by the time he finally escaped the torturously long and now very messy corridor. “Hello there,” said a friendly looking old man wearing star shaped spectacles behind a cluttered counter. “If you’re looking for the belfry-bolsters I just got in they are over there in the very back corner.” The old man wasn’t looking at him as he spoke but raised a finger to point in the general direction of the bou-- whatever the hell he had just said. Mal wanted to glare at him like he was an ugly set of shoes designed by a wretched man who may or may not find himself tied to a chair against his will some time in the future, but instead put on a charming smile as he approached the counter.
“Is that you Will?” Mal asked the odd little old man whom he guessed might be odd enough to own a shop full of obnoxiously named items and ugly shoes. He was of course also guessing that the owner of Will’s Watcha-ma-call-its was in fact named Will, which was none to certain given the circumstances. From what he had seen so far it probably equally likely that who ever held the deed for this gargantuan gallery of gobily-gook was named Mike Synonym, or Joe Misnomer. Not that it mattered. Mal would get what he wanted regardless of a name.
“What’s that?” said Will upon hearing his name. He turned and looked at the man who had entered his shop for the first time. “I say, have we met before? I don’t recall having ever met someone with such a profoundly average sized proboscis before.”
“Well I don’t know what a proboscis is,” said Mal as he scratched his nose and noted that the old man had both unwittingly acknowledged his identity and possibly insulted him at the same time, “but surely you remember your dear friend Dr. Filch.” Mal gestured grandly to himself, placing one hand on his chest and waving the other about in the air as he smiled at Will of Will’s Watcha-ma-call-its as if he had not just lied through his teeth.