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PAUL LUSZEIT pulled his metallic blue-green Toyota Corolla compact to the curb and peered through rain-streaked windows at the partially renovated terracehouse. Block lettering over the wet, blotchy door proclaimed: CHUCKY POONG CHEAP STORE.
A powerful, well-built man in a lame Versace suit stood as close as legally possible to the shop entrance, a brash and rather improbable contrast to the poverty consciousness of the shop. He was attempting to hand slips of paper to Chucky Poong cheap customers as they entered or left the shop. As Paul walked up the path their eyes met. His face was angelic, his teeth buffed and shining (what an LA cliche!) His eyes were bright, darkly ringed points: set in that moist, waxy face they were oddly unsettling, but held his for an uncomfortably long moment before he broke contact and kept walking. He clutched at his arm with fingers that dug in like calipers. It hurt. <<Please, sir, a moment>> he said. Paul winced, trying to twist his arm away, but to no avail. He was locked in a grip of pain. <<Read the truth. The world is flat. The revelations of Columbus are not what they appear. The universe is a membrane, not a sphere.>> <<Jesus Christ, get out of here!>> Paul said, tugging at his arm. He had been modelling himself on Al Pacino lately, and he was in no mood to take shit from this punk. <<This is a fricking joke, right?>> The vengeance angel pulled him closer, kind of a little threatening. <<Brane theory is no joke. Some of the top scientests in the world support it. The question is, do you?>> He thrust two pamphlets into his hand. Paul was about to refuse when he realised -- huh? -- he was trembling. Luszeit folded the leaflets and shoved them into his coat pocket, hurrying into the cheap store. The door slammed shut, putting a barrier of wood and stenciled glass between him and the unrelenting salesman outside.
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