Ryan found a shimmering, lead-lined trench coat in the Sector 51 Restricted Clearance Rack.
When he put it on to block the Nevad-9 moon’s triple-sun glare, a legion of six-eyed Glattonians immediately knelt, chanting in rhythmic clicks. They mistook Ryan for the Grand Arbiter of Style, the only being authorized to approve the mall’s new Universal Uniform before the scheduled planetary purge.
“The fabric must breathe, or the galaxy will suffocate!” screamed Mr. Mean, appearing on a hover-pod. “Ryan, if you don’t sign the decree, they’ll vaporize the food court!”
Dover, currently serving as a temporary luggage rack nearby, groaned. “I’d help, but I’ve got a loose step and zero hope. You’re about to be unraveled, kid.”
A Glattonian general handed Ryan a Golden Stylus. “Judge us, oh Padded One, or face the disintegration beam.”
Ryan looked at the terrifyingly tight, neon-spandex uniforms. Using his best retail-manager voice, he declared, “It lacks pockets. A warrior without pockets is just a target with nowhere to put his keys.”
The crowd gasped at his wisdom. Just as the general prepared to crown him, the actual Grand Arbiter—a sentient cloud of silk—drifted in. Ryan threw the coat onto Dover and bolted. “I’m on break!” he yelled, leaving Dover to explain why an escalator was wearing the garments of a god.
(This story was created by an earthquake on on June 28, 2026. Magnitude of: 2.41. 29 km SSW of Alamo, Nevada. URL:https://earthquake.usgs.gov/earthquakes/eventpage/nn00920879)
