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“No, Mickey.”

“Are they swag or not?”

“You can’t yoink one. They’re two grand.”

“Two grand retail. Don’t tell me retail.”

“They’re for contest winners, Mickey. Do you want a t-shirt?”

“I have one of every t-shirt within a ten-mile radius of this venue. Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m Mickey fucking Hart, man. I invented the Merch Yoink.”

“The Merch Yoink?”

“I also named it.”

“I got that.”

“It’s like Prima Nocte. Members of the band are entitled to free shirts.”

“Shirts, Mickey. Not hand-made guitars.”

“Ah, what’s the difference?”

“So much. So, so much difference.”

“Why is Poppin Fresh there?”

“What? Who?”

“Poppin Fresh.”

POKE

“Tee-hee! Poppin Fresh.”

“Mickey, please don’t poke me.”

“You don’t see him?”

“Where?”

“There.”

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“Poppin Fresh.”

“I don’t see it, Mickey.”

“What? You’re nuts. It’s Poppin Fresh. What do you see?”

“My mother stabbing my father 27 times.”

“I think that’s on you, man.”

“No, no: look again.”

“I totally see your mother stabbing your father 27 times.”

“Right?”

“I can see it when I cross my eyes a little.”

“Oh, I see it every time I close my eyes.”

“Just give me a t-shirt.”

“We actually don’t have any.”

YOINK!

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“What the fuck just happened?”