Comic Boys

London | Easton | Jekyll

The store had an odd scent, one that I had yet to give a name to. It was kind of a mixture between stale coffee, aged paper and the crisp aroma of newly opened merchandise. It was a small shop, with worn burgundy carpet that had been bleached by the sun over the decades since the building had been erected. There was one fan slowly rotating above the cash register, which had stickers plastered over its grey surface, little sticky-notes with messy scrawl slapped against the sides along with some Batman bobble-heads. The shelves were an array of colours, little fluorescent pink, orange and green spiky price tags sticky-taped to the scratched wood. There were shelves of figurines from every comic, TV show and cult classic ever invented, and then there was me, sitting on a bar-stool behind the counter, head stuck inside an issue of Batman I had spent half my salary on.

It was just an another one of those dull days...well, until he walked in.