His name Gulliver, the kid of Carzann, and no shit, his name really was Gulliver, and from what I was told neither Her or Carzann had heard from Gulliver since the great Dollywood* debacle of 1989, and yeah, I’ll get to that in a second. But the madness, the dirtiness, the bugs and civil war mustaches, this wasn’t any store; this place was an American fallout shelter, and within the confines of this so called flea-market the outside world had already been destroyed. This place was insanity, and just by the smells and the flies hanging from the peeling wall-paper you knew that it was plausible that somebody not too long ago probably had been murdered in the back room that was misspelled and called the Sorage Room. Smarter people would run from a place like this, but it was perfect. It was the perfect place to find a good typewriter.
(originally opened in 1961 under the name, Rebel Railroad)