Reroll

“So how'd it go?” Betty greets me as I exit.

I shrug, “Mixed. He can't cover the market value now, so we're selling the coins on consignment. We'll get a fair amount of money… eventually, at random intervals over the next year as the coins sell.  I also spent a hundred bucks on more coins to restore… this could be a permanent income source.”

“Until he notices that we're selling him mint condition coins back that exactly match the wrecked ones he sold us,” Ed points out.

I shrug, “It's a risk if we sell them HERE, yes. If we catch a cab to the next town over, or just wait long enough for Carl to forget, however…” I trail off.

Ed nods slowly, “Then he can't make the connection. We could even go back and forth between two coin dealers, buying bad coins from each and selling the fixed ones to the other. Okay.”

“Great!” Betty wraps us both in a hug, and strokes one of my knockers, “now let's see about that watch, hmm?”

I extract myself from Betty’s grasp, noting briefly that Ed's a little red too… and that Betty’s hand is leaving Ed's pants as they pull away from each other. I suppose I got off lightly.

I head over - again, alone - to the antique dealership… right next door.  It is both a little larger and a little higher tech… which isn't saying much.  The double glass doors open themselves as I approach, simple motion detectors from decades ago evident. The place is maybe a thousand square feet, all of it covered in old sewing machines, ancient wooden end tables… oh, hey, an icebox… lamps, chairs, and a zillion other odds and ends.

The checkout counter is right next to the door, and has an antique cash register… fitting, really. As I'm here to sell, not buy, I ignore the clutter and walk straight to the lady at the desk, who is… a young blond in a rather strained blue blouse showing off her considerable assets, clearly no bra from the points straining the blouse, painting her nails as she chews gum.  Seriously, could she be any more of a two dimensional stereotype?  Oh.  Her name tag says “Bambi”.  I guess she can.

Well… I hope she can handle things.  I walk over to her and smile, “Hi Bambi, I'm looking to sell an antique watch….”

She jumps right in, “Well, we sell strictly on consignment at fifty percent; if you'll fill out this form…” she bends down slightly to fetch some paperwork from under the desk… and I'm not sure if that cleavage show is deliberate… and hands me a pen, clipboard, and form after she finds it, “just fill this out and bring it back to me with the… watch, you said?... for an evaluation, okay sugar?”

Ugh. Still… helpful. I lean against the wall and fill out the form… name, address, description of item, do I accept the standard terms and conditions of sale… huh, no attachment.

“Ah, Bambi?” I look up at the cashier as I pose the question.

“Hmm?” She looks up at me from her nails.

“This references an outside document. I'd like to see that as well before I sign anything,” it should be an easy enough concern to address, right?

She stares at me for a good ten seconds, “What?”

I shrug and walk over to her, “Here…” I point out the line in question, “...this is referencing a terms and conditions page.  You didn't give that to me with the rest of the paperwork.  I'd like to see it, please.”

She blinks a few times, “You know, you're the first person to bring that to my attention. Huh.”

Yeah, well… “I'm still sensitive about documents I'm signing as I got a bit burned by a contract recently, so I'm reading everything.  The referenced T&C's, please?”

She shakes her head, “Right, umm… give me a minute….”

She stands up from her chair, giving me a nice view of her microskirt, and promptly turns around to visit some low file cabinets behind her, bending down from the waist without seemingly thinking about it.  Side note, she shaves down there, which is extremely obvious because she's not wearing any underwear. Her flower has also spread slightly… right, I'm still dripping.

And her show is of course warming me up further; I'm going to need Ed soon… or maybe Carl… he could fill the void…

She looks through the cabinet for a good five minutes, going back and forth, shaking her booty at me as she rifles through the pages.  Getting a hold of myself, I look away, and spend some time examining a nice brass oil lamp… which yes, I rub (no genie… I'm not sure if that's good or bad).

Eventually, she coughs, “I'm afraid I didn't get your name, Miss….”

“Kenna Smith,” I turn back to her, and she's fortunately standing.

“Here…” she hands me a piece of paper, shaking her head, “I've been at this for thirty years, and you're the first to ask about that.”

“She's being honest about that time frame,” one of my ‘Als’ speaks into my head, “and the personal singular use. All is not as it seems here.”

“You don't look like you're in your fifties,” I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Thanks,” she answers, blushing, “I started as a wee lass, helping my mother…”

“Outright lie,” the ‘Al’ running Sense Motive flags me.

Well, we're alone, “By any chance are you familiar with those brutes with dark sunglasses, guns, and builds fit to make a bear pause?”

She freezes at that, “Not that I can say,” she gives me a long look.

“Careful phrasing there,” my Sense Motive ‘Al’ volunteers, “That's a yes, but she's scared to say it.”

I do a quick glance around, look at the pen in my hand, and light it up with magic, “I may have had an encounter or two with them. They're not my friends.”

I let her snatch the pen from my hands, and watch as she looks it over, “I don't suppose you can do anything about my curse, can you?”

I consider as I start swapping out magic talents, “I'm not great at it, but I can try; what's the curse?”

She rolls her eyes, “Isn't it obvious?”

I consider, and an Al fills me in, “She's saying she's not supposed to be as she is, a plaything for men.”

I consider, “I guess that explains the stereotypes. The more detail, the better, though,” that's a Bluff; it's a simple die roll once I pick up the appropriate talents. I just want to hear her story, “So please, fill me in.”

She considers, “I suppose…” she takes a breath, “Okay, so, I can't say my name. Every time I try to refer to myself as ‘Bambi’, it comes out ‘Bambi’, and that includes if I try nicknames like ‘Bambi’ or ‘Bambi’.  I can use simple pronouns, but they always come out female and anything resembling a name comes out ‘Bambi’... if I intend it for me.”

“How does it come out if you say, ‘I was once called….’ treating it as a name you used to have?” I mean, MY monkey paw DM was being relatively nice about that, but maybe yours was too… of course, I can use nicknames, so….

Bambi shrugs, “My name was Bambi.  No, it doesn't work. Ugh.  Anyway, I was throwing back a pint… okay, a bit more than one… at Cutters, the local speakeasy, and complaining about how I hadn't gotten my ashes hauled in over a year….”

Wait… 'Gotten your ashes hauled’?”

Bambi frowns a moment, “Ah, right… terms… I hadn't gotten laid.  What can I say, it was 1920.  Regardless… my buddy drunkenly suggested I buy a drink for the lady at the end of the bar, and it seemed like a good idea.”

“So you used to be a guy, then?” I am quite prone to interrupting for clarification.

“No, I've always been a woman,” Bambi immediately replies, then pauses, and adds, “Sometimes I really hate this curse.”

Which tells me what I wanted to know, “Got it. Continue, please.”

Bambi rolls her eyes and continues in that slightly nasally voice of hers, “Anyway, I ordered two drinks from the barkeep, paid for them, and headed her way… which is when someone stuck their foot out.”  She takes a breath, “And so I tossed the drinks to have my hands free to catch myself, and grabbed onto the most obvious handholds.”

“Let me guess….”

“No need. The drinks landed on the lady in question as my hands gripped the neckline of her dress… which tore on my way to the ground, leaving the poor lass exposed all the way to her ankles.”

“And that's when she cursed you?”

“Oh, no… she just screamed out ‘why’.  And with as many pints as I'd had, I started with that I hadn't… gotten laid… in too long, and wished that there were more beautiful young women who'd… put out… so it'd be less of a problem. She exclaimed ‘Granted!’ and stormed off before I could get any further.”  Bambi takes a breath, “And when I got to my feet….” she puts her hand under her globes, lifting them, “I had these. I find I'm compelled to dress and act to attract the eye, and I always eagerly agree - and follow through with it - on a certain class of request, which I'm sure you can guess.”

“So you're a slave to men's desires.”

“Not just men, as I found out a little after the sequel to ‘The War to End All Wars’,” Bambi rolls her eyes, “Fighting in the trenches was bad enough.”

I pause for a good long while, “I know this is a rude question to ask, but how old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she furrows her brow, “Why do you ask?”

“And you were old enough to enlist for what's now known as World War One.”

“Yes, but I'm nineteen. I can't even drink anymore, and whatever ID I have always reflects that.”

I spell it out for Bambi, “Based on items in your story, you are older than the oldest living human on record. If I break your curse - and there's no garuntee that I will succeed in breaking that monkey's paw wish - you might suddenly have your chronological age back…”

That gives her pause, “I might just collapse into a pile of dust.”