ENTRY 018: A FAMILY DISPUTE

Dear Diary,

If I had a copper for every time someone pawned a family heirloom without telling their relatives, I’d be writing this from a seaside castle. Today’s chaos started when two very angry dwarves stomped into the shop, both shouting about the same warhammer—a warhammer I bought just last week.

The first dwarf, a barrel-chested fellow with a beard that looked like it had seen a few dozen bar fights, slammed his fist on the counter. “Where is it? Where’s our hammer?”

The second dwarf, taller and slightly less chesty but no less furious, added, “It belonged to our great-uncle Bodrin. It’s been in the family for generations!”

“Right,” I said cautiously, pointing to the display case. “You mean that hammer?”

Their eyes lit up as they spotted the warhammer in question, resting in all its rune-etched glory. The item hadn’t moved since I’d bought it from a shifty-looking dwarf the week before—someone who bore a suspicious resemblance to these two.

“That’s the one!” the first dwarf bellowed. “How much to get it back?”

The second dwarf, clearly trying to appear more level-headed, cut in. “It’s not for sale—it’s ours! We just need to… reclaim it.”

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“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “Reclaim it for the same amount I paid your relative last week. Thirty gold.”

That’s when the arguing started.

“I told you it wasn’t his to sell!” the first dwarf shouted.

“And I told you not to leave it lying around after the wake!” the second shot back.

Eventually, I tried to interject. “Look, you can have it back if—”

The first dwarf cut me off. “We’re not paying for our own hammer!”

“Then you’re not taking it,” I said, crossing my arms.

The second dwarf growled, grabbed the hammer’s handle, and yanked. Nothing happened. The first dwarf joined him, both of them pulling and cursing, but the warhammer stayed put. Honestly, it was kind of fun to watch.

After about five minutes of futile tugging, the two dwarves stopped, panting and glaring at each other. “It’s enchanted,” the first dwarf muttered.

“No, it's cursed!” the second argued.

“Or maybe it only works for someone worthy.”

I bit my lip, barely containing my laughter. You see, this wasn’t the hammer’s fault. Last week, I bought a bottle of Perma-Bond Adhesive—a magical glue that promised to “hold anything, anywhere, forever.” While the two dolts were arguing, I saw plainly where their argument was headed and prepared accordingly.

Now the hammer wasn’t going anywhere.

The dwarves continued arguing for a good hour. Finally, they threw up their hands and stomped out. I leaned on the counter, relieved to have the hammer—and the profit potential—all to myself. That is, until I tried to pry it loose.

The hammer didn’t budge. After an hour of pulling, prying, and cursing, I had to throw in a towel, too.

So there it goes. I now own a legendary dwarven warhammer glued to my counter. It’s an excellent conversation piece, but unless I want to sell the entire shop along with it, I may be stuck with this thing forever.

Talk about sticky situations!

Yours in profit,

Garren