Maluck stumbled through the dimly lit streets, still buzzing from the drinks he’d downed at the bar. His mind was a blur, his steps slightly uneven—somewhere between a confident strut and a newborn deer on ice—when a neon OPEN sign caught his eye.
‘A sign! Literally!’ his booze-soaked brain declared. Clearly, fate itself was guiding him toward… whatever this place was. Food? More booze? Life-changing wisdom from a late-night psychic? Didn’t matter. Destiny was calling, and Maluck, in all his drunken glory, was ready to answer.
A small, shady fortune teller’s shop stood tucked between two closed storefronts, looking like it had been surviving off sheer stubbornness and questionable tax practices. A dusty crystal ball sat in the window, next to a hand-painted sign that read “NO REFUNDS, NO EXCEPTIONS”, which felt less like a business policy and more like a warning.
Above the entrance, a banner hung in bold, slightly peeling letters:
“CHANGE YOUR LUCK NOW!”
Malick squinted at it, swaying slightly. His luck had always been terrible—epically, catastrophically bad. Just last week, he found a $20 bill on the ground, only to be dive-bombed by a pigeon mid-celebration. His most recent attempt at cooking ended with a small kitchen fire, a visit from the landlord, and an intense SkeweSearch for “how to get the smell of burnt failure out of an apartment.”
Maybe this was the universe finally throwing him a bone. Or maybe it was just the tequila talking.
‘Either way,’ he thought, gripping the door handle for balance, ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’
Pushing open the creaky wooden door, he stepped inside.
The shop smelled… strange. A mix of incense, dust, and something faintly herbal. The dim interior was cluttered with odd trinkets—jade figurines, strange masks, stacks of yellowing papers with cryptic symbols. Behind the counter sat an old Chinese man, who looked like he had walked straight out of the 1980s movie Grimlimgs.
The old man peered at Malick with a knowing gaze, his deep-set eyes gleaming like embers beneath his heavy brows. His robe, adorned with faintly shimmering embroidery, gave the impression of ancient wisdom rather than mere age. The air around him carried the faint scent of incense and something older—like parchment left untouched for centuries.
“Young man, are you seeking a fortune?” he asked, his voice low and resonant, as if layered with echoes from beyond the veil.
“Nooo, I wanna changed muh luck!” Malick slurred, his words dragging together as he clung to the counter for balance.
The old man stroked his wispy silver beard, nodding as though he had been expecting this request. “Hmm… tell me your birth date,” he murmured, his fingers already reaching for a piece of aged parchment.
Malick complied, and with steady hands, the old man inscribed the information in ink that shimmered ever so slightly under the dim lantern light. Without another word, he turned and retrieved a massive tome bound in cracked, dark leather. Arcane symbols adorned its surface, shifting almost imperceptibly as he laid it on the table.
He flipped through the pages with slow, deliberate movements, his lips parting in a low chant. Soft, rhythmic murmurs—words in a language Malick didn’t recognize—drifted through the small space, weaving through the air like invisible threads.
“Hooooum… huuumm… let us see… ahhhhhh…”
The room seemed to darken at the edges, the candlelight flickering, shadows stretching unnaturally. A strange energy filled the air, making Malick’s skin prickle. His excitement faded into quiet unease, his senses sharpening despite the lingering haze of alcohol.
Finally, the old man stopped on a page and tapped it. His face grew serious.
“Young man,” he said gravely, “you were born under a bad moon, while the dark star circled the planet. A once-in-a-million-year occurrence.”
Malick frowned. “Okay… and?”
The old man leaned forward. “Has your luck always been bad?”
Malick blinked. “Yes! It has!”
The old man nodded sagely. “No wonder, no wonder indeed. You, my son, are destined to be cursed with horrendous misfortune for life.”
Malick’s stomach dropped. “Wait—what?! Is there no way around it?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Malick felt a surge of panic. “B-but—your banner—it liter’ly says I can change my luck here!” he protested, jabbing a shaky finger in the general direction of the entrance, though he wasn’t entirely sure he was pointing at the right thing.
The old man sighed. “That is for people with normal bad luck. Your situation is different. You are a once-in-an-era son of misfortune. There is no cure.”
Malick felt like the walls were closing in—or maybe that was just the tequila catching up to him. Either way, pure desperation took over. “I don’ wanna spend my whole life havin’… horrendous bad luck!” he blurted out, the word horrendous taking far too much effort to pronounce.
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The old man tapped his fingers on the counter, his gaze distant, as if weighing something unseen. The silence stretched long enough for Malick to start swaying again. Then, at last, the old man spoke.
“Well… there is one thing we could do.”
Malick perked up immediately, nearly toppling over from the sudden movement. “WHAT?! Tell me!” Malick slammed his hands onto the counter for emphasis—except he missed slightly and smacked a decorative bowl instead. It wobbled precariously, did a dramatic little spin, and, of course, tumbled to the floor, shattering into pieces.
CRASH
Malick winced. “Ugh, sorryz, I’ll… I’ll pays for dat,” he mumbled.
The old man hesitated, his gaze growing distant, as if peering beyond the veil of time itself. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of something ancient.
“My great-great-grandfather retrieved a talisman from the East—a bracelet forged in rites long forgotten, imbued with energies that ward off misfortune. It does not grant good luck, but it may temper the misfortune that hounds you, reducing your burden to… something more bearable.”
His fingers traced unseen patterns on the counter, the flickering candlelight making the shadows around him dance.
Malick let out a heavy breath, his tequila-laced breath potent enough to get several small mosquitoes in the area drunk. Swaying slightly, he slurred, “Tha’s better ‘n nothing! C’n I… c’n I have it?”
The old man slowly shook his head, his expression unreadable. “This talisman is bound to my family’s lineage, passed down through generations. It is not a mere trinket to be given away to a stranger. Such artifacts choose their bearer… and they do not part from their keepers lightly.”
Malick nodded, his booze-soaked brain scrambling for a solution. He’d read plenty of novels, and in situations like this, the protagonist usually had to do a quest or… something… to get the magic thing.
“Is there—hic!—somethin’ I gotta do? Like, uh… a task… or a mission… or like… does yer fam’ly need help with… somethin’?” he slurred, blinking hard as the room tilted slightly to the left.
The old man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Ahhh… benefactor, you truly understand! You have the heart of a hero.” He sighed deeply. “In fact, there is something. Our store is being forced to move by an unscrupulous landlord who wants the building back. If we could afford to pay this month’s rent, we could tide over these troubles.”
Malick straightened his shoulders, doing his best to look competent despite the tequila doing its best to sabotage him. “I can def’nitely help with that!” he declared, though the word definitely put up a solid fight on its way out of his mouth.
Still, his words were sincere, brimming with the kind of drunken conviction usually reserved for statements like “You ‘n’ me are best friends forever!” or “Watch this—it’s gonna be awesome!”—right before something went horribly, horribly wrong.
The old man slowly rubbed his hands together, his gaze heavy with unspoken weight. “Ahhhh… there is a way,” he murmured, his voice carrying the cadence of something ancient and inevitable. “A sacrifice—not of blood, nor spirit, but of something equally binding.”
He leaned forward, the flickering candlelight casting deep shadows across his lined face. “If you can part with two thousand dollars… the balance may yet be restored, and this place—this sacred space—shall endure.”
Malick flinched. ‘Two thousand dollars?! That was a lot of money.’ His brain, sluggish from alcohol, tried to do the math—how many drinks, burgers, or very questionable life choices that amount could cover—but ultimately, if it meant avoiding a lifetime of bad luck… it was worth it.
With the solemnity of a man making a grand sacrifice, he fumbled into his wallet and pulled out his Visex card, nearly dropping it in the process. “H-here ya go, sir,” he slurred, presenting it with the exaggerated dignity of a knight offering his sword.
BING!
PURCHASE APPROVED.
The old man’s eyes gleamed, a knowing smile spreading across his weathered face. “You are more than a mere customer… you are a benefactor, a force sent by fate itself.” His voice carried an almost reverent tone, as if Malick’s drunken offering had tipped some cosmic balance.
He pressed his palms together, bowing slightly. “Wait here. The heirloom cannot simply be taken—it must be retrieved.” He turned toward the beaded curtain behind him. “I shall send my grandson to fetch the bracelet.”
The candles flickered as he spoke, the air growing thick with something Malick couldn’t quite name—whether it was mysticism or just the lingering effects of tequila was anyone’s guess.
Turning to the back room, he called out in Chinese, “孙子！去拿我的幸运手镯！
(Grandson! Go get me the lucky bracelet.)”
A younger voice called back, “Yes, Grandfather.”
Five minutes later, a teenage boy emerged from the back, holding an old, dust-covered bracelet made of black leather, adorned with tiny charms.
The old man took it carefully and handed it to Malick. “Take this, benefactor. I believe your luck will change soon.”
Malick held it in his hands for a moment before slipping it onto his wrist. He exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”
With that, he stepped out of the shop, the bracelet snug around his wrist, feeling—for the first time in his life—that maybe, just maybe, his fortune was about to turn around.
***
After Malick left, the old man and his “grandson” burst into a raucous celebration behind the counter, surrounded by mysterious trinkets and dusty relics. They cracked open a couple of cheap Tstungting beers—bottles that fizzed as if they were just as excited as the two of them—and lit up Marlbo cigarettes that burned with all the enthusiasm of a candle in a windstorm.
“I can’t believe that a flashy banner and one of those Zbay bracelets got us a two-thousand-dollar windfall!” the grandson said, exclaiming with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke swirl around his head like a makeshift halo.
“Hey! Don’t forget my fantastic acting!” the old man retorted, waving his gnarled hands dramatically as if he were on the stage of some grand theater. His voice carried the same mix of pride and mischief that had charmed Malick moments before. Nearly toppling a precariously balanced vase in his excitement, he added, “Without my Oscar-worthy performance, none of this would have happened!”
The grandson snorted with laughter. “Yeah, yeah, your performance was so Oscar-worthy it might have even given the local drama club a run for their money.” He paused, tapping the bottle as if toasting their newfound fortune. “Honestly, who knew a banner and a bracelet could be worth more than a lifetime of bad luck?”
They clinked their chipped beer bottles together in a toast. “To banners, bracelets, and the miraculous art of creative hustling!” the old man declared with mock solemnity. “May our future deals be as lucrative as this one!”
Leaning back on a creaky stool, the grandson mused, “You know, maybe we should order another batch of these ‘lucky’ bracelets. Imagine—if we can pull off this scam constantly, we could make tons!
The old man chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I like the way you think, my boy. The world may never understand the subtle genius behind our methods, but they’ll certainly never forget the legend of our little shop.”
“Let’s pack up this junk, the drama club will want it back, and get out of here before he sobers up and wants a refund.”
Outside, the city buzzed obliviously along, unaware that inside a cramped, dusty shop, two unlikely partners were plotting their next big score—one where every banner, every bracelet, and every cheap beer would fuel their wildest, most improbable dreams.
***