Lenny Fogsworth, part time book reader.

"Who?"

"Lenny Fogsworth."

"Cammy Palmer?"

"Lenny. Lenny Fogsworth."

"Kenny Edwards?"

"No. Lenny. Lenny. Fogsworth."

"Oh, sorry about that Mr. Bulwark. I have your order right here."

A few minutes later, Lenny Fogsworth shut the door of his mid-2000s sedan. He glanced at the bag on the front passenger seat. A frown settled across his face.

A few seconds later, Lenny was staring down at his lap with a flat, glintless set of eyes.

"What is this?" In his hands was a book, bound in the kind of material whose wrinkles made sounds when opened. The first page had only one line of text.

Book of Reality.

Turning the page with increasing consternation, another tidbit of text was printed on the opposite side.

Whatever is written in this book is true.

Probably some occult thing, thought Lenny. And definitely not what I ordered.

He set his head back against the headrest with a soft thump.

Damn clerk got him another person's purchase. It wasn't his fault that she kept getting his name wrong to the point of exhaustion and him wanting to, frankly, just complete the transaction as quickly as possible and go.

What could it have been? The latent indignance in him? The weather? Everything, maybe?

Whatever the case, Lenny found himself pressing open the central compartment and taking out a pen.

Click.

Setting the tip of it to the first empty page, he began to write his vexations away with class, an ultimate air of elegance and dignity:

"Staff at Type&Co. pick their noses regularly while serving customers as typical etiquette."

More or less satisfied with his inanities, Lenny closed the book and threw it in the bag, opening the car door and, along with it, a can of fresh, polluted air as he snaked back through the parking lot.

"Welcome to Type&Co.!"

As the door closed behind him, Lenny walked straight to the counter to the same girl who had taken care of his online pick-up from earlier. She was currently typing away on the computer, two drapes of hair peeking down from her homely-green hat, the bookstore logo stretched above the visor.

"Excuse me," he set the branded paper bag on the counter-top. "I think you gave me the wrong book."

After a few more seconds of typing, the girl made one firm press on a key and looked up. Then made Lenny's eyes bug out at what she did next.

"Sorry," she smiled, glancing down as she held up a finger in front of her face absentmindedly, blinked, then drew it under her nose. Then, without a single attempt at subtlety, or modesty, or professional decorum, burrowed it into one nostril point blank. As she twisted it around and pushed and shoveled, she continued looking at Lenny with an unfazingly straight, unperturbed face, speaking up once more with a much more nasal underline. "What was that?"

Lenny, meanwhile, couldn't help but blink his wide open eyes at her display.

"Sir? Summee abou' geddin da wrong--"

Before she could even finish, he grabbed the bag, ran into an elderly woman, apologized, and raced out of the store's doors.

"Sir..?" The girl drew her neck back down with a folded lip. She removed her finger from her nose, shrugging. "That was weird."

"What was that about, Stell?" Beside her, a young blonde, her finger also jutted up her nose, and her head also equipped with a branded cap, gestured in the direction of the store entrance while a balding man very slowly and deliberately typed his e-mail address into the pad in front of her.

Stella simply shrugged, sniffed, and the two dropped the subject. Returning to the matter at hand, she recollected herself, leaned forward over the counter, and waved her arm in the air to usher in the next person in line, nose picking finger at the ready.