The kid at the checkout counter obviously had other career plans. His arms were covered with thick, black Celtic tattoos, designed like the crosses you might see atop ancient gravestones in the British isles. On his index finger, he wore a long, chrome implement of some sort, an articulated armored glove that looked like either a prop from an all-night Dungeons and Dragons tournament or a leftover from Stevie Nicks' fall collection. As he began pulling items on the electronic conveyor belt toward the scanner at his cash register, he absent-mindedly poked me in the wrist with his miniature lance,...
