Part XVIII - The Quiet Revolution
The fate of the market test rested, literally, on that rack.
Meanwhile, back inside the quiet shop, the dust motes danced in the fluorescent light. Gary, true to his word, had stacked the twenty comics at the end of the new release rack. The heavy, vibrant comics were an immediate and inescapable visual and textural contrast next to the thin, pale standard superhero titles.
The bell over the front door jingled, and two middle schoolers, Leo and Miguel, shuffled in. They headed straight for the new releases, picking up the latest Wolverine issue.
"Yo, check this out," Leo said, flipping through the thin pages. "This printing is rough, man. Look at the colors—they're bleeding into the panel lines. Did you see the pin-up on the back?"
They followed the aisle, their eyes scanning the spines, until they rounded the end cap. There, like a beacon against the faded paper of the long boxes, was the glossy stack of Bloomers and the Monkey King—brilliant orange and heavy black. Their movement stopped cold.
"Dude, look at this," Leo said, pointing. "The art is insane. Look how clean those lines are. It's got that monkey kid on a bike with the girl, and she's got the capsule machine. That's a whole different vibe."
Miguel snatched a copy. He didn't check the price; he just stared at the thickness of the paper. "Hold up. This isn't a regular comic. It feels like a magazine."
Leo instinctively dropped the Wolverine comic he was holding. "Wait, is this one of those crazy Japanese imports? The colors are incredible. It's got that Star Blazers animation look to it. Nothing else on this rack is printed like this."
Miguel was already opening the comic. "I don't know, but look at the first page. That monkey kid kicks a tree in half? The fight choreography is nuts. I'm buying it. One dollar, right?"
Leo nodded, already reaching for his own copy. "Yeah, one dollar. If this is what comics are now, I'm cleaning out my pull list."
Miguel slapped his copies onto the counter, right next to Gary's elbow. "Two of these, please."
He pulled the cash drawer open with a heavy clunk. "Two dollars total," he mumbled, handing them the change. He watched them go with irritation, already anticipating the twenty copies gathering dust until he could justify sending them back.
Leo and Miguel hurried past the long boxes, heads bent over their new comics, their low, excited whispering immediately lost to the static hum of the fluorescent lights. The bell over the door jingled once more as they disappeared.
A minute of heavy silence passed, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent ballasts. Gary settled back, picking up a crossword puzzle he'd left unfinished.
The bell over the front door jingled, announcing George, an older collector known for his deep well of accumulated comic fatigue. He shuffled past the old spinner rack of faded covers, his eyes skimming over the familiar titles as he headed for the guaranteed back issues. But as he rounded the end of the aisle, his gaze snagged on the vibrant orange cover—the same stack Gary had just dismissed as a nuisance.
He stopped, his hand hovering over the display. George loved the foundational myths of the Silver Age—the moral clarity, the simple origin stories, the struggle between good and evil. But the sheer weight of continuity, the endless footnotes, made every new issue feel like a chore. He picked up Bloomers and the Monkey King, flipping it open to the first few pages.
George carried the comic straight to the counter. "What's this all about, Gary? This is completely new—I haven't seen anything like it."
Gary didn't even look up, still counting quarters. "Just Marcus's bootleg, George. He's asking a dollar."
George nodded, still reading the opening panel. He looked up at Gary, tapping the smooth cover. "It's a breath of fresh air, Gary. It's a clean slate. I don't need to buy twenty back issues just to figure out who the villain is. It's about a boy, a girl, and a quest. That's it. It's pure, uncomplicated energy that anyone can pick up." He placed a five-dollar bill on the counter. "Give me five copies for my nephews."
Gary slowly lifted his head, his irritation fading into cold calculation. Five dollars—five of Marcus's risky books—gone instantly. He rang up the sale, the register bell dinging a high, clear sound that felt too loud in the quiet store.
George collected the thick stack of five comics and walked out, already deeply engrossed in the first page as the door closed behind him.
Gary sat motionless for a long time, the quiet ding of the register still echoing in the silence. He looked at the empty spot on the floor where Marcus's heavy carton had rested. He then looked at the rack, where the orange glow of Bloomers and the Monkey King was now missing seven copies—all sold in less than thirty minutes.
He slowly reached beneath the counter, pulled out a notepad and a fresh stub of pencil, and began running numbers. His first calculation wasn't about profit; it was about risk management.
He paused, running the new total through his mind. Gary had worked for twenty years to build a customer base dependent on predictable, safe inventory. He had mocked innovation and preached nostalgia, yet the two most unlikely customers—a pair of bored kids and George, the oldest collector in the city—had just dismissed the guaranteed sales of established superheroes, reliable Western and war comics, and the comfort of the Archie digests for the simple, clean pleasure of a dollar comic.
Gary leaned forward, his chair creaking slightly, a cold dread settling in his gut. He quickly told himself, "It's just the usual hot minute; it was lucky to get noticed." He put the notepad away and settled his heavy forearms on the counter. He would wait. "I want to see if it all gets sold," he muttered to himself. He would hold his nerve until the last copy was gone.
The small stack of Bloomers and the Monkey King, now barely a sliver on the new release rack, had become the most important piece of inventory in the entire store.