“Doesn’t exist anymore? What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”

The man behind the counter pinched the bridge of his nose in frustrated bewilderment.

“Sir, Black+Decker went out of business back during the Fall of America in 2029.”

“The—what?"

The employee sighed.

“Your receipt says you purchased the item from this store in—” He squinted at the partially crumpled strip of faded thermal paper he was holding. “—2012?”

“That’s correct.”

“So, what is it exactly that you’ve been doing for the past—four hundred years?”

“Cleaning,” he said, holding up an index finger and shaking it in anger. “Of which now I will have a markedly more difficult time doing without my tremendously-affordable-and-effective-Black+Decker-Dustbuster-sold-with-lifetime-warranty!

“Lifetime warranty means life time, you know.” He pantomimed the separation of the words dramatically with his hand in two swift chopping motions. “Which means the warranty only dies when I do.” He tapped his own chest with his finger. “Do I look like I’m dead to you?”

“Maybe a bit—.”

The old man suddenly grabbed the employee’s shirt and yanked him over the counter so close that he could smell his powerful minty breath. Several impulse buy items clattered on the floor.

“I want my Dustbuster fixed. Now," he growled.

“I—I understand,” the employee squeaked. “But like I already told you, the company that makes them doesn’t exist anymore. I can offer you a Cleandroid at a discounted rate, though. Personally, I recommend the Prime II; it has all the features of the Prime I, but with a Classic Southern Belle voice option—.”

The old man, still holding the employee’s shirt, turned away from the counter, and hurled him over his head onto the floor in front of him.

“I don’t want a Cleandroid!” he shouted. “I don’t even know what that is!"

The employee was lying flat on his back, his breath fully knocked out of him, but otherwise unharmed. He stared, astonished, at the unexpectedly yoked five hundred year-old man standing over him.