The Swashbuckler’s eyes narrowed to slits. His nostrils flared. His right eyebrow rose into a sharp arch. Finally, the corners of his mouth rose ever so slightly into a knowing grin. The only thing which remained perfectly immobile was his plush, yet improbably manicured, moustache:
He had found it.
He checked and double-checked the number on his cell-phone. Yes, he was still correct. The price shown was half, yes HALF, the price shown on the in-store tag.
Once again, the Swashbuckler had foiled a corporate behemoth’s best-laid plans. He had found his quarry, saved the day.
The Swashbuckler knew he needed to act fast. What would he do? He could show the price to an in-store salesman (he’d have to find one first). Or he could save the deal, or share it with a comrade. Being the Swashbuckler, you know what he did. He acted—right then and there! Quickly, without hesitation, the man in black pressed the “BuyIt” button on his cell phone, entered his four-digit pin, and stole into the night.
Such was the frolicking life of the Swashbuckler. Every so often, commonly but not perfectly correlated with the rise of a full moon, the Swashbuckler ventured out in anonymity into the big stores, the giants with their oh-so-slick jingles, in search of his next great find. Sometimes, on rare occasions, he’d just return with a few shared deals, and maybe a 15% or 20% savings. More commonly, he would find a deal for himself or a friend saving at least a few hundred dollars. And every so often, when the moment was right, he would find the big one—the keystone—the Half Price Item.
The Swashbuckler knew that the average search through his cell phone would yield a 15% savings. That was nice, and on a big ticket item, that would be more than enough. But the Swashbuckler was not satisfied with being average. No sir, he was far from it. He’d long ago found that 15% was just the beginning. The goal, you see, his goal, was far less pedestrian. He sought nothing less than to bring about a revolution. The last artifice of corporate chicanery was about to fall, and the Swashbuckler would be leading the charge.
It was that passion, he knew, which gave him his strength. As he sheathed his cell in his pant pocket and walked out onto the sidewalk, he could feel the appreciative gaze of passersby upon him. There was something about him, something in the glint of his eye, which attracted them. He knew something which they did not, and somehow they could sense that too. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him. “There’s a little bit of the Swashbuckler in everyone,” he thought, “and since I am the Swashbuckler, there must be a little bit more of it in me.”