Some folk said Uriah Bleakness
would do the devil proud, should the devil ever
stoop so low. Bleakness—Lord Bleakness,
he’d grown fond of calling himself—owned a
gloomy curio shop at the junction of Pinchin Road
nd Back Church Lane in the bustling parish of
Whitechapel. The merchandise he sold was of a
most Unextraordinary Character, useless to anyone 
but the dustman despite the peeling sign above
the door that read: Everything You Could Ever
Want or Need, and squeezed in at the bottom
in tiny, dim letters (and on a considerable slant) Quality Garran-teed. 
But passersby couldn’t see through the windows no matter how closely they leaned in,
for the mullioned glass was dark under a layer of smog and soot—the crud so thick
that someone had scratched the word poo in it, though inside the shop it read oop.
            Bleakness boasted that he sold outside and inside clothes; second, third,
and fourth-hand thingamajigs, and whats-its that were so fine only the Queen had
their like. He kept the lamps low when showing things like old petticoats, broken
chairs, or cast-off tableware (it isn’t rust, sir, but a rare copper from India. No, no, miss.  Not a stain, just part of the lovely pattern). He took in a small boy, whom he called Boy, to hammer dents out of beaten tankards and teapots; affix tin over holes in buckets and kettles; and embellish brooches, coins, and spoons-and-things with gold paint (which scraped off with the application of a fingernail). Paste jewels glimmered half-heartedly from shadowy boxes, but Bleakness assured the customers they were rare jewels indeed—arrived only a week ago from Java.
            “They sparkle brilliantly in the sun,” he oozed. “In fact, the open space at Leicester Square—three miles away—is the best spot to view such precious merchandise.” And he might cough on it, and rub the gem’s surface, pretending it dazzled all the more with that extra bit of care.
            Bleakness nipped coins and plucked jewels from their settings to replace with glass. He dismantled candlesticks and sold their parts as “Arabian treasures”; melted down silver stolen by wretched urchins who had come to rely on him for a meagre crust should they deliver an object of especial value.
            On a Monday that at first seemed like any other Monday, Bleakness unbolted the shop door and ordered Boy to sweep the stoop. But as Boy emerged from the dim interior of Everything You Could Ever Want or Need, a man in a fine wool coat pushed past him, asking—quite desperately, Bleakness noticed—for a Sneezy-Wipe. Bleakness blinked his damp eyes.
            “Why, I’ve many sorts of wipes,” he said, in his smooth voice. “The finest wipes there are.” (He was always laying it on thick with his customers.) “Do you like blue?” The edges of his lips curled halfway up his cheeks.
            “The colour doesn’t matter; any Sneezy-Wipe will do.”
             “Ah, then allow me.” Bleakness put his hand to a drawer jammed squint-ways in its slot. He pounded it with his fist and wrenched it free, never taking his eyes off the customer’s (for he had learned such a tactic made him appear trustworthy). He riffled through the bric-à-brac, then with the flourish of a stage magician, withdrew a blue handkerchief and gave it a shake to get the dust off. “This is my finest wipe.”