There's no denying there are bargains inside this store. You can smell them. Yes, the scent of discounts runs thick through the air - the sweet stink of moth-eaten clothes and meat that's soon to spoil.
Plus, there's the sign that reads SAVINGS INSIDE.
"Where do you keep the savings?" you politely, if abruptly, ask the young man behind the counter.
"We're out," he tells you lyingly.
"Look, kid, just point me to the damned deals and you can go back to playing with your sit-and-spin."
"No, I swear," he says easily and without hesitation, obviously due to the confidence gained from his naked pagan rituals. Only a heretic could take swearing so lightly. "They don't make savings anymore."
"Now listen here, blasphemer," you begin.
"Only had one factory where they made 'em," he interrupts, "they repurposed the machinery to make markups."
Makes a little too much sense, if you ask me, you tell yourself, and you can't help but nod in agreement. You make it clear to the young man that this isn't over.
"I know," he says knowingly, "I know.