The most surprising thing about running a legitimate business wasn't the paperwork or the threat of impending holy war. It was the inventory management.
Reed stood behind a sleek, black wooden counter in the corner of the Twilight Spire's lobby. He held up a t-shirt. It was black, made of cheap cotton, and featured a crude, magic-printed image of his own face with glowing purple eyes.
Below the face, in bright red comic sans font, it read: I GOT BONED AT THE TWILIGHT SPIRE.
"Maira," Reed said, staring at the shirt. "Explain this."
The Admin didn't look up from her ledger. She was sitting on a high stool behind the counter, organizing a stack of waivers. "It is a double entendre, Master. The skeletons have bones. The difficulty is high. And the 'Spicy' reputation of the establishment implies... other meanings. It tested very well with the eighteen-to-twenty-four demographic."
