Easter ; Sagaro Mall - Floor 1
He had many balloons, Easter did. Red balloons, green balloons, pink balloons, balloons with different designs, balloons in the shape of cups, dragons, and horses. If you could think of a balloon, he would have it. In a way, he was proud of his balloons - no one else in Throme had the amount of balloons that he had. True his fortune was prone to popping, but there was something important about each one. He hated selling them, he really did. Especially the ones that he had found himself running around Maybelle Avenue in his spare time. Maybe the peddler would arrive soon with some new designs soon - Easter could only hope.
But he was here to sell them after all. Says his boss. But he didnât like his boss. No. His boss could go and jump into a puddle for as long as he wanted as long as Easter could keep his balloons. Balloons. It was shocking how something made with just a little plastic could be so enjoyable. He turned to look at his stash, looking at it with a critical eye. The green one had become a little deflated, he would have to sell that one soon. He still had a bag of those left in his house, maybe. So that one could go to someone else, he didnât care. It was sub-par quality anyhow.
Just then he saw a high-schooler out of the corner of his eye. Easter didnât pay him that much attention as there were many people of his age group running around. After all, they wouldnât buy his balloons. No, it was the little kids with their poking, prying fingers that wanted to take some of his precious hoard to their house. He hated little kids. Almost as much as he hated his boss. Maybe he also hated his job. Maybe not. He didnât mind the clown getup, it made him so much closer to his balloons. Yes, balloons and clowns went well together.
âExcuse me, how much is a balloon?â
He turned towards him with a sign of anger in his eyes. âBalloons?â he asked himself, before giving a wide, nearly inhuman smile. He would love to see this thief of balloons roasted like a pig, but he couldnât. Maybe his dragon balloon would do the honors. âHow much is it worth? A price for happiness?â Easter turned towards the boy, and stared unblinkingly. âThe price of plastic and air. The price for a balloon.â Wait. No. Thatâs not what he was supposed to say. His boss had said something about how he wasnât supposed to ask questions when asked one. He was supposed to give answers. AnswersâŠ
But what was the price for a balloon? It was priceless. Priceless like happiness because balloons were happiness. Sheer bliss. His eye looked around to see the price of one of the shirts that they were selling at one of the stores nearby. His balloons would be worth more than that, but since the student didnât know the value of balloons, Easter guessed that it would do. âTwenty argen for the ones with dual-colors or designs, and ten argen for the really simple ones.â His gaze turned on the green balloon - the one that he didnât like any more. âThis oneâs 69 cents,â he said flatly. âYou should buy that one. Itâs green.â And I donât want it anymore. âIt would be good for you.â
Wait. He was a clown. Clowns were supposed to be funny. He plucked one of his balloons from the rack, untwisted the bottom, and inhaled the helium from it. âAhahaha,â he said in a high voice. That would do if the boy wanted funny. Looking at the balloon in his hand, he realized that it was the black and silver one. âAhahaha. Iâm a clown⊠and clowns like balloonsâ Taking the balloon that was now flat, he placed it softly, almost gingerly back on the rack. He would bring it home and administer more air to it. It was the only black and silver balloon he had. It was his favorite. It liked him as well - Easter could tell because he was a clown.
But he was here to sell them after all. Says his boss. But he didnât like his boss. No. His boss could go and jump into a puddle for as long as he wanted as long as Easter could keep his balloons. Balloons. It was shocking how something made with just a little plastic could be so enjoyable. He turned to look at his stash, looking at it with a critical eye. The green one had become a little deflated, he would have to sell that one soon. He still had a bag of those left in his house, maybe. So that one could go to someone else, he didnât care. It was sub-par quality anyhow.
Just then he saw a high-schooler out of the corner of his eye. Easter didnât pay him that much attention as there were many people of his age group running around. After all, they wouldnât buy his balloons. No, it was the little kids with their poking, prying fingers that wanted to take some of his precious hoard to their house. He hated little kids. Almost as much as he hated his boss. Maybe he also hated his job. Maybe not. He didnât mind the clown getup, it made him so much closer to his balloons. Yes, balloons and clowns went well together.
âExcuse me, how much is a balloon?â
He turned towards him with a sign of anger in his eyes. âBalloons?â he asked himself, before giving a wide, nearly inhuman smile. He would love to see this thief of balloons roasted like a pig, but he couldnât. Maybe his dragon balloon would do the honors. âHow much is it worth? A price for happiness?â Easter turned towards the boy, and stared unblinkingly. âThe price of plastic and air. The price for a balloon.â Wait. No. Thatâs not what he was supposed to say. His boss had said something about how he wasnât supposed to ask questions when asked one. He was supposed to give answers. AnswersâŠ
But what was the price for a balloon? It was priceless. Priceless like happiness because balloons were happiness. Sheer bliss. His eye looked around to see the price of one of the shirts that they were selling at one of the stores nearby. His balloons would be worth more than that, but since the student didnât know the value of balloons, Easter guessed that it would do. âTwenty argen for the ones with dual-colors or designs, and ten argen for the really simple ones.â His gaze turned on the green balloon - the one that he didnât like any more. âThis oneâs 69 cents,â he said flatly. âYou should buy that one. Itâs green.â And I donât want it anymore. âIt would be good for you.â
Wait. He was a clown. Clowns were supposed to be funny. He plucked one of his balloons from the rack, untwisted the bottom, and inhaled the helium from it. âAhahaha,â he said in a high voice. That would do if the boy wanted funny. Looking at the balloon in his hand, he realized that it was the black and silver one. âAhahaha. Iâm a clown⊠and clowns like balloonsâ Taking the balloon that was now flat, he placed it softly, almost gingerly back on the rack. He would bring it home and administer more air to it. It was the only black and silver balloon he had. It was his favorite. It liked him as well - Easter could tell because he was a clown.