|
|
| | |
| Lacking any better idea, I will now explain the basic premise of this strip, and by extension, my pathetic life. | |
| | |
|
|
| | |
| I work at Outland Station, a specialty retail store located at 6791 Red Road in sunny Miami, Florida. | |
| | |
|
|
|
|
|
| | |
| "Specialty Retail" is tax-speak for "Geek Store". Comics, games, action figures, Captain Kirk cock rings, that sort of garbage. | |
| | |
|
|
| | |
| You can probably imagine the kind of people this exposes me to. You've probably seen them yourself. Shit, you're probably one of them! Freak! | |
| | |
|
|
|
|
|
| | |
| In fact, why the fuck do I do this, anyway? You don't even pay me! | |
| | |
|
|
| | |
| Your "job" is to sit in a comic book store heckling people all day. I'm amazed I don't charge you rent. | |
| | |
|
|
|