Today I went to another store for inventory. I unlocked a display case to count rare books, and what should be in it waiting for me?

A signed copy of The King in Yellow, that's what.

Maybe my tattoo didn't start to writhe and sear my flesh, and maybe I wasn't struck mad and blind by visions of the King. Maybe. But the book came home with me anyway. I may regret this when I check my bank balance tomorrow, but I don't really care.