They’d just, you know, rule.

These are guys who can’t figure out social media technology, so Ben figures their days of rule have gone the way of the compact disc.

Anyway, this guy who looked to be in his fifties sat there staring at Ben.

Very high creepiness rating.

Ben was like, do I know you, am I supposed to know you, is this some sort of weird early-morning gay thing? Or is this guy just one of those “I’m a people person” tools who thinks it’s his human duty to strike up conversations with people sitting alone at restaurants?

Ben is not I-like-to-meet-new-people guy. He’s I’m-reading-my-frea king-newspaper-and-flirting-with-the-waitress-so-leave-me-the-fuck-alo ne guy.

So he said, “Bro, no offense, but I’m kind of into what I’m reading.”

Like, there are five empty tables, why don’t you sit down at one of them?

The guy said, “I’ll only take a minute of your time, son.”

“I’m not your son,” Ben said. “Unless my mother has been deceiving me all these years.”

“Shut your smartass mouth and listen,” the guy said quietly. “We didn’t mind when you were selling a little custom shit to your friends. But when it starts showing up in Albertsons, it’s a problem.”

“It’s a free market,” Ben answered, thinking he sounded like a Republican all of a sudden. Seeing as how Ben is generally to the left of Trotsky, this came as an unpleasant epiphany.

“There is no such thing as a ‘free market,’” Old Guys Rule said. “The market costs-there are expenses. You want to sell up in L.A., compete with our little brown and black brothers, be our guest. Orange County, San Diego, Riverside-you pay a licensing fee. Are you paying attention?”

“I’m riveted.”

“Are you clowning me?”

“No.”

“Because I wouldn’t like that.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you,” Ben said. “So, for the sake of discussion, what happens if I don’t pay this licensing fee?”