"I'll just... pull it," he muttered. He tried a flathead screwdriver. The plastic groaned. He tried a hammer. The ink inside the vial shifted, a dark, threatening swirl of permanent purple ruin. If that vial cracked, his $800 investment would look like it had been through a paintball war.
Arthur didn’t look like a man about to commit a felony; he looked like a guy who had lost his mind in a suburban living room.
He looked at the boots. He looked at the "Add to Cart" button. "Forget it," he snapped, slamming the laptop shut.
The cashier didn't even look up. She grabbed the magnetic detacher—the very same silver cone Arthur had seen online—and with a satisfying thwack-click , the tag dropped off. "Sorry about that," she droned. "Have a nice day."