Chapter 3: The Walking Dead Gamble
Three weeks of running this shop and I'm starting to understand something fundamental: I have an unfair advantage and absolutely no idea how to use it.
The Iron Fist comics are down to thirty copies. Not because of some brilliant marketing strategy—they're selling because collectors keep coming in asking for them specifically. Word got out somehow. The internet, probably. Some forum where comic nerds discuss which issues are getting scarce.
I didn't plan that. I just got lucky with an ordering mistake.
Except it wasn't luck, was it?
Wednesday afternoon. New release day. Sheldon walks in at exactly 4:47 PM—I've noticed he does everything on a schedule—with two other guys trailing behind him.
"Stuart, these are my colleagues from Caltech." Sheldon gestures formally, like he's presenting evidence at a trial. "Leonard Hofstadter, you've met. This is Howard Wolowitz and Rajesh Koothrappali."
Howard is shorter than the others, with a belt buckle that catches the light—is that a Batman logo?—and a turtleneck under his jacket. Raj is tall, well-dressed, not making eye contact.
"Hey." I raise a hand. "Welcome to the shop."
"Dude, you have the entire Justice League run?" Howard immediately zeroes in on the display I set up last week. "Nice."
Leonard smiles, apologetic. "Sorry we keep invading. Sheldon's very particular about his Wednesday schedule."
"It's fine." And it is. Having regular customers feels good. "You guys looking for anything specific?"
"The new Hulk." Sheldon's already at the Marvel section, moving with purpose. "Issue forty-one should have arrived today."
While they browse, I'm at the counter going through my distributor's catalog for next month's orders. This is the part I hate—trying to guess what will sell versus what will sit on the shelf collecting dust.
Then I see it.
The Walking Dead #1. Image Comics. Release date: October 8th.
The tingle hits immediately. Stronger than usual. My vision blurs for a second and suddenly I'm seeing—not remembering, seeing—this comic with a different cover. A black and white variant. A price tag that makes my current bank account look like pocket change. Forums full of people desperately hunting for first printings. News articles about a TV show.
A TV show.
I grip the counter edge and breathe through it. The images fade but the certainty remains, rock-solid and inexplicable.
This comic is going to be massive.
"You okay?" Leonard is standing at the counter with a stack of comics. "You look kind of pale."
"Low blood sugar." I use the same excuse from last time. "Forgot to eat lunch."
He doesn't look convinced but doesn't push it. Sheldon appears beside him, adding his selections to the pile.
"Stuart, I have a query regarding your inventory management system."
Of course you do.
"What about it?"
"How do you determine ordering quantities for new series? Do you utilize historical sales data, market trend analysis, or predictive algorithms?"
Howard snorts from the Justice League section. "Dude, it's a comic shop, not NASA."
"Proper inventory management is crucial for business viability," Sheldon counters. "The failure rate for small retail establishments is—"
"I usually just order a few copies of everything," I interrupt, before this turns into a lecture. "See what sells, order more of that next time."
"A reactive rather than proactive strategy." Sheldon considers this. "Statistically inefficient, but adequate for limited capital situations."
I ring up their purchases while they argue about whether reactive business strategies can ever be optimal. Raj still hasn't said a word, but he's watching everything with this intense attention, like he's cataloging the whole interaction.
The shop is empty again after they leave. I stare at the distributor catalog, at that listing for The Walking Dead #1.
Standard order would be five copies. Maybe ten if I'm feeling optimistic.
My hand hovers over the order form.
Fifty copies.
The number appears in my mind fully formed, certain. Like I already made this decision in another life.
I write it down before I can talk myself out of it.
"You ordered FIFTY copies?" Howard's voice carries across the shop. "Of a zombie comic?"
It's Saturday. They're back—apparently this is becoming a thing now—and I've just made the mistake of mentioning my Walking Dead order.
"It's not just a zombie comic." I'm reorganizing the back issue bins, trying to look casual. "It's from the guy who did Battle Pope. And the writer did some stuff for Marvel."
"Battle Pope?" Leonard looks intrigued. "That's the one where the pope fights demons in a post-apocalyptic future?"
"See, even the premise is ridiculous." Howard leans against the counter. "Nobody wants religious satire mixed with zombies. You're wasting money on another zombie thing. There's like, a hundred zombie comics already."
The tingle is back, but duller this time. More like confirmation than new information. I know I'm right about this. The certainty sits in my chest like a weight.
"I've got a good feeling about it."
"A good feeling." Sheldon looks up from the graphic novel he's examining. "That's not a viable business strategy. Feelings are chemical reactions in the brain, not predictive indicators of consumer behavior."
"Sometimes you just know." I can't explain it better than that. "Call it instinct."
"Instinct is pattern recognition based on prior experience," Sheldon continues, warming to the topic. "What prior experience do you have with this particular publisher, creative team, and genre combination that would generate reliable predictive instinct?"
I died and absorbed knowledge from the void between dimensions.
"I read a lot of comics?"
Raj finally speaks, soft and uncertain. "Maybe it's divine intervention. Sometimes the universe guides us toward correct decisions through intuition."
Howard laughs. "Dude, you think God cares about comic book orders?"
"Not God specifically. Perhaps cosmic forces we don't understand. Destiny, karma, the alignment of—"
"It's not destiny," I cut in. "It's just business. You order what you think will sell."
But Howard's right. Fifty copies is insane. My entire Walking Dead budget is twelve hundred dollars—money I should be spreading across multiple titles. If this fails, I'm eating ramen for a month.
Sheldon is still staring at me with that analytical intensity. "Your probability calculations must be extraordinarily precise to justify such a concentrated investment."
"Sure. Let's call it that."
They leave with their purchases, and I'm alone with my decision. The order form is already submitted. Too late to back out now.
Four days until The Walking Dead #1 arrives.
Four days to find out if I'm brilliant or broke.
The comic arrives on a Tuesday.
The boxes are smaller than the Iron Fist disaster—only fifty copies instead of a hundred—but they feel heavier somehow. Like the weight of a decision I can't take back.
I open one box just to look at it. The cover is stark: a cop on a horse, riding through an empty highway. The title in bold red letters. Simple. Effective.
This is going to change everything.
I don't know where the thought comes from, but it's absolute.
Wednesday, I put ten copies in the new release section. Price them at cover—$2.99. Nothing fancy. No special display like the Iron Fist pyramid.
The first copy sells in an hour.
By closing time, all ten are gone.
Thursday, I put out fifteen more. They're gone by 2 PM.
Friday morning, a guy in a Romero "Dawn of the Dead" t-shirt offers me twenty bucks for my personal reading copy.
"It's not for sale," I say, which is true. I need to keep one copy for myself. For proof, maybe. Or just to remember that sometimes these hunches work out.
"Thirty bucks."
"Not for sale."
He leaves disappointed. Three more people ask about it throughout the day. By Saturday, I'm down to five copies and people are calling ahead to ask if I have any left.
Sheldon and his friends show up around 4 PM, their usual time. All four of them this time—Howard, Leonard, Raj, and Sheldon moving through the door like a coordinated unit.
"I require clarification," Sheldon announces, no greeting. "You ordered fifty copies of The Walking Dead #1?"
"Yeah."
"And they've all sold?"
"All but these five. And I'm keeping one."
Sheldon exchanges looks with Leonard. Howard just laughs.
"Dude. How did you know?"
I shrug, arranging the remaining copies in the display case. "I told you. Good feeling."
"That's not—" Sheldon starts, but Raj interrupts.
"It's the universe," Raj says, more confident now. "I told you. Divine guidance. Stuart is aligned with cosmic forces beyond our understanding."
"Or he got lucky," Leonard suggests. "Right place, right time, good instinct."
Howard picks up one of the remaining copies, flips through it. "You think this is actually good, or just hyped?"
"It's good." I've read my copy three times now. "The writing is solid. The art is perfect for the tone. And it's actually saying something about human nature, not just gore for shock value."
"Philosophical zombies." Howard grins. "I'm in. Ring me up."
They each buy a copy. While I'm processing the sale, they drift into this intense discussion about zombie genre conventions, survival strategies, the metaphorical significance of the undead as social commentary.
I listen, adding occasional comments. The conversation flows easy. Natural. Like I've known these guys for years instead of weeks.
"You know," Leonard says, counting out bills for his purchase, "we usually play Halo on Friday nights. At our place. You should come by sometime."
My hand freezes halfway to the register. "Yeah?"
"I mean, if you want." He's trying to sound casual, but there's genuine invitation in his voice. "We order pizza, play video games, argue about stupid stuff. Pretty low-key."
Howard jumps in. "Bring beer and you're automatically invited. That's the rule."
"I don't drink beer," Raj says quietly.
"Then bring alcohol-free beer and tell yourself it's real. Whatever works."
Sheldon adjusts his stance, formal. "While I cannot guarantee the quality of social interaction, the gaming sessions are statistically above average in both skill level and entertainment value. Your attendance would be acceptable."
Coming from Sheldon, that's practically a presidential invitation.
"Friday night?" I hear myself say. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Cool." Leonard writes down an address on the back of a receipt. "Around seven. Apartment 4A."
They leave as a group, still arguing about zombie metaphors. I stand in my empty shop, holding the receipt with the address, and something in my chest unclenches.
Actual friends.
Not customers who tolerate me. Not business contacts. Friends who invited me to their place because they want me there.
Four weeks ago, I was dead. Three weeks ago, I was alone in a failing shop. Now I have regular customers who are becoming friends, a comic that sold out because I trusted an impossible hunch, and a game night invitation that feels more valuable than any amount of money.
I lock up at closing time and walk to my car—Stuart's car, a beat-up Honda Civic that smells faintly of old french fries—and just sit there for a minute.
The tingles are getting stronger. More frequent. More specific. I'm starting to understand that they're not random—they're connected to things that matter. Investments. Opportunities. People.
People.
The flash I got when Penny knocked on Leonard's door last week. The certainty that she's important somehow. The way Sheldon feels familiar, like I've known him in another life.
These guys aren't just customers. They're part of something. Part of whatever this new life is supposed to be.
I pull out my hidden notebook and add to my list:
The Walking Dead #1 - bought 50 copies, sold out in 4 days. Sheldon's friends: Leonard, Howard, Raj. Game night Friday 7 PM. Trust the tingles. They're right more often than they're wrong.
And below that, in smaller writing:
Figure out what the hell is happening to me before someone else does.
I start the car and drive home through Pasadena streets that are starting to feel less strange. The knowledge that I don't belong here—that I'm wearing someone else's life like an ill-fitting coat—that feeling is fading.
Maybe because I'm making this life mine.
One impossible hunch at a time.
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