By the time he pulled into the Wal-Mart's enormous parking lot, the day had heated up, his air-con had conked, and he'd accumulated a comet-tail of urchins who wanted to sell him a computer-generated bust of himself in the style of a Roman emperor -- they worked on affiliate commission for some three-d printer jerk in the shanties, and they had a real aggressive pitch, practically flinging their samples at him. He pushed past them and wandered through the open-air market stalls, a kind of cruel parody of the long-gone Florida flea-markets. These gypsies sold fabricated parts that could be modded to make single-shot zip guns and/or bongs and/or illegal-gain wireless antennae. They sold fruit smoothies and suspicious "beef" jerky. They sold bootleg hardcopies of Mexican fotonovelas and bound printouts of Japanese fan-produced tentacle-porn comics. It was all damnably eye-catching and intriguing, even though Sammy knew that it was all junk. Finally, he reached the ticket-window in front of the Wal-Mart and slapped down five bucks on the counter. The guy behind the counter was the kind of character that kept the tourists away from Florida: shaven-headed, with one cockeyed eyebrow that looked like a set of hills, a three-day beard and skin tanned like wrinkled leather. "Hi again!" Sammy said, brightly. Working at Disney taught you to talk happy even when your stomach was crawling -- the castmember's grin. "Back again?" the guy behind the counter laughed. He was missing a canine tooth and it made him look even more sketchy. "Christ, dude, we'll have to invent a season's pass for you." "Just can't stay away," Sammy said. "You're not the only one. You're a hell of a customer for the ride, but you haven't got anything on some of the people I get here -- people who come practically every day. It's flattering, I tell you." "You made this, then?" "Yeah," he said, swelling up with a little pigeon-chested puff of pride. "Me and Lester, over there." He gestured at a fit, greying man sitting on a stool before a small cocktail bar built into a scavenged Orange Julius stand -- God knew where these people got all their crap from. He had the look of one of the fatkins, unnaturally thin and muscled and yet somehow lazy, the combination of a ten kilocalorie diet, zero body-fat and non-steroidal muscle enhancers. Ten years ago, he would have been a model, but today he was just another ex-tubbalard with a serious food habit. Time was that Disney World was nigh-unnavigable from all the powered wheelchairs carting around morbidly obese Americans who couldn't walk from ride to ride, but these days it looked more like an ad for a gymnasium, full of generically buff fatkins in tight-fitting clothes. "Good work!" he said again in castmemberese. "You should be very proud!" The proprietor smiled and took a long pull off a straw hooked into the distiller beside him. "Go on, get in there -- flatterer!"