His eyes are transfixed, buoys in an ocean of possibilities, floating in the murky depths of his cowl. You can’t help feeling a bit smug as you say, “Where I found it should be none of your concern, friend. But not to worry, you can have it for the right price”. This last word awakens your interlocutor from his trance. Suddenly, a meaningful link forms between eyes and hands. Yes, ownership! He seems to be quite specific about the word “right” next to “price”, as without further deliberation he pulls a gun on you. You knew this wasn’t going to end well for either party. On the one hand — yours, disappointment, on the other — his, extinction. But did you have a choice, really? Inside the bag, the tiniest Buddha stops smiling. It’s an ominous sign. Especially for the stupid monk whose gun-wielding hand starts twisting seemingly by its own accord. The buoys now flounder in the murky darkness as a single bullet disappears between them, and the back of the monk’s cowl shatters in a million droplets. The tiniest Buddha shakes his head as he looks at you and says, “Next”.