Chapter 4: The Walking Dead Gamble
Six weeks had passed since my Bitcoin purchase, and I'd managed to avoid thinking about it for exactly zero of those days. Every morning, I checked the price like a addict checking for a fix, watching it hover between fifteen and twenty-five dollars with all the volatility of a caffeinated teenager. But that wasn't my only gamble paying off.
The Walking Dead #1 issues I'd ordered in bulk sat prominently displayed near the register, and I was starting to feel like a drug dealer with the good stuff. Word had gotten out somehow—the way it always does in comic circles—that the new guy at the Pasadena shop had scored big on inventory that other stores couldn't even keep in stock.
Which was how I found myself, on a Tuesday afternoon that should have been dead quiet, watching a line of customers stretch from my register to the front door.
"I'll take three copies," the guy at the front of the line said, sliding cash across the counter. "Heard this thing's gonna be huge when the TV show announcement drops."
I kept my expression neutral despite my racing pulse. "TV show?"
"Yeah, man. My buddy works at AMC, says they're already in talks about adapting it. Zombie stuff is hot right now after 28 Days Later and all that. This Kirkman guy hit gold."
"If you only knew," I thought, carefully sliding three pristine issues into protective bags. In my original timeline, The Walking Dead would become a cultural phenomenon that dominated television for over a decade. These $2.99 comics would sell for hundreds on the secondary market within two years.
But I was learning that success came with its own complications.
"Stuart!" Sheldon's voice cut through the crowd as he and Leonard pushed through the line. "This commercial chaos is statistically improbable. What variable accounts for your sudden customer influx?"
Leonard surveyed the scene with the analytical eye of a physicist observing an unexpected experimental result. "Seriously, what happened? Last week this place was quiet enough to hear a pin drop."
I gestured at the Walking Dead display with what I hoped looked like modest confusion. "Honestly? I just ordered extra copies because I liked the first issue. Word must have gotten around that I actually had them in stock when other places sold out."
"Simple supply and demand," Leonard nodded. "But how did you know to order extras before demand spiked?"
The question hung in the air like a challenge. I could feel Sheldon's intense gaze analyzing my micro-expressions for signs of deception, while Leonard's physicist brain tried to calculate the probability of my continued "lucky guesses."
"Gut instinct," I said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Same reason I mentioned Bitcoin that night. Sometimes you just get a feeling about things."
Sheldon's eyebrows rose in perfect synchronization. "Ah yes, your mysterious cryptocurrency fixation. I took the liberty of researching Bitcoin after our conversation. Current trading value appears to be approximately twenty-two dollars per unit."
"That's... actually up from when we talked about it," Leonard observed. "What was it when you first mentioned it?"
"Around nineteen," I admitted, trying to sound casually surprised rather than vindicated.
"A fifteen percent return in six weeks," Leonard calculated quickly. "That's annualized growth of... holy crap, Stuart. That's better than most mutual funds."
The customer I was helping cleared his throat impatiently. "Are we doing this transaction or what?"
I processed his sale quickly, but my mind was racing. Leonard's observation was innocent enough, but it was exactly the kind of pattern recognition that could become dangerous if it continued. My "lucky streaks" were starting to look less like luck and more like insider knowledge.
As the afternoon crowd thinned out, I noticed changes that went beyond my bank account balance. The first time I caught my reflection in the shop's front window, I did a double-take. My posture was straighter, shoulders squared with a confidence that hadn't been there before. Stuart's normally pale complexion had gained a healthier color, and the perpetual dark circles under his eyes had faded.
The Attractiveness power was subtle but undeniable. Each genuine success—every satisfied customer, every profitable sale, every moment of authentic connection—translated into incremental improvements that compounded like interest. My voice carried better now, clearer and less mumbly. When I made eye contact with people, they held my gaze instead of looking away uncomfortably.
"It's not magic," I realized. "It's confidence made manifest. Success breeding success in the most literal way possible."
Around four o'clock, when the crowd had finally dispersed and I was restocking the Walking Dead display, Leonard approached the counter alone. Sheldon had wandered off to examine my organizational system with the intensity of an archeologist studying ancient artifacts.
"Can I ask you something?" Leonard said, his voice carrying an odd tension.
"Sure."
"Are you okay? I mean, beyond the obvious business success. You seem... different lately. More confident. More put-together." He gestured vaguely at my face. "Taller, somehow."
My heart rate spiked, but I forced myself to laugh. "Taller? I'm pretty sure I'm the same height I was last month, Leonard."
"I know how it sounds," he said quickly. "But something's changed. Your voice is clearer, your posture is better, you're making eye contact more. It's like you got some kind of confidence upgrade."
"Perceptive. Too perceptive."
"Maybe I'm just feeling good about the shop finally turning a profit," I offered. "Amazing what not worrying about rent every day can do for your self-esteem."
Leonard nodded, but his physicist's brain was clearly still processing data that didn't quite add up. "The Walking Dead thing, the Bitcoin mention, now this transformation... I'm starting to see a pattern here, and my pattern recognition is pretty good."
Before I could respond, a new voice interrupted our conversation.
"Excuse me, are you Stuart Bloom?"
I turned to see a guy in his early thirties with ink-stained fingers and the slightly wild-eyed look of someone who'd been living on coffee and creative passion. He wore a faded Watchmen t-shirt and carried a portfolio under one arm.
"That's me. Can I help you?"
"I'm Alex Rivera," he said, extending a hand. "I'm a local comic creator—indie stuff mostly. I heard about your shop from some guys at a convention. They said you actually care about the medium, not just moving product."
The Magnetism power stirred in my chest, that subtle warmth that I was learning to recognize as my natural draw for creative industry types. Alex's presence in my shop wasn't coincidence—it was the power working exactly as designed.
"I try to," I said, shaking his hand. "What kind of work do you do?"
For the next three hours, Alex Rivera held court in my shop, discussing everything from indie publishing economics to the artistic integrity of mainstream superhero comics. Leonard and Sheldon gradually joined the conversation, then Howard and Raj showed up for their regular visit and got pulled into the discussion as well.
But what struck me wasn't just the quality of the conversation—it was the atmosphere. The shop felt different with Alex there, like it had gained some kind of creative gravitational field. Customers lingered longer, engaged more deeply with the material, asked more thoughtful questions. Even Sheldon seemed more animated than usual, his rigid social protocols relaxing in the face of genuine artistic passion.
"This place has good energy," Alex said as he prepared to leave, sliding his business card across the counter. "It feels like people actually care here, you know? Most comic shops are either sterile retail spaces or gatekeeping dungeons. But this... this feels like a community hub."
After he left, promising to bring some colleagues by next week, I stood behind my counter surveying the transformed landscape of my life. The cash register showed the highest single-day sales in the shop's history. My Walking Dead stock was down to three issues. I had a local creator's business card in my pocket and a growing network of industry connections that I'd never actively sought.
The Magnetism power was working exactly as promised, but it raised uncomfortable questions about authenticity. Was I genuinely building something meaningful, or was supernatural influence doing the heavy lifting? Did it matter, as long as the results were positive for everyone involved?
Leonard approached the counter one more time before leaving, his expression thoughtful. "Stuart, I need to say something. Whatever's happening with you lately—the business success, the confidence boost, the way you're attracting all these interesting people—it's really impressive. I just hope you're not getting in over your head somehow."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean sudden dramatic changes can be... complicated. Sometimes when things seem too good to be true, they are. And sometimes they attract the wrong kind of attention."
Leonard's concern was genuine, which made my deception feel even heavier. He was trying to protect a friend, not knowing that the friend in question was operating with advantages that shouldn't exist.
"I appreciate the concern," I said finally. "But I think I'm just hitting my stride, you know? Sometimes it takes a while to figure out what you're actually good at."
Leonard nodded, but I could see him filing away more data points in the growing algorithm of Stuart Bloom's statistical improbabilities.
After everyone left and I'd locked up for the night, I sat in my apartment with my laptop open to both my Bitcoin exchange account and my bank statement. The Bitcoin had climbed to $27—a 40% gain in six weeks. My shop's daily sales were averaging triple what they'd been a month ago. My reflection in the laptop screen showed continued subtle improvements in my physical presence.
All three powers were working in harmony now, creating a feedback loop of success that felt both exhilarating and terrifying. But with each victory, the weight of my secrets grew heavier.
"I'm building something real here," I told myself. "Friendships, community, creative connections. The powers are just tools—what matters is what I do with them."
But late at night, alone with the ghosts of two different sets of memories, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was living on borrowed time. The more successful I became, the more questions people would ask. And eventually, someone as smart as Leonard Hofstadter or Sheldon Cooper would ask the right questions in the right order.
When that happened, I'd better have answers that made sense—or a plan for what comes next.
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