"You see, your son happened to select one of our more... extraordinary items," the shopkeeper explained. "He's currently in Victorian England, as you can see.
Mary peered at the television. It did certainly look like it, but that was clearly impossible. "What the hell are you on about? My son can't over 100 years in the past!"
The shopkeeper smiled. "Oh, but he is. And it's not just that. You see, thanks to that parasol, your boy is going to go through a few changes. Pretty soon he'll begin to- Ow!" he cried, as Mary gave him an eyeful of pepper spray.
"I don't want your bull, I want you to tell me where my son is really! He was just here, now you have him on some set for a dickens play!"
"Argh, my eyes! Fuck, what's your problem?"
"What's my problem? I'm not the one who just kidnapped someone's son and sent off to Oliver Twist!" Mary demanded.
"It's not a play or anything, it's the real deal. You son is (owowowow) really back in England sometime in the 1880s. Now where's the phone. I think I might need an ambulance..."
"Oh no, you're not getting off that easy. You're bringing my son back from wherever you took him this instant."
"I can't, okay?"
"Not good enough," Mary threatened, holding out the pepper spray again.
"Jesus, lady, you planning to interrogate me with that shit? You realize how much this burns? My eyes must be literally on fire here."
"I don't care about your eyes, I care about my son!" Mary shouted at the shopkeeper.
