"h-h... hey. hey, big guy." bart's got his little hands wrapped around a ratty old doll in the shape of a dog. kind of. it wouldn't really count as a plush - it's rice, or something, maybe beads, wrapped in a fabric so rough it cuts into his fingers like canvas-sack. it's old, and the head flops to one side, the paint in its eyes still oddly bright despite its age. he's beaming. it's definitely haunted. "is ... is this ... this - is this for, uh, is this for sale?"
Cutter quickly plucks his reading glasses off his face at the sound of his customer’s voice, shoving them into his pocket. ( He’s gotta be more careful with them things, but they’re the cheap dollar store kind anyway. Easy to replace. ) On his desk lays the May 1954 issue of Weird Tales. He flips it over so the little fucker can’t see the inside of its contents - not that it’s even close to the worst thing he’s ever hidden inside this store. “Lemme see that,” comes his gruff response as he takes it from the kid, holding the doll up to his face and examining it.
He recognizes this thing; one of Baby’s old dolls, one he’d thrown together when she was a little girl. He can still remember the way she’d hugged it, chirping and chattering away to the dog-like thing as if it had been flesh and blood and not made of recycled tote bag. They hadn’t been able to afford anything else for her at the time, and she’d been desperate for a new toy. It was the very least Cutter could do.
What the hell is it doin’ here at the museum? he finds himself wondering, turning it over in his hand. For him, it was small enough that he could wrap a singular fist around it. I didn’t ask for it back, did I? Naw, I wouldn’t. S’hers.
Did Baby not have any use for it anymore? Did she sneak it in right under his nose? The thought brings a great pang to his chest - one he swallows down when meeting the blonde tourist’s gaze, expression blasé as ever.
“’Fraid not,” Cutter declares, passing it back. He wants to believe this one has enough decency not to waltz out of here with it anyway. Here’s to hoping he won’t be proven wrong - he’ll be watching very closely. “That there thing’s cursed. You bring it home, you don’t know what kinda voodoo bullshit you’re gonna wind up unleashin’ onto your ass and I certainly won’t be held liable for that, thank you very much.”
Ever the businessman, he’s already thought of an alternative. Cutter plucks up a particularly ugly Troll doll from the corner of his desk and holds it out in offering. He smiles.
“This little fella, on the other hand, is a good luck charm!”