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A green portal hole appears in the middle of the shop. Rick Sanchez steps into the fine Italian shop.
Outdated. Looks like Micheal Corleone took a shit on the walls and smells like what you imagine the Godfather’s armpits smelt like, ugh.
Rick spits on the ground, posts a tattered piece of paper on the door, and portals away.
The note reads:
Dear Patrons,
I have enjoyed my time spent making suits for all of my fine patrons. Some great friends were made, and we all shared the common bond we have here in this thing of ours. We all know death will call for us all one day. Even the mightiest will fall. I have turned over all operations to Rick. He will continue to post suits here for display. I have closed all my warehouses, and left only my Corporate offices open. Good luck to all.
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