He's a player, always with a notebook in hand. He moves merchandise; jewelry, gold and silver bullion, firearms. You name it he'll find the stash and pass it along at whatever profit the market will bear.
I call him Grease Bear...short, hirsute and oily, forever trailing the scent of garlic. Grease Bear walks in this morning and begins with, "Hey, wanna deal?"
"What 'ya got."
He scratches his nose, flips his pad. "I got eight thousand five hundred rounds of .22. Can you move it for me?"
"It's a deal man. Only $1,400.00."
I held back the laughter.
I cut him short, "Look man. I'm sorry but there's no way in hell I can move twenty-two's at that price. If anything I encourage everyone to wait and allow the market to settle. Supply and demand will correct these silly prices."
Him, "Okay. Sure man. How about some nine's?"
He gave me his price. Again, I held back the laughter.