The Misadventures of KCED or You just can't make this stuff up...

When I was thirteen I spent my after school hours at a comic book store, the name of which eludes me at this time. It was a quaint place with lots of neat rows with the most recent comics displayed against the wall and up where the walls met flush with the ceiling there were collectors items on display with price tags out of reach of the meager amount of coin I had on my person. The proprietor of the establishment was an Irish expatriate named Andre who at the time had the reddest hair I'd ever seen and the thickest brogue I'd ever heard. He was a humble man, a pleasant man and to hear him tell it the positively poorest purveyor of pulp periodicals. This man cried poverty so much that I was ashamed of my inability to buy more from him. He understood though. After all, I was just a kid. Months went by and I visited that store and Andre and I talked comics and of course he would sing his sad song of having one foot in his shop and the other in a debtor's prison. This went on until one day after school I went to the shop and found it closed. I shrugged it off thinking that he had just taken a vacation and I walked home. A couple of days later my mother showed me an article in the paper that she thought I would find interesting. The headline was something silly like "Brinks bandits busted" and when I read that article I was stunned to find out that my friend Andre was actually an IRA member by the name of Samuel Ignatius Millar who had, with the help of two of his countrymen, robbed a Brinks armored car for a few million dollars. Needless to say I lost my favorite comic book store and I never again spoke to the poor Irish fellow named Andre who in reality wasn't named Andre and wasn't even poor...