MONEYHOLE

Born from the bile of the gods and the spoiled wheat of the Tiber, MONEYHOLE offers only the finest crooked wares for your undeserving hands. Here, amidst the dust of broken amphorae and the sobs of failed poets, we peddle goods stitched together by blind crones and half-dead donkeys. Do not ask for quality; you will find none. Do not seek fairness; we laugh in your faces. Every tunic, trinket, and tincture has been cursed thrice by a legion of bitter spirits. Prices change hourly according to the whims of the rats who manage our accounts. Buy something. Starve in the gutter like your fathers. It makes no difference to us.