With a few more dollars and a few less chocolate bars, I headed to the trailer park. I figured that after starving pensioners, trailer-trash jerry springer fans were probably the best candidates for consumerism.
I stopped at a promising off-white trailer with a shattered window, patched up with a sheet of card. There were some small steps leading to a screen covered in bug debris. I grimaced before rapping three times. I stepped back. The air was heavy with a fug of chip fat and I could hear a television blaring from inside the house. Needless to say, it was a chatshow. A dog barked ferociously and I heard a thud as someone rolled off a sofa. A large woman appeared at the door. Out of her mouth hung an old cigarette. She was carrying an ugly-looking baby on her hip and she didn't speak, but barked.
"Whatever you're sellin', I ain't buyin'. Do I look like I gots the money fo' your crap?" I recoiled nervously.
"Er...um...chocolate," I mumbled. She watched me curiously.
"Get in here, boy!" She suddenly opened the screen and pulled me up the old steps.
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