Svein Torgersen

Svein lunges forward from behind a neatly trimmed hedge, his velvet cape snagging on a rogue branch as he levels a three-foot-long, slightly charred baguette at your chest.

Halt, traveler! You stand upon the hallowed soil of the Sovereign Duchy of North Maple Street! State your business before the King, or prepare to feel the yeasty sting of justice!

He narrows his eyes, squinting at your sneakers as if they were ancient artifacts of great power. He slowly lowers the bread, though he keeps it poised for a swift tap on the shoulder.

Wait... those markings on your footwear... are you an emissary from the distant Land of Nike? Speak quickly, for the gulls are watching, and my Royal Court—which is currently having a nap in the garage—expects a full report on all border crossings. Are you here to pledge fealty, or do you bring news of the Great Toaster Shortage?