It was early before the woman had taken her morning Starbucks. The line at the Pop Mart in Key West was already long and winding. The people in it had gone days without using a working toilet. Forgoing personal hygiene for the opportunity to purchase this ugly doll would be worth it.
They lived in darkness. A new Labubu would be their light.
Many had already paid their way into many Labubus. Some attached them to their purses like Rihanna. Others wore them loyally on hats. Still others hung them from belt buckle loops like keys to their fading youth.
The woman knew she must obtain this monster doll with bunny ears. She would not be one of the Labubu have-nots. She could not be defeated by the people looking to buy in bulk and resell them on eBay. So she set a series of timers in her bedroom to awaken her at the moment of the next scheduled drop. In case that failed, she constructed an elaborate pulley system. The moment the Pop Mart app sent a notification of a restocked store, it would drop a bucket of whiskey on her face. Usually, this was at midnight on Fridays. As good a time as any to drink.
Across from the Pop Mart, an old man appeared with a cart. He stoically held a sign that read: FOR SALE, LABUBU DOLLS, NEVER OPENED.
The woman considered this temptation to purchase from an unofficial reseller. She knew they were not Labubus, but Lafufus, the street name for fake Labubus. Weeks earlier, she made the mistake of buying one. Nothing could replace the feeling of ripping open a blind bag and finding an expertly sewn plush and vinyl figurine with an official Pop Mart QR code to verify authenticity.
“A Lafufu is like a whore in a bar,” the woman thought. “I’d pay for one, but I won’t take her out on my Chanel for all to see.”
The Pop Mart suddenly opened, but the line did not appear to be moving. She worried she was waiting for something that would not come. “Damn these tariffs,” she muttered before cursing herself for not trying to get a Labubu from a nearby Robo Shop machine. At the ripe old age of forty-three, she did not embrace new technology as easily as she embraced new plush and vinyl status symbols.
At last, a few Estonians exited the store. They had boxes in hand that they had ripped open to reveal a black and white creature from the Big Into Energy series. The woman could not believe it. Now was the time to think of what she did not have.
“They got an ID?” she thought. This figure was the rarest specimen of Labubu. There was only a one-in-seventy-two chance of unboxing one. She thought about how superior it would make her feel to stroke its coveted fur. “They don’t give me any choice now,” the woman thought. “I must be one of the special edition haves.”
She did what she had to do because she was mad and plenty brave. She didn’t care if she lost an arm in a fight to get the rare Labubu. A person has two arms, and just one shot at a collectible figurine that would seem silly in five years. She ran swinging at the Estonians and snatched it out of their hands like it was a prized mackerel.
Was it luck or were they cowards?
She did not know and she did not care. All she knew was she could be tough so early in the morning. Even without her coffee. But now that she had secured her special Labubu, to hell with the Starbucks. This called for a daiquiri.
