“You sure about this?” Boris asked, wishing to confirm.  “This is a helluva lotta product to just be handing over, gratis, Ernie.”  The carbon fiber supplier to Boris’s custom orders grinned at him, as if he’d said the stupidest thing in the galaxy.  “Are you kidding me, Boris?  The amount of parts you’ve purchased from me over the years, man, would put two of my kids through college.”  An amused pause.<br/><br/>“Uh, you don’t have any kids, Ernie,” Boris conveniently pointed out.  Ernie blankly looked back at him.  Clearly, this was brand new news to him.  Finally, he spewed, “I know!  Ain’t it fucking great?!”<i>B’s Knees Moto’s </i>owner vigorously laughed while nodding his head in agreement.  “Yes, it is, my friend.  Yes, it is.”<br/><br/>Gravitating toward the front door, Ernie spun around and asked, “So you okay with this?” as his head bobbed toward the pair of medium-sized boxes.  “I am if you are,” Boris replied, “though it’s really not necessary.”  Ernie waved it off with a wide grin as he exited the shop.<br/><br/>As he rooted through the first box, it was obvious to Boris that its entirety consisted of motorcycle-related products.  (Wow, really?  Surprise of all surprises.)  There were key fobs, pins, hats, t-shirts, stickers (score! – Boris loved stickers), and even more t-shirts.  They all boasted some variation of various manufacturer’s logos, and everything was brand-spanking new.  A few t-shirts sported racing slogans he had heard before.  There was<i>Be Fast Or Be Last </i>and one of his favorites,<i>In Order To Finish First, You Must First Finish.  </i>“I think Confucius said that one,” he muttered out loud.  Then he spied one instantly bookmarked for Pierre:<i>The Older I Get, The Faster I Was.  </i>He got a laugh out of that one, putting it aside.<br/><br/>The second box was similar to the first, if only in the sense that both contained bike stuff.  Box #2, however, reeked of quality.  Greeting him were polos, hoodies, disc locks, leather gloves for both men and women, varying in degree of protectiveness, and knit caps.  Boris shook his head at the magnitude of goodies.  He’d for sure keep what appealed to him (stickers!) and perhaps sell or give away the rest.<br/><br/>Since he wasn’t working on anything in particular at the moment, he commenced an organization of sorts for the mountain of bling from Ernie.  Clothing was stacked by size, while the hats and knit caps were lumped as one, seeing as how they were all<i>one size fits most</i>, which Boris believed was total bollocks.  Gloves were arranged by male or female, and while doing so, two pairs of women’s hand protectors caught his attention.  Both offered better-than-average safety, judging by the leather’s thickness and quality of stitching.  The black pair was made by American firm,<i>Joe Rocket</i>, while the blood-red set was produced by<i>Dainese</i>.  A low whistle later, and he uttered, “Damn, that’s high-end Italian.”<br/><br/>Both pairs were the same size.  And both pairs were separated from the rest.  A specific pink-haired woman could put these to excellent use, he thought, since he never saw Emily wear any kind of gloves while buzzing around on her scooter.  She would at least have a choice in which color to use, though the scarlet pair obviously matched her helmet perfectly.<br/><br/>About to break the second box down for recycling, there was a noticeable weight to it.  Something was still inside.  I coulda sworn I got everything, he thought, clearly mistaken.  Sure enough, there was a lonesome, white box tucked neatly into a corner.  Upon its opening, a hand-scribbled note greeted Boris.<br/><br/><i>Hey Boris!</i><br/><br/><i>Just a small token of how much I appreciate your business.  I’m pretty sure you’ll like ‘em.  Hope you can somehow use all the other crap!  lol</i><br/><br/><i>Ernie</i><br/><br/>Under the note, there were six coffee mugs packed securely and separately from each other.  They were sizable, too, larger than a standard-sized mug.  Three were white.  Three were red.  Boris selected a white one, and its custom lettering resulted in the left side of his mouth curling up into the beginnings of an appreciative smile.  It mimicked the distinctive carbon fiber weave, and it read,<i>B’s Knees Moto</i>, the font matching perfectly the shop’s signage outside, as well as inside<i>.</i><br/><br/>There was just one detail Boris took special note of.  Minor to most, major to him.  Ernie had replaced the simple apostrophe in<i>B’s </i>with an equally carbon-fibered bumblebee.  The man was right.  He did like ‘em.  A lot!<br/><br/>A red mug was then claimed, joining two pairs of gloves.  Boris realized it’d been close to a week since he last saw Emily, er, visited<i>Blues Café</i>, actually.  Yeah, that’s it.  Well, yummy coffee notwithstanding, he fluidly morphed into<i>Delivery Boy</i>, while three items were packed into a small, sturdy, paper bag.  With handles.  Both sides read:<b>GENUINE PARTS</b>.  Human?  Mechanical?  Who knew?!<br/><br/>Shop’s locks engaged, Boris turned and zeroed in on a familiar destination.