The laundromat ate Marvin’s socks. Not one or two, but every single sock he owned. He stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, staring into the empty machines, their metallic drums spinning smugly.
“I demand my socks back,” he said to the nearest washer.
The machine growled, then spat out a wet sock that wasn’t his—a child’s sock, pink with glittery stars. Marvin glared. “These aren’t mine.”
The dryers began to laugh, low and mechanical. A neon sign flickered above them: SOCKS FOR THE SOCK GOD.
Marvin reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of mismatched spares, and flung them into the nearest washer. “Take them, you greedy bastards!”
The machines hummed, their drums spinning faster, faster. Suddenly, a sock-shaped creature emerged, a hulking monster stitched together from years of lost laundry.
“You dare defy the Sock God?” it roared.
Marvin grabbed a broom. “You owe me twelve pairs, buddy.”
No one knows what happened next, but Marvin’s shoes were later found neatly folded on the floor.
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