So. Here we are. But where “here” is exactly, well, that remains to be seen.

One thing’s for certain: it smells like a Jiffy Lube. And what, exactly, is the deal with all the noise? It sounds like a thunder factory in here. I feel like I got my head stuck in Gene Krupa’s kick drum during a real rip-roarin’ solo. Ba bum badda bum badda bum bum bum BOW! Maybe we can go tell that nice young man behind the counter to turn it down a notch, hmm?

Hold on a sec, Jim. What's he reaching for under the desk? A Thompson, an old S&W, or some other peacekeeper, no doubt. Stay cool, Jimmy, this place could get hot in a hurry. Step away from that counter and wait for my signal!

False alarm. At ease, young James. It's just an old ratty pair of...wait. You want me to do what? Put those things on? Get outta town! I'm not removing my Donny O'Connors! Not on your life, Ace. No cobbler in his right mind would fess up to making those smelly canvas crimes. They're what a two-foot tall clown would wear at the carnival, for crying out loud!

These babies on my feet, they weren't just made with leather; they were made with integrity, and with purpose. What ever happened to craftsmanship, huh? To dedication? What ever happened to singing in the movies? To girls named Melanie? What ever happened to the jazz, baby? Or the Sweet Science, the old 1-2, 1-2? I suppose they're all just fleeting memories at this point. Figments of a forgotten past. And here I am, a man out of my time, hopelessly stuck in yours. Stuck in this fluorescent purgatory.

Fine. I give up. You win. Give me the damn shoes.

Jimmy my boy, I don't know what to tell you; all the dragon eggs on this rack seem to have gone bad. Hard as rocks, they are. Sad to see such majestic creatures snuffed out in the ovum. That or they’re crystal balls of some sort, gangrenous with vile spirits. I can't be sure, but either way I'd suggest we tread lightly.

Are you even listening to me? Then why are you so insistent I grab one? They all look like ten kinds of trouble, if you ask me. But this swirly pink one, I must say, it's not too bad. It appeals to me. It’s a bit lighter, perhaps home to a less malevolent demon. I'm taking it.

And what, pray tell, am I to do with this petrified sphere, huh? Throw it? At whom? I don't know what game you're running here, Jimmy, but if there’s a fight a-brewing, I don’t need no magic rock to protect me. Sticks and stones, they can break your bones, but I’ll break your back, jack.

Oh. You want me to roll it. You could’ve just said that in the first place, you putz. But roll it where? At those pearly white baubles down there? Now look, somebody obviously put ‘em out there all nice and even-like. See that pristine form? That perfect symmetry? That ain't no accident, pal. Chris Walken's a lot of things—a native New Yorker, a song and dance man, a werewolf enthusiast—but he's no vandal. You wanna go tear down somebody's hard work, you be my guest. But not me, sonny. No, I respect the arts.

But, hey, this wood, though. Say, that’s all right! It's no stranger to the old soft shoe, I can tell you that. Boy, if these boards could talk. "Creak, crack," they would say, and you'd be wise to listen, Buster Brown Shoes. A tree's greatest honor in death is to become a dance floor—there's a nickel's worth of free advice for you.

But this ain't no dance floor, and this ain't no dance hall. I'm done with your games, Jimmy. For the life of me, I’ll never know why you brought me to this awful place. Me and my shoes, we're leaving. You can keep my lousy dragon egg for all I care.