A straight-talking, adroit genie  strolled into a nondescript pub in a nondescript neighborhood somewhere south of here, dancing around the drunks and sidling up to the bar. "I'll grant two wishes to the first fellow who can beat me at arm wrestling," he barked, glancing around the room. Nobody moved until a short accountant named Ben squeaked from the back.
"I can take you," said the milquetoast, baring a puny bicep tattooed with a calculator, charging up to the bar and propping his elbow on a coaster.
The genie laughed and took his seat opposite the number cruncher. Unbeknownst to the genie, the accountant had slathered his arm with a potion derived from the dye of the water-spangle, its recipe privy to Japanese assassins . The bout was over in seconds, as the genie fell to the floor, cradling his broken left arm in his right. "What... do... you... wish?" he croaked.
"To be left alone," said the accountant, who then barged out the door as the barflies wheezed in disbelief.
"Well," said the bartender, "I'm guessing no one's ever going to stuff Ben in a skating arena filled with caramel-capped custard  again."
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[116th in a series]