It looks like you're going to have to do the thing you've been putting off for ages... you're going to have to sell your collection of video games... OMG!
Come on - let's head down to the second-hand games exchange and make this selling happen...!
Typically, he never looks at you, never speaks to you, despite your mumbled greeting. He just glares out from his softly rustling bag.
It would make you weep if you hadn't witnessed this over a dozen times. It has been six years. You'd think he'd be over your mother leaving him for Rameses III by now.
How many Christmases, birthdays and paydays are you about to part with? It's like selling a piece of your soul to some noxious old tinker.
"Hello," says the friendly-'un. "I am Lanyard Wozniak, the manager of this ruddy shop for Christ's sake. How can I help you?"
"F*ckshit! You can get fifty eight pounds exchange," says the sensually-twitching Wozniak. "Or three pounds sale."
"Yes I realise," barks the still-smiling Lanyard. "Do you know how I realise?"
"How do you realise?" you ask.
"I DON'T REALISE - WHOOP WHOOP!! PSYCHE!" yells Lanyard at the top of his voice, drawing the attention of other staff and customers.
Paths lead off in every direction, and you can hear the distant whoop of howler monkeys. Your neck still hurts from Lanyard Wozniak's unprompted assault, and your trousers have been replaced.
Realising that something real bad has probably happened, you head off in one of the possible directions in order to find help.
"Answer me this riddle-me-ree and I'll let you pass for free," chirrups the whimsical husk imp.
"Do I have to?" you reply wearily. "I just want to sell some old games, but the manager of the shop punched me in the neck, and I blacked out, and woke up here. My trousers have been replaced."
"Answer my riddle or you'll never get to sell your games," counters the imp.
"Fine," you sigh. "Ask your stupid riddle."
"That's not a riddle," you insist. "That's just you asking me to guess your name!".
"Answer me this riddle-me-ree or ye shall never sell your geemees!" belches the cheeky imp, firmly, rustling some corn husks for emphasis.
"I dunno..." you bleat. "James...?"
The imp looks offended, and spits at you.
"I mean... Jane! Steve! Shelly? Nathan Saunders! Selldrac?! Sportzz-z!"
"You are wrong on all counts. Now I shall confront you with a second riddle - how old do you think I am?"
Irritated by his non-riddles, you head off deeper into the corn maze. You can hear the husk imp wheezing as you walk away, almost as if he's trying to wheeze as loudly as he can in a bid to impress you.
Shamefully, the combination of corn husks, imp wheezing, and replaced trousers serves to really turn you on.
The only sound is the rustling of the husks, and the dying bleeps of the distant howler monkeys, and a moderate bee.
You've walked around in circles. You quickly sprint back the way you came, so as to avoid the husk imp's pointless riddles, and unintended effect.
"Help!" states Woods, flatly. "I've been lost in this maze for years, ever since I tried to sell some second-hand games. I woke up here with a knocked throat, and my trousers replaced."
"That's what happened to me!" you screech, glad to meet finally someone with whom you share similar life experiences. "The difference between you and me is I'm gonna get out of here!"
"Good luck with that sort of thing," croaks the white-faced Charlie, sarcastically, before continuing in a similar manner: "Nice shoes by the way."
And with that, he disappears into the corn, emitting a long and unnecessary fart as he does so.
Fortunately, in the harsh light of dawn you spot a nice white sign: you fell asleep right next to the maze exit! Hurrah! This nightmare is almost over.
"Wait," you say. "So all that stuff with the maze, and the husk imp, never actually happened? It was all in my mind?"
"I couldn't possibly comment," chuckles Lanyard, with a wink.
He opens his mouth as if to say more - potentially some sort of profound statement, which wraps up your mysterious adventure in some sort of neat bow - but he just lets out a heavy breath, and stares at you for several minutes without saying another word.
You wait for him to continue talking, but eventually it becomes so awkward that you decide to leave and find another second-hand games shop.
You look back through the shopfront window, and see the manager still staring at you, his lips slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with every breath...
You clamber aboard the number 11, and once again sit opposite your former step-father. However, unlike every other time you've seen him since your mother ran off with Rameses III, he turns to look at you, and smiles.
You can't help but smile back. You've not spoken to him in years, and in many respects he was as much a father to you as Father Christmas, your real father.
"What brings you into town?" asks your former step-father.
"I came to sell some games. It's the only way I can afford Star Wars Battlefront."
"What?" you ask, taken aback by his peculiar suggestion.
"Well... if you don't want Star Wars Battlefront..."
"No, no! I do!" you protest, as you reach for the hem of his old bin liner, and slide your trembling hand up inside, realising almost immediately that he isn't wearing so much as a vest.
You rummage around, your fingers playing across his clammy skin, the grey whips of chest hair, his tumescent nips... but there's nothing else in there. No copy of Star Wars Battlefront, no £50 note... nothing that's going to help you get a copy of the game you want so desperately.
All you find is the answer to the question you never knew you wanted answered, the one you've been subconsciously asking yourself these past six years: why your mother left him for an Egyptian pharaoh who died in 1155BC.
Your step-father half-closes his eyes, and smirks.
"The End," he hisses through his yellow teeth, as he starts arching his back, so that his stomach presses against your hand... "The end..."