Fagan was one persuasive bastard.
He’d seen Fagan tottering down the street a mile away, and thought, that poor bugger. Imagine, having to work as a cellular tower, just to make ends meet.
But Fagan stopped in front of the barefoot nanus, and said, “hello sir, would you like to make enough monkey squeeze to malfrapt your pedicles in glorious leather?”
Taken aback, he nonetheless understood the human telecommunications relay. “How much?”
“It’s a piecework job. Think volume. You know, I own several pairs of shoes.” Fagan jigged the shoe-jig of joy.
Soon, his oversized head was bathed in microwaves for 12 hours a day, and he forgot all about his need for quality footwear.