"Get [i]rid [/i]of stuff?" said Caster. "But what are you talking about? Look at this!" he gestured wildly at one an old lady sitting on a blanket in front of a heap of crocheted goods. "Each of those sweaters would take months of work, full time! The patterns are absurdly intricate, the colour transitions skillful - and yet, they hardly seem to be moving! And here! Look, this garden gnome!" he grips it with both hands. "Look at the cross-hatching in the eye shadows, the individual strands of hair painted, the highlighting on the patchwork jacket -"

"Oh, that piece was just for practice," said the fishman painter, who was unpacking another box of gnomes. "I've got much better ones back here."

"Practice!?" He cradles it in his arm as he whirls around.

"Oh, yeah. I mostly like the painting part of it," said the fishman. 

"But that's mad! You could make a business selling these -"

"But then I wouldn't be painting them, would I? No, any that don't get picked up go to the kids who like smashing 'em with hammers."

Caster clutched the gnome to his chest like he was saving a life. "He is not serious, Fluffybiscuits. Confirm to me that he is joking."