The high intensity discharge lights washed the steel vault in an antiseptic glow. Cold gray walls as thick as the armor of a battleship. Each man had his own reason for being there, that night. Yet they all shared one common interest. When the last seal on the door had been cracked, their treasure was revealed. The Slanket, in Castlerock Grey.
"What happened to Francois?", I asked. "Francois, he, eh, crash into zee conifer.", said the French-Canadian. Straight out of the northern woods of Maine; rally cars and black flies.
The smell of coffee and double apple tobacco fill the market. At the end of the street, beyond the sand worn crenellations of the ancient buildings, the desert swirls. The camels loaded with gear blend with the color of the land, their outlines barely visible. It gets cold at night in the desert, praise be Allah that you brought your Slanket in beige. All of the soft color of the desert with none of the chaffing, stinking camels, sunburns, or dehydration.
http://www.theslanket.com/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=1 That's how you sell me, boys and girls. You don't even want to know how lame those competing Snuggie copywriters are. Suffice it to say they repeat "blanket with sleeves!" as though that was enough.