The Necromancer's Discount Bone Emporium

Bartholomew, a necromancer of middling talent and even more mediocre hygiene, stood dejectedly amidst piles of dusty skulls and crumbling femurs. His shop, 'The Necromancer's Discount Bone Emporium,' wasn't exactly thriving. Business had been slow for weeks, ever since the neighboring witch opened her enchanted tea shop specializing in brews that promised eternal youth (a blatant lie, Bartholomew knew, but it was drawing in all the desperate housewives and aging warlocks).

Bartholomew sighed, idly tossing a femur bone into the air. It landed with a dull thud on his already overflowing 'Slightly Used Ribs' bin. He needed to do something drastic. A discount wouldn't cut it anymore. Maybe he should offer a buy-one-get-one-free deal on enchanted skeletons? Or perhaps he could start offering necromantic services at competitive rates, like summoning the spirit of your dead goldfish for just five silver coins?

Just then, the shop bell tinkled merrily, announcing a customer. Bartholomew perked up, his hope as brittle and dry as the ancient dragon rib he was currently polishing. A young woman with bright pink hair and eyes that sparkled like amethysts strode confidently into the shop.

'Hello there!' she chirped, her voice as bubbly as a cauldron full of effervescent toadstool stew. 'I hear you're the necromancer around these parts?'

Bartholomew straightened his crooked spectacles and attempted a charming smile, which probably resembled a grimace more than anything else. 'That would be me,' he croaked. 'What can I do for you, miss…?'

'Call me Esmeralda,' she said, her eyes darting around the cluttered shop with morbid fascination. 'I'm here about a little problem I have.'

Bartholomew braced himself. Necromancers weren't exactly known for their social grace or ability to solve mundane problems. He'd once been hired to help a farmer find his missing cow, only to accidentally summon the spirit of a long-dead warthog instead. It had been a messy affair involving flying intestines and an angry gnome.

He cleared his throat. 'What seems to be the problem?' he asked cautiously.

Esmeralda leaned in conspiratorially. 'Well,' she whispered, her amethyst eyes widening, 'I need a… talking skeleton.'

Bartholomew blinked. 'A talking skeleton? That's… unusual.' He wasn't sure why it was unusual; he dealt with talking skeletons all the time. But Esmeralda's enthusiasm seemed contagious, and he found himself feeling oddly excited.

'You see,' Esmeralda continued, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, 'I have this audition for a play. It's a Shakespearean comedy, very avant-garde. The director wants me to bring in something unique, something that screams