Your dad gave you his Pog collection and told you to hold onto it. He insists those OJ Trial Pogs are gonna be worth a mint in another 30 years.

“You know how to time travel, doncha?” the gal pal asks, watching you flip the metal slammer in your hand. “You just push the metal doohicky and blow… through the space-time continuum.”

“I don’t want to travel anywhere,” you retort, pretending not to hear the implication that your Pog is a time travel device. “Car sickness.”

Return to the email to continue your investigation.

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