Sally’s seashell sales at the shore excelled even her expectations. It was when she decided to franchise that things went sour. A silver-tongued speculator convinced her to expand her brand, and so he lined up some unsavory investors. A booth at Port Authority. A kiosk in Times Square. A rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike. A storefront in Dubuque, which, although suffering from a deficit of seashells, was nevertheless more interested in corn-themed souvenirs. When sales were lackluster, fudge was added, then taffy and postcards. Nothing worked, not even a paid celebrity endorsement by a Latvian Opera singer. Within a year Sally’s Seashells Worldwide Holdings was in the red. Desperate, Sally mortgaged her seaside emporium. She sold her Duesenberg. As her stores began to fail, investors sued. Sally sadly saw no simple salvation. She became a gumball addict. Packing a water pistol, she began robbing gumball machines. The Seashell Preservation League issued a $10,000 reward for her capture. A folk ballad was written. She fled to parts unknown. Thus, legends are born.