Dunedin's $2 shops and bargain outlets dot the city's retail area, home to a bounty of often plastic forms moulded into objects weird, wonderful and sometimes insane. Some are all those things at once but all are cheap. David Loughrey took some coins and found a world of products that ranged from evil to incomprehensible.
The Forest Ghost comes from a rude forest of African [sic]. He brings you love and luck, but do not cross him.
The Forest Ghost sits under a large frog's eye leering from a frog cap - part of a frog costume - reflected grotesquely in the chrome surround of the display shelf.
A woman with an obvious wig and another with eyelash extensions slide down the aisles, past tile grout cleaner, lint rollers, crepe paper, emergency blankets and gauze dressings.
Shelves line the walls around them, packed with everything from St Patrick's Day tiaras to plastic items of indeterminate intent.
It's Dunedin, and it's Wednesday morning in the city's $2 and bargain shops.
The Forest Ghost costs $2.
It's a cross between one of those twig figures on the Blair Witch Project and a spiteful rag doll.
The Forest Ghost is not something you would want to find on your doorstep on a dark winter's morning after a night of terrifying dreams.
He stands tightly tied with arms akimbo, his little black eyes staring blankly and slightly askance and his ropey green fists clenched.
His little brown box tells his story.
Under the heading ''The Magic Power'', and sub-heading ''Forest Ghost'', it explains all one needs to know, in the strange shorthand language of the Forest Ghost.
''The Forest Ghost comes from a rude forest of African, he escape from the wildfires of forest.
''His strength is endless, he can travel through the time and space, he can convert different roles to recue [sic] or punish the human.''
He was made in China, but imported to Dunedin to fulfil a clear need for Forest Ghost-related merchandise, and the needs of people crying out for a good, hard ''recueing''.
The product is, sadly, not produced in the city, and social service agencies have not stepped up to the challenge of providing ''recueing'' for those who might struggle to pay for it.
At a nearby outlet, a young man in a black hoodie and a woman with a hole in her stockings emerge from the sliding door.
Inside, amidst life-size models of lemons and oranges and a wall of plastic toys for children, is the Evil Stick.
The Evil Stick costs $2.
The Evil Stick is pink.
With the addition of three 1.5 volt batteries, and the flick of a heart-shaped on-off switch, it can ''cast shadow the function'', according to the packaging, at least.
Its wand form, complete with elegant curlicues, is topped with a five-leaf clover design and a mirror that horribly distorts your features.
Despite its evil status, it ''Can send out wonderful music''.
Despite its evil status it is suitable for ages 3 and up, and not suitable for children under 3 years.
But most disturbing, dark and deeply enigmatic is this promise: ''I can send out the luster [sic] of the beauty''.
The Evil Stick was made in China, but was evidently imported to fulfil a clear need in Dunedin for evil sticks, a product sadly not produced by the city's industrial sector.
The beauty industry has not stepped up to provide a service to customers wanting to send out, or have sent, the luster of the beauty.
The tertiary sector has not studied the issue.
Further down the street a bargain store boasts aisles of tape dispensers; calculators; head massagers with metal tentacles that slide over the scalp; foldable water bottles; posters of Michael Jackson for just $3.50; batteries, wigs and racks of sunglasses.
But for those with a sharp eye, the prize sits quietly on a shelf near the back.
It is an externally applied pain balm in a little green plastic bottle.
It costs $5.30.
Externally applied pain balm was made on the Jaffer Bhoy Estate, on the Kurla Andheri Rd in Mumbai.
It was evidently imported for a city crying out for pain relief that can be externally applied.
From yet another outlet comes The Thing That Has No Name.
Its elegant plastic handle sports 10 indented rings to aid grip, while its upper structure gently cups a dusty, amorphous green substance, possibly hitherto unknown to scientists.
It is capped by a green plastic structure.
I have no idea what it is.
