Going once

A weaver stitched an ankle-length coat of twenty-seven yards of human hair. Its buttons were bone.. collar bone, specifically. On his divorce it sold at the bartering auction for two tablets of chlorine and a tax map of the Yam Isthmus. The winner, a throw pillow floral print designer from the mean streets, had been willed a Chilean llama farm by his grandnephew. The designer loved to don the coat and go riding the llamas. He soon became adept, progressing from bareback to a number of three-ring circus tricks, standing up, doing hand-stands, scrubbing mildew from church tile, and the like. Once while galloping past the car dealer mini-mall he got his picture in the weekly advertiser, his big break, and was forthwith offered a management contract with a team of pith-helmed safari types. His throw pillows made the ground in the bush a bit more peaceable, but the hair coat was too hot, and it attracted tse-tse flies, females, the nasty ones. Upon his return, and without bagging a single bushwoman, the designer took the coat back to the barter auction. He sweetened the deal with the llama farm and walked away with ten crates of lady's shoulder pads, which kept his throw pillow business thriving. The weaver faired not so well, going into arrears despite the tax map, and having ingested the tablets ended up throwing himself on a cactus that he mistook for a phallic green pin cushion.