I took a client to view a house, and he nitpicked here and there, taking two hours.

I endured it.
He suddenly asked, “Has anyone died in this house?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Then why is it 500,000 cheaper than the market price?”
I looked at him: “Because the landlord is me. I went bankrupt. Even if I sell this place, I’ll still end up sleeping on the street.”
He froze for a moment, and said, “Then lower it another 200,000.”
I gritted my teeth: “Deal.”
After we signed the contract, he smiled and said, “Actually, I know you went bankrupt. I’m here just to pick up a bargain.”
I also smiled: “I know.”
He asked, “Then why are you still selling?”
I lit a cigarette: “Because my wife is your ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend. She told me to sell it to you, saying she’s repaying you for the youth fees she owed back then.”
His face went white: “Who is your wife?”
I tapped off my cigarette ash: “Your mom.”
His phone rang, and my wife sent a voice message: “Son, did you buy the house?”