Just Business Cards

Where do I begin?
My brother asked me to pick up business cards for him that he had ordered from this business. He had called them, explained what he wanted, they send him a proof via email, and after his approval, printed the business cards at a very cheap rate. He had ordered them weeks ago and he called ahead to confirm they were ready.
You get what you pay for.
My girlfriend and I finally found the shop in a seedy strip mall in a not-​so-​great section of Fruitridge. We’re talking drug-​deal-​going-​on-​at-​the-​corner seedy. Prostitutes are milling about. I quickly exit my car, tell my friend to keep her head down, avert my eyes («No eye contact, no eye contact, no eye contact!» I chant in my head), and head for the door.
Locked.
I turn to leave and it opens. A young man pokes his head out, «What do you want?» I say, «I’m hear to pick up some business cards.» He beckons me inside. (Did I just give him a password for some drugs?)
The place is trashed. Papers strewn all over the floor, cabinets are broken. There is no cash register, no place to sit, just one computer and a printer sitting on the floor. Did I just interrupt a robbery in progress?
But the two young men were very nice. I told them that I was there to pick up the cards but was told, «Oh, they aren’t printed yet. If you wait 15 minutes, we can get them ready for you.»
No way. I’m not risking my life for business cards.
I smile and exit, knowing I will never be back here again. I jump in the car and screech off, heart thudding. I call my brother and give him holy hell.