You're no F. Scott Fitzgerald that's for sure.
Maybe I could be a T. Edwin Walstrom, then :)
Posts by Terry
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6WHAT IF the Watchtower offered a. . . GUARANTEE?
by Terry inthe mangroves of lollard lane.
(a short story by terry edwin walstrom).
oh, christjust what i needed this morningjehovahs fucking witnesses!.
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A MAN OF GREAT TASTE__A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom
by Terry ina man of great taste.
(a short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the turnoff from the main highway had possibly been the only sane choice for cal hector and his 48 ford woodie station wagon.. the endless roadway, straight as the edge of a ruler, sprawled due west into the evenings red sun, blinding him to oncoming traffic.
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Terry
Heh-heh-heh -
7
CONFESSION OF A GERMAN WIDOW (A short story)
by Terry inconfession of a german widow.
(a very short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the widow, rosa hoffberger, stepped out of her large farmhouse and adjusted her gloves before toddling off down the cobblestone path leading into town.
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Terry
Me too!
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7
HOWARD HUGHES, Jesus Christ, and the problem of genuine (original) documents
by Terry inbible scholars acknowledge the absence of original writings of the bible or even of the early generations of copies, recopied copies, up through the next several hundred years.since the details of the history, words and activities of jesus and his followers entirely depend on the accuracy and historicity of the bible, i started thinking about a modern day parallel.. ___________________.
when billionaire eccentric howard hughes died in 1976, the search was on for who might inherit his vast fortune and business holdings..a gas station attendant named melvin dummar stepped forward and told an amazing tale.
dummar claimed that while driving through rural nevada one night in december of 1968, he pulled onto a dirt road to answer the call of nature.. he says he found a scraggly, bearded man lying injured in the desert.
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Terry
I have read probably close to 20 books on Howard Hughes.
He was in so much pain from the plane crash he suffered, the medications finally overwhelmed him to the point he was bed-ridden.
He only trusted Mormons in his employ. He was a deeply suspicious fellow and probably his own worst enemy. His business decisions were downright ridiculous. He was forced to sell off TWA for trying to gain a monopoly in airline carriers. The stock was at its peak. So, he made a fortune against his own will to do so.
His most trusted aide, Noah Dietrich, wrote an interesting biography well worth reading. But, my favorite book of all time is I CAUGHT FLIES FOR HOWARD HUGHES. What a delightful book!
His main fortune was made from a drill bit purchased in a bar and the Howard Hughes Medical facility started out as a tax dodge.
The idea that Hughes would investigate mines in the desert is preposterous and he certainly wouldn't be riding a motorcycle by himself.Melvin Dummar was a con man and not a very good one. I was alive at the time of the controversy over Hughes will.
I just thought it was a fun story and the parallel I'm offering with the scriptures is done to make the point there is no proof at all of any of the Bible writings in the form of autograph documents, originals, or earliest copies.
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6
WHAT IF the Watchtower offered a. . . GUARANTEE?
by Terry inthe mangroves of lollard lane.
(a short story by terry edwin walstrom).
oh, christjust what i needed this morningjehovahs fucking witnesses!.
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Terry
THE MANGROVES OF LOLLARD LANE
(A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom)
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“Oh, Christ—just what I needed this morning—Jehovah’s fucking Witnesses!”
68 year old Cicely Mangrove moaned aloud, keeping a keen and spiteful eye fixed on neighborhood intruders organizing themselves into pairs outside. How could a person ever relax on a Sunday morning?
“Nathaniel, come down here right away, please!”
“I’m shaving. . .” echoed her husband’s voice from the floor above.
“Stop shaving and get down here. You-know-who are back to peddle their bullshit. I don’t want to talk to them.”
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Mockingbirds swayed warily among the tree branches above Cicely Mangrove’s garden terrace on Lollard Lane. The sound of car door’s slams and voices cascaded against the brick sidewalk and crept in through a raised window were Cicely sat at her breakfast table smoking the last inch of her hand rolled cigarette.
Cherry blossoms stirred like mad pinwheels in her front yard as two carloads of religious fanatics turned the corner and glided to a halt next to two other similar vehicles. These were drab sedans with drab contents.
Outside the window overlooking the crisp green lawn and standard picket fence, eight serious religious folks divided up responsibilities and split into couples, each headed in diverse directions. A pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit and a mature woman in unfashionable vintage clothing crept passed the garden gate to approach the Mangrove’s house.
The door buzzer sounded out a ridiculous staccato pattern, as though pranksters were amusing themselves mindlessly.
“Nathaniel, get your ass down here right now!”
“Why are you shouting—I’m standing right here?” An average-looking man in khaki slacks, Hawaiian shirt and leather house shoes stood wiping a cup towel across his face where tufts of creamy shaving foam still clung. He was average-looking, with a high forehead and mischievous smile.
The door buzzer repeated the annoying pattern once more.
“Are you going to get that, or do I have to call the cops again like last time?”
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Cicely Mangrove was a petulant woman of variable moods; all of them dark. Telephone solicitors and religious peddlers were high on her arousal scale. Neighborhood scuttlebutt held her to be manic-depressive, but her husband assured everyone who knew her it was nothing of the sort.
“Cicely is just plain mean, that’s all. She doesn’t like people. I think it’s kinda cute—once you get used to it.”
Nathaniel Mangrove, or “Natty” as his friends preferred, was well-known to be even-tempered and good-humored in stark contrast to his wife’s incessant grouchiness.
They had met at an art gallery opening eighteen years earlier. Natty had quipped something provocative just as Cicely was biting into a hors d’oeuvre. She immediately choked and spat spinach and scurried off to the bathroom not to be seen again. It was an auspicious beginning, fraught with bad-timing and farce, not unlike their marriage.
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Just as the persistent couple jabbed at the door buzzer for the third time, the broad oak door opened wide. Nathaniel Mangrove filled the doorway with a quizzical presence and lifted eyebrows.
“Oh heck—Hi, I’m Gus Womper and this is my wife, Lorry. We’re in your neighborhood with a group of ministers this morning, offering a message of—“
“Of total BULLSHIT!” The wail burst forth from inside the Mangrove’s living room.
Cicely Mangrove hovered behind her husband not three feet back, but her voice projected clear down to the mailbox in front of Mrs. Vandersloot’s duplex at the end of the block.
“Please forgive my wife for that outburst. She hasn’t felt too sociable since . . . um. . . birth. Her birth.”
Immediately, the reddened face of Mrs. Mangrove popped into view as she administered a hip thrust sideways, jostling her husband against the doorjamb.
“I’ll call the cops if you don’t get off my property in the next five seconds—you hear me?”
Natty Mangrove, in one smooth, well-practiced movement, encircled his wife’s neck with a wrestling hold he frequently referred to as a “half-nelson.” He pulled her aside and spoke soothingly in measured tones.
“Now Cissy, it doesn’t cost you a cent to extend hospitality to strangers at our door. Settle down or I’ll switch to that sleep-hold that worked so well at the Anderson’s party last Christmas. Understood?”
The half-bent wife tapped her husband’s back three times in a frantic gesture of compliance and immediately he relaxed his grip. In no time at all the color returned to her pale face as she stood huffing and puffing like a mugging victim.
“I’m Nathaniel Mangrove and this is my bride, Cicely. Don’t take my wife too seriously. She has some ‘issues’ with intrusions into her daily schedule. The two of us are in couple’s therapy and our task for the week is to engage others in pleasantries. Won’t you both please come in and take the weight off your feet?”
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An awkward silence had settled in to the Mangrove’s living room. Two couples had arranged themselves like department store manikins around a coffee table in stiff postures of stressed body language.
Plastic ice tea cups rested on cork coasters untouched. A dish of cashews and peanuts rested in the center of a lazy Susan unmolested. A neighbor’s dog could be heard yapping incessantly several doors down and the faint rumble of a lawnmower competed with the wind chimes suspended from the Chandler family’s kitchen window—a present from their son-in-law back in Toluca Lake.
“So, here we all are. You were about to share some good news with my wife and I, if I’m not mistaken, Mr. Whomper—right?”
Gus and Lorry Whomper, alert as pet shop puppies, were busily inspecting the interior of the Mangrove’s home with slack-jawed wonderment. The couple absent-mindedly attuned to a channel inside their minds quite impossible for Nathaniel Mangrove to fathom. Mr. Whomper spoke in the cheerful voice of a vacuum cleaner salesman. It was a practiced cadence of lilting rhythms and improbable optimism.
“Yes, Sir—Lorry and myself are ministers sharing an important message of coming destruction to most of the earth’s vast population of non-believing, Satan-influenced, selfish and willful goats. This will be you and your wife’s final warning before complete and total doom takes you down in the day of Jehovah’s wrath.” With that, he went back to inspecting the premises like a TV detective keen for clues.
Cicely Mangrove’s lips puckered into a lemon-sour pout as if she could taste the words of Gus Womper’s sermonette. She opened her mouth to speak—but, faster than a flash—Natty jumped in with a speech of his own.
“Whoa—take it easy, Gus. I invited you into our home as a demonstration of sociable grace. What in the world makes you think your doom-sayings are ‘good news’ to my wife and me?”
Lorry Womper’s eyes flickered like a battery-operated toy with fresh double AA batteries.
“Oh, that’s just the words we’re taught to use, Mr. Mangrove. It’s really good news for us.” She grinned.
Gus widened his pasted-on smile.
“We figure you folks aren’t ever going to study the Bible with us. But we’re still obligated to give fair warning. It’s because—well, when you are destroyed at Armageddon, we’ll get to move in to your house! Lorry and I have had an eye on your swimming pool for ages now!” As Gus began to chuckle, Lorry elbowed him in the ribs teasingly.
Cicely Mangrove gave a slow-burn turn of her head toward Natty and lifted her eyebrows with a mute, “Now do you see why I hate these idiots” expression on her twitching face.
Natty shrugged complacently.
“Uh—when is this ‘good news event’ going to strike us down, Gus? Do I have time finish the shave you interrupted when you were leaning on our door buzzer?”
“Gosh, it ought to be here by the end of the year—at least that’s what the Bible indicates.”
“Says who?” Cicely growled.
“The Watchtower magazine.” Lorry proudly replied.
“Hear that, Natty? The same old happy horseshit they’ve been peddling since Grandma was a girl. They just never learn from all past flops, flaps and fuck-ups.”
Gus and Lorry frowned disapprovingly. “Tsk tsk tsk.”
Natty puffed out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. Cicely snuffled.
Gus reached into a brown simulated leather book bag beside his chair and rummaged around. Presently he tugged out a small green folder.
“Surprise—surprise! I’ll bet you haven’t seen our new contract—have you?”
Natty and Cicely glanced sideways at each other and leaned forward to scrutinize the formal printed papers Gus held in front of him resembling a lease agreement.
“Tell them, Lorry—it’s your turn.”
Cicely removed the papers from Gus’s hand as Natty leaned closer and they both began silent reading as Lorrie spoke.
“That’s the new standard contract offered by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society. We guarantee in writing that Armageddon will come no later than the middle of October next year.”
“Or what?” Cicely and Natty spoke simultaneously.
“Or else we promise to shut down our religious activities and stop our preaching and publishing work all over the world. If you sign this, you agree to study and get baptized . . . until then.”
“For how long?”
“Why, um—forever.”
Four people stared at each other in silence.
“You two are barking mad. You and your crazy-assed religion have finally gone off the cliff at Sanity Cove.”
Gus and Lorrie began laughing and exchanging knowing glances.
“That’s what everybody says at first. We know we’ve made mistakes in the past. Do you think we haven’t noticed how often we’ve been wrong?” Gus chuckled and shook his head gleefully.
“We’re as sick of preaching false prophesies as everybody else is of hearing them. That’s why our Governing Body has come up with this iron-clad contract. We’re laying it all on the line once and for all.” Lorrie jabbed the air with her finger for emphasis.
An expression of astonishment hung from Natty and Cicely’s face like rumpled curtains. They sat shaking their heads like wobbly toys in the back of an automobile.
“You’re telling us you are challenging God Almighty to ‘shit or get off the pot’?”
Lorrie turned and offered her husband a mock-expectant expression—then both turned and nodded broadly in an exaggerated “Yes!”
“It’s sort of like extortion, I suppose. But, Jehovah is very jealous of his Name and reputation. This is the only workable strategy of getting Him to dig down deep and do what is necessary. Don’t you see—it is pure genius on the part of our Governing Body! Otherwise, this door to door ministry will go on for who knows how many eons?”
Cicely, still shaking her head with improbable internal dialogue, stood and walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and bent forward scanning a shelf inside.
“You folks want a beer?”
Lorrie and Gus widened their eyes at each other like naughty children rewarded with chocolate.
“Sure—we don’t mind if we do. Thanks, Cicely.”
Four people sat quietly sipping and nodding . . . sipping and nodding.
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Spring arrived and the sound of newborn kittens, chirping fledglings, and giggling children danced in the air. The Mangroves attended their local Kingdom Hall regularly and never missed the opportunity to witness to friends, neighbors or the FedEx driver. Weekends arrived with clockwork regularity and the calendar pages flipped and fell like autumn leaves in October’s wind.
The summer had brought just enough rain to satisfy the neighbors with the well-manicured lawns. The onset of winter was gentle. Very little snow came toward the end of the year, but enough to satisfy the dyed-in-the-wool traditionalists.
By December’s last tolling bell the year ended and the giant glowing ball in Times Square dropped with the absolute certainty of Einstein’s famous equation.
The New Year arrived.
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Mangroves and Whompers ran into each other occasionally in the post office and grocery store. A formal nod was exchanged and comfortable grin of familiar recognition. No words were spoken or greetings exchanged. Knowing glances said everything needing to be acknowledged.
Cicely might notice that Lorrie was sporting a new tattoo and her neckline had plunged even more since the last time they’d passed each other in front of Wal-Mart. Gus had lost a lot of weight since the divorce. His new sport convertible was often observed roaring down Lollard Lane with a trim blonde next to him, or a fancy redhead.
Signage had come down from all the Kingdom Halls in the city. Word was, the same was true of Watchtower headquarters, factory and farm. Service centers around the world had been sold off and missionaries dispersed—some volunteering for the Red Cross.
Former zealots sought out former members once disfellowshipped from their family for apologies and reconciliation. Christmas trees, once banned from windows, bedazzled neighborhoods and little witness children now knocked on doors with raucous “Trick or Treat” on Halloween.
All in all, the contract had been fulfilled with very little sadness or recriminations. If any emotion was obvious, it would have to be said to be that of overwhelming relief.
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The pews in the churches of Lollard lane sported many new members that year. There were happy faces, crucifixes and loud singing on a grander scale than ever before. Flags got snappy salutes, voting was up in local precincts, and the pregnancy rate among High-Schoolers stood at an all-time high.
A southerly breeze swept past the hollyhocks and jacarandas along the sidewalks of Lollard Lane as the mockingbirds swayed cheerily among tree branches above Cicely Mangrove’s garden terrace.
Cherry blossoms stirred everywhere like mad pinwheels in her front yard. Anyone who passed by the Mangrove household was sure to hear a loud shout from inside the kitchen window.
“Hi there—how are you folks?”
This, of course, was invariably accompanied by a wave of the hand and a broad, satisfied smile.
Cicely Mangrove was finally able to relax.
____THE END____
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7
CONFESSION OF A GERMAN WIDOW (A short story)
by Terry inconfession of a german widow.
(a very short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the widow, rosa hoffberger, stepped out of her large farmhouse and adjusted her gloves before toddling off down the cobblestone path leading into town.
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Terry
Secretslaveclass: Did you manage to find the pic of the girl you took a snap shot of when you were a kid? I'm dying to see what you saw all those years ago.
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(Portrait of a Girl and Her Dog) story
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I've got my worldly possession packed up pending my move to an apartment (if I find one!) and I won't have the luxury of going through the photo collection until all that is settled.
A friend of mine who has known me practically since childhood pointed out to me privately that I got the name of the dog wrong. It was "Chow-chow."
The mind plays tricks!
My best friend's family dog was named "Trusty."
Alas!
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7
CONFESSION OF A GERMAN WIDOW (A short story)
by Terry inconfession of a german widow.
(a very short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the widow, rosa hoffberger, stepped out of her large farmhouse and adjusted her gloves before toddling off down the cobblestone path leading into town.
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Terry
I didn't know if the ending would produce a feeling of horror or laughter.
This is a case of adapting a funny story and telling it with seriousness and letting the reader react spontaneously.
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7
HOWARD HUGHES, Jesus Christ, and the problem of genuine (original) documents
by Terry inbible scholars acknowledge the absence of original writings of the bible or even of the early generations of copies, recopied copies, up through the next several hundred years.since the details of the history, words and activities of jesus and his followers entirely depend on the accuracy and historicity of the bible, i started thinking about a modern day parallel.. ___________________.
when billionaire eccentric howard hughes died in 1976, the search was on for who might inherit his vast fortune and business holdings..a gas station attendant named melvin dummar stepped forward and told an amazing tale.
dummar claimed that while driving through rural nevada one night in december of 1968, he pulled onto a dirt road to answer the call of nature.. he says he found a scraggly, bearded man lying injured in the desert.
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Terry
BIBLE SCHOLARS acknowledge the absence of original writings of the Bible or even of the early generations of copies, recopied copies, up through the next several hundred years.
Since the details of the history, words and activities of Jesus and his followers entirely depend on the accuracy and historicity of the Bible, I started thinking about a modern day parallel.___________________When Billionaire eccentric Howard Hughes died in 1976, the search was on for who might inherit his vast fortune and business holdings..A gas station attendant named Melvin Dummar stepped forward and told an amazing tale. Dummar claimed that while driving through rural Nevada one night in December of 1968, he pulled onto a dirt road to answer the call of nature.
He says he found a scraggly, bearded man lying injured in the desert. Dummar drove the stranger to Las Vegas and did not believe it when the man claimed to be Howard Hughes.
In 1976, when the real Howard Hughes died, he was the most famous billionaire in the world. The question of who would get his money became an international guessing game. When a handwritten will was discovered in Salt Lake City, it created a worldwide sensation.
The document became known as the “Mormon Will” because someone had mysteriously dropped it on a desk in the headquarters of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The purported will divided the Hughes estate into 16 equal shares, with one share designated for the LDS Church itself and another sixteenth for “Melvin DuMar.”When the world press corps beat a path to Dummar’s gas station in Willard, Box Elder County, he professed surprise at the existence of the will. He told reporters his story of the old man in the desert, but Dummar said he never knew if the stranger really was Howard Hughes.
“I thought he was a bum,” Dummar told reporters in 1976. “I lent him some money.”
__________________________I’ll pause in this account of Dummar’s precarious situation and draw an awkward parallel.
The apostles and disciples who encountered a scraggly prophet in the desert (John the Baptist) and subsequently his successor, (Jesus) were made heirs to a vast Kingdom on the words of (perhaps a madman) a disputable account, which some believed and others scoffed at.
In the court of public opinion in that day, we know the outcome. Words crafted and written in the years to come are the sole evidence (if it be accepted as such) of this promise and heirship. How can the truth of it all be determined?__________________Dummar acknowledged he was the one who delivered the Will to LDS Church headquarters. But he claimed he got the document from a mysterious stranger who brought it to his gas station. Dummar said he read the will and didn’t know if it was real or a hoax. Not knowing what to do, he drove to the Church Office Building and dropped it on a desk.
After a Las Vegas trial that lasted several months, a jury declared the will a hoax and branded Dummar a liar.“I wouldn’t have had a chance even if God himself had delivered the will,” Dummar said last week. “So many people thought I was a con artist or a scammer. And they treated me like a criminal.”
________________________I thought the parallel demonstrates how little it takes to create a dispute about people’s claims to heirship and greatness when dealing with opposing opinions and the reputation of men who are “nobody” special in their community.
(Source:http://www.deseretnews.com/…/Dummar-may-have-told-truth-aft…)
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A MAN OF GREAT TASTE__A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom
by Terry ina man of great taste.
(a short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the turnoff from the main highway had possibly been the only sane choice for cal hector and his 48 ford woodie station wagon.. the endless roadway, straight as the edge of a ruler, sprawled due west into the evenings red sun, blinding him to oncoming traffic.
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Terry
Read one word.
Next, read another word.
Keep going. . .
It's a story inside your head!
Yaaaay
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A MAN OF GREAT TASTE__A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom
by Terry ina man of great taste.
(a short story by terry edwin walstrom).
the turnoff from the main highway had possibly been the only sane choice for cal hector and his 48 ford woodie station wagon.. the endless roadway, straight as the edge of a ruler, sprawled due west into the evenings red sun, blinding him to oncoming traffic.
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Terry
_____________
A MAN OF GREAT TASTE
(A short story by Terry Edwin Walstrom)
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The turnoff from the main highway had possibly been the only sane choice for Cal Hector and his ‘48 Ford ‘Woodie” station wagon.
The endless roadway, straight as the edge of a ruler, sprawled due west into the evening’s red sun, blinding him to oncoming traffic. Dying in a car crash, however, didn’t frighten the little man in the Valentino sport coat; death was inevitable for all living things—it would be the utterly banal manner of his demise and the needless spoilage of the collectible automobile which would offend him.
He reached over to the passenger seat and chucked the hound under her silky Saluki chin.
“Sorry, my darling Bitch! Another five minutes on that roadway and you’d be scrambling after ghost rabbits on hell’s highway!”
The newly weaned Saluki had been bred for him by the most reputable kennel in Kentucky. He had paid cash in new bills and gathered her up into his arms and plopped her into the front seat of his vintage car.
“Mr. Hector, sir—she shouldn’t be in the front seat with you—she’s unaccustomed to travel—and besides, an awkward turn could injure her.” The breeder had wagged his boney finger at him, which Hector thought resembled a bobbed tail on an old Pug.
“Nonsense—do you think I’ve never owned an animal before? I’m the safest driver on the road!”
And off they went, peeling dust and hurling gravel into an impromptu cyclone of missiles at the breeder’s face.
“Rude bastard!” was shouted and drowned out by the loud report of the car engine.
“Imagine the cheek of that toad, my little princess.”
The little man wrinkled his nose in a graceless smile and offered two ‘air kisses’ toward his pooch.
“Allow me to introduce myself to you. My name is Cal Hector and you are a very, very fortunate beast to be owned by me.”
The Saluki pup cocked her head at an odd angle and made a small sound which could not be confused as a bark. It was more of an acknowledgment.
“You’re most welcome, my dearest. I’m naming you after my favorite lady in the entire world, Miss Marple.” The baby hound leaned at an opposite angle and sniffed at the driver.
“Miss Marple is a consulting detective and a perfect foil for my own work. I am a collector of fine things. In case you didn’t notice, you are my latest acquisition.”
The pup’s tongue briefly darted out of her muzzle and she shifted weight as the car made yet another turn down a torturous back road leading nowhere.
“My business card is quite clever, Marple. I designed it myself, of course. I don’t suppose you read, so I’ll simply describe it to you. The Mohawk superfine card stock has a stunning tactile quality you won’t find domestically. You’d have to go to Switzerland or the south of France among the nattering nabobs of eclectic lifestyles. Understand?”
Miss Marple swung her sleek neck in an arc toward her feathery fur at tail’s end. Satisfied at this subjective inspection process she uplifted her nose toward the driver and allowed herself the pleasure of a noble nod—or so it appeared to the eyes of Cal Hector.
“I like to think of myself as a detective of sorts—seeking out and discovering the rarest collectibles on this or any other continent. That is why I selected you—a rabbit courser—purebred for the hunt of the most elusive hares.
I digress. My card reads, “Cal Hector” and under that Calibri script is one word, “Collector.”
The hound arched an eyebrow.
“You’ve grasped my little wordplay, haven’t you? Cal Hector and collector are almost identical as homophones. There is a toll-free number at the left and a web address on the right; simple, elegant and effective.”
Outside, the landscape had varied, twisted, reshaped and meandered for the last ten miles. The sun was low at the horizon and dusk threatened to swallow the roadway, for there was no other source of light.
“Oh dear, Miss Marple—I may have avoided the blinding sunlight at the risk of our becoming quite lost, I fear.”
The ’48 Woodie pull off the two lane and paused near a grove of oak trees in the first throes of oncoming winter; the leaves having turned color slightly although still bravely clinging to the branch tips.
The fussy man in the driver’s seat jabbed at his cell phone in vain effort to capture a signal. Growing steadily flustered, he rummaged about in the glove compartment and extracted a roadmap which he scrutinized for several frustrating minutes.
Miss Marple betrayed a need necessitated by nature with an elegant signal for her master: one brisk F# bark. The little man scrambled out of the wood paneled station wagon and opened the passenger door, whereupon the hound leaped to freedom and dashed off into the underbrush as though conjured by a magician.
The ensuing pursuit ended just as the last rays of dwindling light vanished behind the wooded hill country and the first stars upon the horizon blinked on like distant watch fires.
Cal Hector had barely made out a silhouette of Miss Marple standing on the front stoop of some kind of large house or a shop of some vague description. As he sputtered and cursed under his breath two bright flood lamps flashed on and the driveway of a parking lot sprang before his eyes. Lights glowed behind two curtained windows and an intricately carved wooden door slowly opened whereupon the figure of a man in a silk smoking jacket took shape in the doorway. Miss Marple offered her muzzle for petting and ran straightaway into the structure at the proprietor’s behest.
“I say—see here my good man, that’s my Saluki and I uh. . .” Hector caught himself and suddenly switched gears as he had quickly realized he was a lost intruder. This necessitated hospitality on the part of the shop’s proprietor, not to mention goodwill for the remainder of the evening.
“What I mean is—I’m sorry my hound has invaded your space—I’ll fetch her immediately. My name is Calvin Osgood Hector, and I’m afraid I turned off the main highway and got myself and Miss Marple quite lost.”____
The proprietor was thin; a European-looking man of indeterminate age. He affected a beret and monocle. As Hector drew closer, he saw that the fellow resembled the great Surrealist painter, Salvador Dali. The pencil-thin moustache twirled into a bizarre curlicue at the ends.
“Welcome, my friend—welcome to my shop, Curios and Curiouser. I am Horatio Pettifogg and you and Miss Marple are my guests.”
___**___
Cal Hector had expected a commonplace junk store or glorified Pawn Shop so typical of tourist traps and off-road venues. He had wasted countless hours ferreting about for the one or two genuine items of interest as he made his way across state after state, county by county, city after endless city.
Had a photographer snapped a candid photograph of his expression at the moment of dawning realization inside Curios and Curiouser, the image would have made a blind man laugh. Shock and wonderment gave way to awe and admiration. The little man’s collector instincts galvanized and he fought internally to affect boredom and disinterest, but something inside him was betraying him.
He heard himself exclaiming aloud, “By the living God, I’m dumbfounded! I want to weep and beat my breast with exultation! This is the finest assortment of treasures I’ve ever witnessed, Mr. Pettifogg—I salute you and your extraordinary taste! This is a collection to die for!”
Inwardly, Cal Hector cursed himself for giving the game away. How insanely amateurish to blurt out such mad disclosures which would only serve to raise the prices of everything at once! He shook his head in anguish and self-accusation, heaving a belabored sigh of incrimination.
Horatio Pettifogg lingered near a display case containing scrimshaw artifacts. He fidgeted with his waxed mustache and snickered quietly at a man losing himself to unbridled collector passions; a scene so familiar to his eyes. Presently he spoke up in a clear, cool voice and professorial tone.
“I wouldn’t get too carried away, Mr. Hector. There are three rules in effect in my establishment to which there are no exceptions. If you’d care to give a listen, I’ll not wish to recite them for you but once.”
Miss Marple sauntered over to her master and sat looking up at him with the expression of one who expects to be fed soon. Hector’s hand fell distractedly to pat her head as his mind raced to grapple with the statement of policy about to unfold. It was undoubtedly meant to arouse a sense of unworthiness in a prospective hunter for such rarities and curios. Absent-mindedly, it did not escape his attention that both he and his hound were salivating hungrily.
“Right. . . the first rule is this: Customers may browse, shop, and otherwise negotiate by invitation only.
Second, no currency is accepted in payment for any item of worth. Only items esteemed to be of equal or greater value may be tendered for fair exchange of trade.
Third, no person may be granted an appointment that has not been referred by name through the agency of a previous customer. Is all of this understood, Mr. Hector?”
A sick feeling of nausea over swept the little man’s demeanor. His shoulders slumped. His otherwise firm chin lost its center, drooping rather dully off to the side, as though he’d been struck by a fist. Cal Hector swallowed hard and took in a long, deep breath and held it. He swept his tongue across his teeth and swallowed again. Clearly it was time to feign disinterest until a plan of action came to mind he could act upon. He’d negotiated with every sort of man and woman to great success across five continents. His instincts returned and the predator nature of the collector rose within him, not unlike righteous indignation at having been stymied before he’d even begun.
“Oh please, don’t misunderstand Mr. Pettifogg. I’m not a customer—no, no no—I’m merely a collector myself who can appreciate the excellent taste you have for the finer things of life. No, I have more than enough myself and lack room for even the smallest addition to my burgeoning shelves at home.”
As he spoke this ruse, even he didn’t believe his own lies. This was weak and—once again—amateurish. He clenched his teeth and stifled any rush to follow his tepid deflection with additional hollow protests.
The Salvador Daliesque proprietor pursed his lips in a small pout and shrugged.
“Very well—as you wish. Fair is far. May I offer you and your fine beast something to slake your appetites?”Within half an hour the two men sat at a dinette next to a wall emblazoned with Erte’ serigraphy and surrounded by bronzes of Bruno Bruni and Michael Parkes, which Hector did not recognize. Miss Marple stood straddling a gold dish laden with tripe which she disposed of elegantly, but without slurping noises or rude haste. It was more appetizer than a meal.
As they sipped postprandial Courvoisier and nibbled at the side dish of lime sherbet, the two savvy mavens sat silently ruminating, as though they were crocodiles--rivals-- on an exotic river bank.
Hector’s eyes caressed, one by one, each item on display—silently tabulating the intrinsic collector value and weighing what offer might be tendered.
“As I told you, Mr. Hector—I do not accept legal tender of any denomination. I do not entertain offers by persons who have not been referred to me—not to put too fine a point on it, such as yourself.”
“Were you reading my mind, Mr. Pettifogg?” Cal Hector marveled at the other man’s intuitions and speculated what a fine poker player he might be.
“I assure you I am not bluffing,” came Pettifogg’s reply with dazzling insight.
Miss Marple had polished the gold dish with her tongue and paused with intense interest to scrutinize the miniature pup reflected on its shiny surface. Eventually, she lost the train of thought and sighed with drooping eyelids. She snuffled momentarily and wandered over to a chaise lounge by Marc Newsom at the edge of the room. Dropping down and shuffling under it, after two more settling sighs, the world famous detective’s namesake fell fast asleep.
____**____
Conversation ranged from world travel to wine, women, and eventually music. The men had lapsed into uninspired banter, bonhomie, and an affected worldliness. Neither man wished to be the first to betray the reason for awkward avoidance of the essential passions of the predator/ collector.
“How many years have you devoted yourself to your pursuits, Mr. Pettifogg?”
It seemed neutral and innocent enough for a gambit, Hector thought to himself.
“Longer-than-you-could-possibly-imagine or believe, Mr. Hector. Why don’t we place our cards on the table and not waste each other’s valuable time?” A definite trace of ill will laced his words.
Cal Hector jerked a bit, startled by the suddenness with which the earnest matter at hand had been thrust forward. He esteemed the proprietor to be a man of great intuition and subtlety.
“Why don’t you tell me who has referred you?”
A jolt of adrenaline coursed through Hector’s body and his mind was electrified with cunning. As abruptly as Pettifogg had weighed in on his business policies, it was now clear to the little man that only one false move would Scotch this remarkable opportunity. Hector had no referral to offer.
He had brought nothing of value to trade. As hard as it was to believe, it was somehow quite believable that Pettifogg might not seek cash at all, only some new rarity to enhance his extraordinary collection.
“My sponsor has begged me not to mention his name,” Hector improvised his lie as he spoke, all the while carefully inspecting the body language and facial expressions of his host to ascertain any whiff or hint of a reaction to inform his negotiation with a facile finesse or two.
Pettifogg allowed a snide chuckle to escape and then waved it away as if it were cigar smoke in his eyes. “It is that Belgian fop—the old fool—isn’t it?”
Hector seized upon this immediately!
“You have extraordinary powers of deduction, Mr. Pettifogg; I compliment you!”
Pettifogg lifted his head proudly, preening his ego like a peacock unfurling a resplendent display of shimmering feathers.
“Philippe Albert overestimates his importance in the world, Mr. Hector. How childish of him to seek anonymity—he knows my policy. But, he knows my weaknesses as well as I know his. You have come for the music! Nobody else would dare, but an associate of King Albert!”
Now Hector’s mind was racing, calibrating, chasing itself in a fugue of confusion and greed. What was the expression he was seeking? “Go with the flow?” Yes—that is what he must do!”
“Please allow me the privilege of entertaining your hospitable offer, Mr. Pettifogg. Yes, of course, I have come for the, um, music.”
___**___
When Cal Hector regained consciousness, he felt the sudden rush of pain searing his brain. He groped inside his mind for bearings. One-thing-at-a-time. He seemed to be bound with his arms behind him in an awkward position. This room was different than before. He tried to turn his head to glimpse some clue to chase the confusion. A wave of roaring hot pain halted all movement!
“Ah, welcome back Mr. Hector. The snifter of Courvoisier was too strong for you, I suspect?”
As Hector’s eyes tried to focus on Pettifogg’s face, he glanced distractedly wandered down to the concrete floor of a vast room. There was some red wine puddling up beneath him. How curious!
“Those of us who belong to the collector’s club eventually all suffer from the law of diminishing returns; the boredom, the absence of excitement—of that first thrill from the first kill!”
Hector’s gaze had not wavered from the spilled wine, although the words of Pettifogg caught at the edges of his awareness and signaled a subconscious beacon demanding attention.
“What would a man trade for his arms and legs? Which rare collectible is half as valuable as his eye or genitals, for instance?”
Hector decided the ‘wine’ must be congealing because the texture of its surface was flat rather than glistening. He thought to himself how the word, Sangria, came from the word for blood—and blood certainly congealed when spilled.
“We have a most efficient referral system, as I explained to you earlier. When that ridiculous Belgian referred you to me, he probably understood a little man like you would gladly barter his entire collection to prolong life as long as possible.”
Hector wondered foggily why anybody would offer Sangria after Courvoisier. . . the conflict on one’s palette would be unthinkably discordant. Surely Pettifogg had intended it as a joke of some kind. Perhaps he had discovered Hector’s silly subterfuge and was merely signaling his displeasure at the rude lies given him in exchange for hospitality.
“I’ve opened up your femoral artery just enough for your hound to slake her thirst before the main course of fresh meat I’m about to offer her. The tourniquet is painful, but necessary, of course.
Cal Hector’s head had slowly gathered focus until the words began congealing into contexts. The contexts sharpened into warnings and intentions until a jolt of sudden fear woke him entirely to his state of emergency.
“My God in heaven! What have you done, Pettifogg?”
“You are certainly slow to grasp relevance, Mr. Hector. I’m asking you to barter your body parts in exchange for your collectibles—how much clearer do I have to make my offer? As you said when you walked in--'a collection to die for.”
Hector’s brain caught fire with the impact of fear, terror and complete horror. He began to scream a long, loud, melodious scream that never seemed to end.
“Ah, the music—they all come for the music, don’t they? Where should we begin? We’ll make a list of what you have in your little collection and proceed from there; perhaps a hand for a Tiffany lamp—a leg for a Matisse? How about a testicle or two for a Rolls Silver Ghost, eh Mr. Hector? As you rightly testified upon your arrival, it is a collection to die for.”
___**___
Miss Marple’s red tongue lolled at the corner of her elegant mouth. Over the course of several months, she had settled in. This particular evening, she gazed contentedly around her new home and heaved a great contented sigh at the bounty of her meaty reward, and circled her velvet cushion several times before plopping onto it in front of a comfortable, crackling fire. Without a doubt, her new Master was a man of fine breeding.
But, her previous Master had certainly been a man of great taste.
___THE END___