Free Old Farts by Vera Nazarian Page A

historical romance and adventure classics section.”
    “Fine,” I said, thinking with fond amusement that once again Walter had forgotten that these days romance and adventure were no longer filed together, and what passed for such was neither particularly romantic nor adventurous. “You do that, my good Sir. But this one belongs to me. Now, enough banter, let’s be charitable and release his mouth.”
    Walter’s left brow came up in slow uncertainty, but he merely leaned forward and stared at the victim seated on the barstool. “You won’t scream, will you, my man?” he asked after some time in a comforting old-man voice.
    In response came muffled noises.
    “Relax, we won’t harm you, I promise; you have my word—a word that carries weight, a ponderous galleon boat anchor, you might say—of a true Dublin gentleman’s gaming wager, regardless of actual blue blood quotient in the veins. Which, in a nutshell, means that you must absolutely trust me, or else dire circumstances ensue; baffling woo-woo and shady events come to haunt slippery gray-sky daydreams, and for good measure you get stream-of-consciousness verbosity from yours truly; none of which is intended to frighten you any further, to be sure. Now then: we are only here to make certain that you buy at least one book—a fine, worthy book that is acknowledged by expert opinion to represent the upper-echelon of quality, be it genre or mainstream fiction or literature, or what have you—before you leave the store. And it doesn’t have to be my book, by any means,” James said, as he leaned forward also, and then proceeded to take back his saliva-soaked tie, holding it up with one pinkie sticking out in disgust, in a perversely drawn-out parody of a dental extraction procedure. “Not unless you like quirky intricate stuff that rambles quite a bit and at times gets rather diarrhetic and logorrheic in equal measure: intimate with psychological examination of humanity’s foibles while your naked behind is firmly perched on the porcelain throne,” he added.
    Whatever else he might have muttered was unverifiable. I admit I often have trouble following James when he starts on those long tirades of complex compound sentences. Cheeky peculiar fellow he is, our James.
    Meanwhile, the unfortunate casualty of our caper, seated in the high chair, must have shared my confusion, because his reaction to the good Irishman’s intricate words amounted to well-chewed, poorly digested, and then up-chucked monosyllables and gorilla grunts.
    “Awwwa-haw-wa-what?”
    And then, “!#@$%^&*! Who are you people? What do you want? And what in piss-awful, flaming-sheep-ass-stinking hell did you stick in my mouth?” said the victim, an eighteen year old kid, his mouth now freed and in full command of young unfettered speech.
    “We’re writers, son,” replied Walter gently. “And no need to get excited. You were out there jabbering in the cafe, flirting with the young ladies, taking up space, breathing up literary air, and you haven’t actually purchased anything from the bookstore besides that cup of joe. You don’t like to read, do you? Not really ? ”
    “Huh?” said the victim. “What are you talking about? Are you people psychos? And are you going to untie me, or what? Look, I am gonna yell and call security—”
    “You do that and the tie goes right back in your mouth,” I said. “Enjoy sucking wool? Now then, here is the deal. Very simple, if I may say so myself. We are going to let you go, and we’ll accompany you back in there to the shelves where you will browse diligently for a reasonable quarter of an hour and then pick up a slim classic horror paperback with my name on the cover, and you will take it to the checkout and pay for it. Cash or credit is fine these days, I hear—though, debit is likely more prudent in this economy, seeing as you are going to have to take care of that scholastic loan eventually. Then, once you are paid up at the register,