FORLORN Excerpt Chapt 7 "It Begins..."

...barking and barking.

It was now 5 p.m.
"Shingle in?" asked the penniless Deliverance-obsessed Matlock Alum.

There was a pause while the CMMDR struggled for an intake of breath.
Forming his whale spout of a mouth to groan a "Yes", he froze in mid blurt, struck silent by something on his
bookshelf. A GAP. The books were all lined
up, neat and ready. Untouched, Unread but ready. Ready for the day when, time permitting, the bloated self-stored caboose would actually take one
off the shelf and fox, cock and slightly soil it. But Rarely did he
read. In fact, The only thing he had slightly soiled recently was
his underwear after racing to answer the phone and hearing at the
other end that they were "going another way...with someone less
gruesome...." But never mind that: A GAP! One was missing. He knew
what the shelf should Look like. The density of how they were lined
up, by author and size and subject. And there, to his horror was a
gap. Between "Walks You'll Never Take" and "LOPE your way to
Success" there was a gap. A GAP! He turned. A struggle at the
best of times, but now, 5 p.m. after
a long day of nil his neck felt like Gwyneth Paltrow after swallowing
a bread stick. Stiff. Full. Gristled. A Slag pile.

He stared at his house guest. Guest? This was no guest, this was a
Zionist Deer Tick. He had prayed someone would come to his door and
yell "GIVE US BARRABAS!" But, No. The Jew that stayed. And stayed.
He'd made the mistake some ten years before of saying "sure, please,
for a night or two." which turned into a month or two and then a year
or two and now there were boxes and boxes of the blood sucking
vermin's shoes, clothes, books, erotic literature and worse: banjos.
BANJOS! My god, the CMMDR would rather go down on Neil Sedaka than
hear that out of tune inbred inbred twang. And the CRUMBS. It was
if the Ensign was attempting to eat food but missed his mouth. Whole
pretzels lying next to piles of tortilla chips next to sides.
SIDES.

And NOW THIS. Shylock Had taken a book.

But he couldn't just say "what ho, my hostile horned heeb....WHAT DID YOU
TAKE?." He had to catch him. If Buster Bran wanted to play cat
and mouse, so be it. "Hmmm" began the spare tire, rubbing the two
hairs left on his head in an imitation of a human
thought...."So...Read any books that don't belong to you lately?"....