| | Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk
Yesterday evening a feeble, weary Quirk waddled out of the village's wee public library, with splendid plunder. Cautiously, she leaned against the wall, examining the street.
"Trust no one, " her plastic bag said.
Indeed, the library was crowded and the a/c did not cool, but why be petty, when on a folding table in the narrow hall, hundreds of books were up for adoption?
Our tiny library will shortly be moving to a grand abode, and to do it properly and enter the new residence with style, they're shooing away all the crippled, old books. Books that no one wants. No one, but a few mad quirks.
I had to arm wrestle a woman to win Conrad's Victory. I kicked a man's ankle, just to cause a slight distraction and stealthily sneak Anatole France's Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard, into my sleeve. This last operation was slightly difficult, though, due to my sleeveless tank top.
Still, who's counting?
Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk was a crime of passion, and for that I imagine that in some countries I wouldn't even have to do time.
A 1968 edition of Around the World in Eighty Days, solely for its hilarious cover, featuring an illustrated scene from what the front page refers to as "a movie extravaganza."
I stood silent for a long moment, reflecting with a 1958 edition of David Howarth's We Die Alone cradled next to my heart. I must have shed a million tears over this book, perhaps more, as a child.
A weary copy of Hardy's Mayor of Casterbridge was also rescued from an unfortunate future in the grinder; and the list goes on.
The village's librarian, a woman in her early sixties, with whom the Quirk has a strong alliance, helped disguize the rescued books as trash, throwing them into a huge plastic bag. The Quirk, a woman with some sense of style, didn't even blink. She was a woman on a mission, and actions speak louder than words and really, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, not to mention that people who live in glass houses should never cast stones. Really. It's unhealthy.
The Quirk saw Bob. Bob saw the Quirk. There was a long silent moment and a strong sense of the bond between them. That moment passed. and after that, everything happened so fast, that it could fit perfectly into a 30 sec. commercial, and have enough time for credits. A red beat up Hunda raced around the corner, breaking abruptly not half a centimeter before the Quirk's feet. A small blonde with an annoying tan jumped out of the car, while inside all hell broke loose. Four funky midgets in the back seat gave way to exhilaration while the sturdy blonde grabbed the Quirk's arm and dragged her over to Bob.
Thus begins chapter Two, Quirks, which we shall name:
The Abduction.
Leaning against Bob's steering wheel, the brave Quirk shivered like a sick leaf, while the blonde, snickering, interrogated her sans mercy. "What's in the bag, Quirk?" the woman repeatedly asked.
The Quirk bit her lips and knew, deep in her heart, that if she doesn't meet a loo soon, she will experience a deja vous all over again, from that time when she was four and mommy was late to pick her up. Alright, alright, I'll tell you, stop pestering me! the brave Quirk said. She knew that blonde. She knew that if this woman ever finds out what the platic bag contained, it will all be over in a splash. "
It's pasta, dude. Home. Made. Pasta," the fearless Quirk said, while the woman, tough cookie that she is, kicked the bag.
Only Quirks can hear the heartbreaking squeak hurt books squack. [shutup!]
The Quirk's heart missed a beat, while her mind raced. One of these books will undoubtedly need some stitches, a single gray cell said.
"Ahhhh, pastaaarrrrrr...good! We're in luck! " the vicious woman said. "Start your engine, Quirk. We're embarking on a journey you will never forget," she said. "Around the village in eighty seven secs."
It was late when the Quirk was set free. Some of her books were not as lucky. The blonde took one look at the quirk's plastic bag and within a fraction of a light year confiscated the creme de la creme.
Evil witch, that Iris is.
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