A Little Literary Turbulence|(Open) INACTIVE

For once the weather was rather pleasant, at least it would seem that way to most people. But to Richard the weather today was to be regarded with the atmost disdain. The stifling, sickening perfume of flowers, the incessant twittering of birdsong and the laughter of youngsters...it was enough to make his skin crawl.

He sought solace in a nearby bookshop, the door slamming shut behind him as he entered. Having muttered something uncouth to satisfy his displeasure at the architecture of the place, Richard began to browse the shelves. He was a great admirer of works from bygone years, classic novels as well as works of nonfiction, and as such soon found himself in that particular aisle of the shop. A book had just sprung into his mind which he found himself seized with the stong desire to purchase, amazed that he hadn't thought to buy or even read it before.

Eventually he found it and, with a nasty little grin, he used his good hand to tug it from it's place on the shelf.

The Prince, by Niccolò Machiavelli.

It was just as he was about to turn and head for the counter when he found himself confronted with what could only be one of the bookshop's clerks, judging by his appearance and the question he had posed.

“Are you finding everything that you hope to acquire in your searches today?”

The speaker didn't seem to ask the question cheerfully, in fact he seemed almost scornful. Richard could have grinned; it seemed he wasn't the only one at odds with the world today, but decided against it since the mocking tone had clearly been directed at him and not the songbirds outside.

"As a matter of fact, I am," Richard replied, giving the speaker a critical once over from beneath his aviators. A bit scruffy. "How much would you like for this particular book?"

ooc: Hahaha! XD Edward's little bit of mischief made me laugh aloud! Let's see how Richard will react, shall we?

bic: “I believe we’re proposing a price of eight dollars for this particular edition. If sir is ready to proceed with his purchase, sir can find our check out to be located towards the front of the shop.”

Richard held back a grimace. Where had the 'sir's come from all of a sudden? Doubtless the young man must have recognized him, probably from the newspapers. It was difficult for Richard to decide whether the man was taking a jibe at him or not; he didn't seem to be acting in a particullarly obsequious manner as was usual with those of lower classes when the came in contact with him, yet there was something about his voice that sounded somewhat akin to that...was there, perhaps, the slightest shred of respect in that tone he'd used?

Richard guessed he'd imagined it. Despite his status, he didn't really have all that much respect. Probably because he scared everyone with a single command, rather than treating them with respect and therefore earning theirs.

He took the book back from the young man, pleased at the price. Edward was always complaining about how expensive books were and used it as an excuse not to spend his time reading any more but that was because he liked to be picky and order mint editions and import them from other states or even overseas.

Richard was just about to make his slow progress over to the counrer when the young man turned back to him, another book in his hand.

“If sir is interested in the Machiavelli, perhaps sir might enjoy a related volume?”

Richard could barely hold back a splutter of indignant laughter. The Little Prince...a related volume? And there he was thinking the man might have been treating him with a little deference. It now seemed he was one of those people who assumed all celebrities were complete dunderheads who only cared about how much money they had and how to show themselves in their best light.

Despite his renewed sense of disdain for the man before him, Richard had to admit his little gag was rather clever. Any ordinary person off the street (from what he knew and guessed of such people) would have doubtlessly thanked the man heartily and bought the pair of books without hesitation.

But not Richard. He liked to claim he knew his literature.

"I believe I have already read that one," he said, in an attempt at offhanded casualness. "When I was about seven years old."

He looked from The Little Prince to the clerks' face again, one eyebrow raised behind his glasses. Truth be told he was feeling quite pleased with that comeback. So pleased he thought, due to his unusual good humor, he might just buy the book after all and give it to George. It seemed like his sort of thing.

He nodded slowly, as if pondering the older gentleman’s statement, layered as it was with the possibility that juvenile novels could potentially be considered different from—or even lesser than—grown up works of paper and pen. Truthfully? The rhythmic motion of his head moving up, then down, then up again took just enough effort to keep him from bursting out laughing. Edward didn’t laugh much, but the expression on this politician’s face when presented with The Little Prince was sufficiently humourous to warrant a gleeful chortle, as it were. Yet just as the man had pretend he hadn’t been shocked by the suggestion, so he would need to pretend he had received no pleasure for it. Because a lost sale would be most unfortunate in this higher power forsaken economy.

Though there was the matter of the man realizing he was attempting to make a dunce out of him. Had to give him credit for that. Additionally, he’d managed to maintain his composure, and even produce a suitable retort. Young Leeford firmly believed intelligence was the key to sophisticated humour, and this patron at least appeared to have enough of one to warrant the other. It was so infrequent, so unfortunately sporadic when he was granted a chance to interact with someone witty, that he almost wished he could continue to chat with the man. Almost. There was still the cart to unload of its cargo, and the matter of tracking down the whoreson who had thrown books about so carelessly.

His calm undisturbed, the young man tapped one finger against the side of his mouth, before languidly replying, “I’ll take that as a ‘maybe’ that sir is interested in the book, then. If sir believes sir’s self ready to complete sir’s searching and purchase sir’s selections, sir can find the register near the entrance.” He intentionally stressed the word sir, though not nearly so much as to make it painfully or obviously so. Merely a little over-enunciation, a twinge of tongue-in-cheek courtesy. And why? Because the little reasons he had to be interested in the gentleman could not outweigh his all too self-important wit, despite however moderately keen as he was on this encounter. Or, to phrase it otherwise, when bleeding humanity begged “Why?”, Monks would shrug his shoulders, and retort, “Why not?”.

The clerk raised his hand in a vague salute, and added, “Should sir require any additional assistance, sir need only raise sir’s voice and pose his query, and I will be only too happy to oblige.” Then, having bid the politician farewell, he turned to recommence the task of shelving, only to notice another customer. Smashing. A gorgeous day of the sort people are programmed to enjoy, yet here he was with all of the village seeking his assistance.

Though there was something…different about this man, in comparison to the other. Perhaps it was his relative youthfulness, or how Edward was virtually positive he was not as well known as the politician. Maybe it was the calm fatigue in his eyes that distinguished him from the proud, blue-eyed gentleman. No, no, he knew what it was—it was the bloody parrot sitting on the man’s shoulder, who had just quite articulately inquired about the self help section. His nerves couldn’t stand[/b] this sort of shock. GOD.

He could hardly comprehend the newcomer’s apology for his bird, since Monks was preoccupied with clapping a hand to his mouth, to slightly conceal the self-mutilation of his lips by his teeth. There was nothing calm or proud about him, unlike the men he was quite reluctant to call his companions: only fury and frustration, as usual, which soon passed, as usual. He slowly removed his hand, and examined the blood with dead eyes. Least he had a handkerchief, which he produced, and began to dab at his injuries.

“If you should chose to take your animal’s advice and find the self help section,” he commented without looking at the man, “it is located next to the biographies, auto and otherwise. If there is something else I could assist you in locating, then do not hesitate in asking.”

Like any woman in any century, Belladonna had an infallible remedy for cheering herself up. She read a book. By economizing on her expense account she found it possible to afford a tiny luxury now and then, and struck down with yet another unwholesome sickness, a biting horror was what she needed. After a modest meal, she thought it maybe time to return the last book she loaned from a little library she vaguely knew, and exchange for something fresh and just as bloodcurdling. She indulged in The Amitvylle Horror one more time as she slowly trudged up the street, long and ropethick hair trying to lift in the wind. But its gravity only let it gently tremble.

Hoping they'll have something new in, She thought with a hoping glint in her eye. I don't know if I wanna go for another Anne Rice this week.

Her delicate brows drew together as she pushed open the shop door with a little white hand, and without further word or look, she walked quietly in and let it close behind her. Pulling herself along in steady strokes that seemed resolute from boots that must have been at least half her own weight, the little woman darted away between two of the first bookcases as swiftly as a skimming swallow out on shimmering water. Hugging her last book to her chest, Belladonna turned her pale, pearl-like face around the directions of the Horror-genre aisle. Searching for the next thrill that would get her through the last of her latest malady.