Monday, October 22, 2007
Julie rang through to Harold’s office. The sales of books and antiquities increased in autumn and the winter months, due to the innate nesting instinct of people who hadn’t really evolved that far from just burrowing into a pile of furs and sleeping the winter out.
“Do we have a copy of the ‘Necronomicon’?”
Harold frowned and tabbed into his stock control program. His current game of ‘Apocalypse’ was still running in the background: a glance at the status panel at is flashed past revealed the success of his hell hounds against the Cherubim. It was less of a game, to his mind, than a future outcome analysis.
He typed in Necronomicon and saw that they had two copies in stock; one a facsimile constructed by John the imp and a second, subtly altered one. He picked up the telephone. “Who wants it?” he asked.
Julie flipped open some documentation. “It’s a Mr. Herbert P Lovecraft,” she said. “He’s mortally challenged.”
“Tell him to come back on Tuesday,” said Harold, marking the altered copy for retrieval from the stack. The prospective buyer used to be a writer, and Harold was damned if he was going to give him a real one.
He’d forgotten he was damned already.