Joe Prosit

Something Wet This Way Cums

The peddler always sold lightning rods on Mondays. He waited till Tuesdays to sell books. Yet, here he was with a big trunk full of them. The curator didn’t appreciate the break in the routine. 

“You know the rules of The New Ways. No hats indoors,” the curator reminded him as she sat behind her desk.

“My apologies.” He grinned and doffed his porkpie hat. He was sweating. Ill-at-ease. A little too eager to get to business. 

“So, what do you have for the Museum of The Old Ways today?” the curator asked.

“Books,” the peddler said. 

“But today is Monday,” the curator said. “Why the deviation from our standard schedule?”

“Well… They’re… um… They’re different than my usual inventory, and I knew you’d want to see them right away,” the peddler said.

“Well. No need to stand on formality then. Show me,” the curator said.

Still unnerved, the peddler opened his large case and set a paperback book on the desk before her. 

All Horny on the Western Front, the cover read. 

Now, the curator didn’t read the books of The Old Ways, but she was familiar with their titles, and there was something off about this one. 

“I have more. Lots more,” the peddler said and spread three additional books across the desk.

The curator read the titles carefully, critically. From left to right, they were Frankenshaft, The Catcher and The Pitcher in the Rye, and Dr. Jackoff and Missus Thighs. 

“What… um… What exactly are you trying to peddle here, book peddler?” the curator asked.

“Well, you see, the publisher had a vandal in their employ. And, this vandal, he was able to… um… alter some of the covers before they went to print,” the peddler said. “But, as the curator of the Museum of The Old Ways, you are obligated to accept many things that no longer reflect the values of our New Ways. After all, book banning is poor form and altogether a social faux pas.” 

“We ban nothing from the Museum of The Old Ways,” the curator said. “But we do curate what is in our collection. And these…”

“I have others,” the peddler said. 

On top of the growing pile, he added Brave New Whore, One Spunked Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Naked Lunch. 

“This one,” he tapped on the cover of the last book, “is actually unaltered. I guess the vandal couldn’t figure out how to make this one any more lurid than it already is.” 

“Or, rest assured, peddler. We are quite aware of that book,” the curator said. “And inside the covers?”

“Unaltered. The words are just as they were originally published. This one here?” He pointed at a copy of Moby Thicc. “It’s Moby Dick. Word for word, just as Melville wrote it.” 

“And, dare I ask, Little Philipino Ladyboys?”

“Little Women,” the peddler answered. “Some of these are pretty obvious. Wurthing Dikes is actually Wurthing Heights. The Lion The Bitch and The Dominatrix is, of course, The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe…”

 “And you want me to purchase these for the museum?” the curator said.

“Well, see, the publisher is struggling financially, reading not really en vogue at the moment, and well, if I can’t move these books…”

“The financial well-being of a publisher incapable of controlling their employees is no business of mine, peddler,” the curator said.

“Don’t say no. Not yet. I haven’t even shown you Missionary on the Orient Express. The cover art, I have to say, is done very tastefully,” the peddler said. “And here’s A Tale of Two Titties. You can hardly notice the difference.”

“And I suppose you’d have me pass Weiner-in-the-Pooh as the classic children’s storybook?”

“Never mind that one. It’s a picture book, and well, this vandal was a bit of an artist,” the peddler said. “And Charlie in the Scat Factory. And Incest Family Robinson.”

“Sir. The Museum of The Old Ways will not be purchasing any of these books,” the curator said firmly.

“My good lady. I didn’t want to bring you these titles,” the peddler said. “I know the high standards by which we hold ourselves in The New Ways. I know this is unbecoming of both me as a book dealer–”

“Peddler,” the curator corrected.

“–and you as a curator. But some of these books, the unaltered content is just as vile as these titles. You already have The Left Hand of Darkness on display. Is it such a breach of decorum to shelve The Left Handjob of Darkness next to it?”

“Peddler. Just because we have books on our shelves does not mean individuals should pick them up and read them,” the curator said. 

“Atlas Subbed then? The original work is–”

“Sir. This entire conversation is wholly absurd. Do you have any excuse for this behavior? Has someone put you up to this?”

“Actually, if I may be truthful…” The peddler leaned over the array of vulgar titles spread across the desk and whispered, “There are entities watching this very interaction. They’ve always been watching. Since the dawn of human existence, they’ve been watching. And yes, they sent me here, with these books, in hopes of getting them into circulation.”

“So the vandal–”

“I lied. There is no vandal. These books didn’t come from my usual publisher,” the peddler said.

“And these Watchers…?”

“They’ve grown bored with us as of late,” the peddler said. “The New Ways don’t satisfy their rather decadent tastes, and this is their way of injecting some of The Old Ways back into our modern, more civil society.”

“Well, you can understand my objections. I will have no part in soiling our New Ways with this… with this smut,” the curator said.

“Just one? If I walk out of this museum having not moved a single copy–”

“Your dealings with these Watchers is not my business,” the curator said. “How you got involved with such people–”

“They are not people. And believe me when I tell you that I leave here with all of these books, they will liquify me into a puddle the moment I step back into the daylight,” the peddler said.

The curator searched his eyes for signs of deceit, of tomfoolery, of a misplaced sense of humor. She found none. Nevertheless, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. There is simply no place for Lord of the Cock Rings or To Cuck a Mockingbird or The Money Shot of Dorian Gray in our collection. And now, sir, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Please. Just one. I’m telling you, if I leave here with all these books, a laser beam will come down from the sky and melt me into goo before I can cross the parking lot. Just… Just…” 

He shuffled through the mound of books, searching for perhaps the least objectionable of them all. His hands came up clasping a copy of Fahrenheit 469.

“Please,” he begged.

“If I take that book from you, will you leave? And take the rest of this filth with you?” 

“I doubt one book will be enough to appease them,” the peddler said.

“One book is already far too many by my count,” the curator said. “But if it will make you go away.”

***

For the rest of the day, the curator did her best to forget all about the exchange. And she was fairly successful. It wasn’t until the end of the workday that she returned to her office and saw the copy of Fahrenheit 469 resting on her desk. As she gathered her things, she picked up the book, determined to bring it home and throw it in the incinerator. 

On her way out, she cracked the cover. The first line intrigued her, so she read the next. By the time she pushed through the front doors of The Museum of The Old Ways and stepped into the sunlight, she was so engrossed, she almost slipped and fell on a wet spot. Luckily, she caught her balance. 

Unbecoming, being so distracted, she decided. The curator tucked the book away for further examination and study after she got home.