DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Thing, whole no. 1, Spring 1946

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Thing, whole no. 1, Spring 1946

Page 19

has stabbed me in the back!"

"What an attractive back to stab!" said Mrs Sampson, being very, very arch, "And you'll never know the half of it!" chuckled Miss Lavivandiere, so cryptically what even she did not know what she meant.

Mrs Gray quivered in hearty appreciation of their delightful wit.  

"Nuts!" and Mr Pobbles, clearly and distinctly.  "Nuts!"  He raged out of the room, through the dining room, picked up the ravished case of Scotch and bore it to his den.

Once, before Mrs Pobbles' mother had come to stay for a week which lasted three years, it had been a comforting den.  It had and open fireplace and an imposing moosehead and twelve-inch trout which Mr Pobbles had caught (on a worm) and a lot of East Indian weapons which collected dust satisfyingly and made Mr Pobbles feel very mannish and proprietary when he invited his friends in for a spot of something after dinner while the ladies were upstairs tearing the neighbors into bloody fragments.  But all this had changed.  The sewing machine and the dress form made most of the difference. The took away he masculine air of the room.  Of course, the mothbags hanging from the tall bookcase didn't help, but at least they did not advertise their femininity quite so blatantly.  Mr Pobbles dashed a sewing basket (rather dusty), a stack of women's magazines (1935 to 1937) and something that might have been a hat (1938) from the center table and picked up the telephone.

He called Nadlheim and Liqua Man.  

"No sir," said Nadlheim the Liqua Man, "there ain't been no Duke of Argyll Scotch in these parts going on three years."

He called Jones' Drink Shop.

He called J.C. Phillip's Sons & Grandnephew, Inc.

He called Mannerhiem's, Cabot's, Pillsbury's and Lowell's.  

It was hopeless, they told him.  No, it wouldn't do him any good to offer fifty dollars a bottle for the stuff.  There wasn't any.

Lowell was very, very funny about it.  "Don't you know there's a war on?" he asked.

Mr Pobbles said, "Ha ha!"  Then he hung up.

Mr Pobbles sat in his dusty den and pitied himself.  Mona had certainly put him in a pretty pickle.  Galeano was a pusher, one of that delightful breed who should have been allowed to play around the quicklime vats in childhood.  If Mr Pobbles didn't get Galeano what he wanted from the ration board--and Mr Pobbles had no intention of giving him one ounce more consideration that any other citizen--Galeano would get even.  He would spread the story of the Duke of Argyll Scotch all over town--how Mr Pobbles took presents and then showed himself an ingrate.  Mr Pobbles admitted to himself that he cared quite a bit what the neighbors thought of him.  He also told himself--and this was true, too--that he cared even more what he thought of himself. Mona had made him feel like a sneak.

To ease his feelings, Mr Pobbles took all the feminine accessories out of the den and slammed them into the kitchen.  The dress form, he was happy to note, acquired a libellous dent in the process.  When the tall yellow vase with the purple asters all over it splintered under the sink, Mona began rapping on the study door.
 
"We're having sush-sush-sush a good time, darling," she said.  "Why'n'tcha come 'n' have a li'l drink wiz us?"

"You," said Mr Pobbles viciously, "may go to Tophet."

"Where?" asked Mrs Pobbles.

"Tophet," said Mr. Pobbles, speaking very distinctly.  "Valhalla, Avernus, Gehenna! take your choice.  Adn if you put any more female slop into my den, you'd better give it up as lost."

"But, darling!"

"Get those old bags out of my house!" snarled Mr Pobbles, hopping the words carried, "and then go to work to replace those two bottles you stole."

19

Saving...

has stabbed me in the back!" "What an attractive back to stab!" said Mrs Sampson, being very, very arch, "And you'll never know the half of it!" chuckled Miss Lavivandiere, so cryptically what even she did not know what she meant. Mrs Gray quivered in hearty appreciation of their delightful wit. "Nuts!" and Mr Pobbles, clearly and distinctly. "Nuts!" He raged out of the room, through the dining room, picked up the ravished case of Scotch and bore it to his den. Once, before Mrs Pobbles' mother had come to stay for a week which lasted three years, it had been a comforting den. It had and open fireplace and an imposing moosehead and twelve-inch trout which Mr Pobbles had caught (on a worm) and a lot of East Indian weapons which collected dust satisfyingly and made Mr Pobbles feel very mannish and proprietary when he invited his friends in for a spot of something after dinner while the ladies were upstairs tearing the neighbors into bloody fragments. But all this had changed. The sewing machine and the dress form made most of the difference. The took away he masculine air of the room. Of course, the mothbags hanging from the tall bookcase didn't help, but at least they did not advertise their femininity quite so blatantly. Mr Pobbles dashed a sewing basket (rather dusty), a stack of women's magazines (1935 to 1937) and something that might have been a hat (1938) from the center table and picked up the telephone. He called Nadlheim and Liqua Man. "No sir," said Nadlheim the Liqua Man, "there ain't been no Duke of Argyll Scotch in these parts going on three years." He called Jones' Drink Shop. He called J.C. Phillip's Sons & Grandnephew, Inc. He called Mannerhiem's, Cabot's, Pillsbury's and Lowell's. It was hopeless, they told him. No, it wouldn't do him any good to offer fifty dollars a bottle for the stuff. There wasn't any. Lowell was very, very funny about it. "Don't you know there's a war on?" he asked. Mr Pobbles said, "Ha ha!" Then he hung up. Mr Pobbles sat in his dusty den and pitied himself. Mona had certainly put him in a pretty pickle. Galeano was a pusher, one of that delightful breed who should have been allowed to play around the quicklime vats in childhood. If Mr Pobbles didn't get Galeano what he wanted from the ration board--and Mr Pobbles had no intention of giving him one ounce more consideration that any other citizen--Galeano would get even. He would spread the story of the Duke of Argyll Scotch all over town--how Mr Pobbles took presents and then showed himself an ingrate. Mr Pobbles admitted to himself that he cared quite a bit what the neighbors thought of him. He also told himself--and this was true, too--that he cared even more what he thought of himself. Mona had made him feel like a sneak. To ease his feelings, Mr Pobbles took all the feminine accessories out of the den and slammed them into the kitchen. The dress form, he was happy to note, acquired a libellous dent in the process. When the tall yellow vase with the purple asters all over it splintered under the sink, Mona began rapping on the study door. "We're having sush-sush-sush a good time, darling," she said. "Why'n'tcha come 'n' have a li'l drink wiz us?" "You," said Mr Pobbles viciously, "may go to Tophet." "Where?" asked Mrs Pobbles. "Tophet," said Mr. Pobbles, speaking very distinctly. "Valhalla, Avernus, Gehenna! take your choice. Adn if you put any more female slop into my den, you'd better give it up as lost." "But, darling!" "Get those old bags out of my house!" snarled Mr Pobbles, hopping the words carried, "and then go to work to replace those two bottles you stole." 19