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

Transcribe
Translate

Thing, whole no. 1, Spring 1946

Page 20

"Aw, don't be sore, darling!" Mrs Pobbles made quite a speech in justification of her actions.
Mr Pobbles made no reply. Firm in his indignation, safe behind his locked doors, he let her argue. Soon she got tired and went away. The clack of the bridge party was resumed. 
Mr Pobbles found a gun cloth and started to polish the little bronze lamp.
"That's enough," said a cheery voice. "You don't have to rub it very hard."
Mr Pobbles looked up. Sitting across from him, on the other side of the fireplace, was a round little man with a snub nose and rosy checks. His head was almost bald and his blue eyes seemed to have sparks behind them.
"Take it easy," said the stranger. "If you rub it too much it tickles me and tickling makes me giggle."
"Who in Tophet are you?" asked Mr Pobbles.
"Oh, I'm the slave of the lamp, come to you direct from the mountain of Kaf. Surely you've heard about me."
Mr Pobbles put down the lamp and gulped rapidly, once, twice, thrice. "You mean that this green thing here was once Aladdin's lamp?" Mr Pobbles held on to his chair very hard and wondered about his sanity.
"Aladdin? Aladdin?" The little man seemed to be trying hard to remember. "Wasn't he an Arab who lived about eight hundred years ago?" He sat down and apparently extracted a stogie from thin air. "Sure, that's right. It's beginning to come back to me. I built him a couple of palaces and got him a nifty wife. Yes, it's coming back to me. I've been bust on so many other jobs since-- for Galileo, da Vinci, Pastour, Edison, and the rest of the boys- that Aladiin had slipped my mind."
Mr Pobbles was trying to adjust himself. "You don't look right for a genie," he objected.
"Djinn," corrected the little man. "Why, how did you expect me to look?"
"Like a column of smoke that pours out of the lamp and gradually takes a horrible shape in the air above my head."
"In this day and age?" laughed the djinn. "I'd never get any clothes to fit me. Of course, I can appear in any form you want and if you want me as smoke, say the word, but I hope you won't. There's so much carbon monoxide around nowadays that it gets mixed in with the smoke and makes me sleepy."
"Never mind, never mind," said Mr Pobbles. "Stay just as you are. I like you this way. You look like a good member of the Chamber of Commerce and a member of the Elks."
"Masons," said the djinn. "The other boys and I built Somon's temple, you may recall, after we polished off the pyramids."
"I do believe I read something about it," said Mr Pobbles. "By the way, what do I call you?"
"Slave," said the djinn. "That's all. Slave. Now, what's the good word? Name the job and consider it done."
"More than anything else," said Mr. Pobbles. "I want two bottles of Duke and Argyll sixteen-year-old Scotch whiskey, so I can send a full case back to Pete Galeano."
The opposite chair was empty.
"Gosh!" said Mr. Pebbles.
The opposite chair was full again. The slave sat there, his hands empty and his expression doleful.
"I'm sorry," he said. "There isn't any."
"None at all?"
"None at all. The distillery and warehouse were wiped out in 1941, during the Battle of Britian. Now every bit of stock all over the world has been cleaned up. You have the last ten bottles of Duke of Argyll Scotch in existence."

Saving...

"Aw, don't be sore, darling!" Mrs Pobbles made quite a speech in justification of her actions. Mr Pobbles made no reply. Firm in his indignation, safe behind his locked doors, he let her argue. Soon she got tired and went away. The clack of the bridge party was resumed. Mr Pobbles found a gun cloth and started to polish the little bronze lamp. "That's enough," said a cheery voice. "You don't have to rub it very hard." Mr Pobbles looked up. Sitting across from him, on the other side of the fireplace, was a round little man with a snub nose and rosy checks. His head was almost bald and his blue eyes seemed to have sparks behind them. "Take it easy," said the stranger. "If you rub it too much it tickles me and tickling makes me giggle." "Who in Tophet are you?" asked Mr Pobbles. "Oh, I'm the slave of the lamp, come to you direct from the mountain of Kaf. Surely you've heard about me." Mr Pobbles put down the lamp and gulped rapidly, once, twice, thrice. "You mean that this green thing here was once Aladdin's lamp?" Mr Pobbles held on to his chair very hard and wondered about his sanity. "Aladdin? Aladdin?" The little man seemed to be trying hard to remember. "Wasn't he an Arab who lived about eight hundred years ago?" He sat down and apparently extracted a stogie from thin air. "Sure, that's right. It's beginning to come back to me. I built him a couple of palaces and got him a nifty wife. Yes, it's coming back to me. I've been bust on so many other jobs since-- for Galileo, da Vinci, Pastour, Edison, and the rest of the boys- that Aladiin had slipped my mind." Mr Pobbles was trying to adjust himself. "You don't look right for a genie," he objected. "Djinn," corrected the little man. "Why, how did you expect me to look?" "Like a column of smoke that pours out of the lamp and gradually takes a horrible shape in the air above my head." "In this day and age?" laughed the djinn. "I'd never get any clothes to fit me. Of course, I can appear in any form you want and if you want me as smoke, say the word, but I hope you won't. There's so much carbon monoxide around nowadays that it gets mixed in with the smoke and makes me sleepy." "Never mind, never mind," said Mr Pobbles. "Stay just as you are. I like you this way. You look like a good member of the Chamber of Commerce and a member of the Elks." "Masons," said the djinn. "The other boys and I built Somon's temple, you may recall, after we polished off the pyramids." "I do believe I read something about it," said Mr Pobbles. "By the way, what do I call you?" "Slave," said the djinn. "That's all. Slave. Now, what's the good word? Name the job and consider it done." "More than anything else," said Mr. Pobbles. "I want two bottles of Duke and Argyll sixteen-year-old Scotch whiskey, so I can send a full case back to Pete Galeano." The opposite chair was empty. "Gosh!" said Mr. Pebbles. The opposite chair was full again. The slave sat there, his hands empty and his expression doleful. "I'm sorry," he said. "There isn't any." "None at all?" "None at all. The distillery and warehouse were wiped out in 1941, during the Battle of Britian. Now every bit of stock all over the world has been cleaned up. You have the last ten bottles of Duke of Argyll Scotch in existence."