THE AUTHORING AUCTIONEER

They are trinket-like creatures, disguising their true and hellish nature within cutesy forms such as cowboy boots, antique cars, historical busts, and fluffy animals.  Their scents are overpowering, for within their bodies lies not blood, but an eau de cologne sprung from the very depths of hell.  They lurk in attics, in basements, huddled together in cardboard boxes in which their loathsome aromas amass like an army of doom that will charge upon any unsuspecting victim who happens to open their long forgotten crypt.

And when that poor, hapless person is attacked by the horrible ether of these miniature monsters, delusions abound.  Indeed, he who opened that innocent looking box to discover its contents is overtaken by an idea that is ludicrous… impossible… but the smell is so dizzying, so mind numbing that he picks up his phone and dials…

I answer the call with my normal salutations.  The man on the other end of the receiver seems a zombie.  His speech is slow.  His words come at an effort.  Finally, I understand the source of his delirium when he says, “I found some Avon bottles and I was wondering if you’d be interested.”

I shriek like a B-Movie heroine and cry out, “No!  NO!  Stay away!  Stay away from me!”  And then I pass out.

Okay.  So maybe I don’t scream and feint, but try to explain in a calm manner that Avon bottles are worthless and that I wouldn’t be interested in them.  Indeed, they are virtually unsellable… Virtually because on a lucky day, one might be able to get a dollar for two or three thousand of them.  Certainly, Avon is merely an acronym standing for ”all very odorous nothing.”

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