The Curse of the Obelisk by Ron Goulart, Swarhole

By Ron Goulart, Swarhole

Booklet by means of Ron Goulart

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From the mid-morning air he plucked a bottle containing a model of a full-rigged clipper ship. " inquired the sour-faced little fellow as he accepted the gift with sticky hands. "For you, dear lady . " A bouquet of yellow roses appeared in his gloved hand. Bowing, he presented them to her. "Oh, monsieur. I am quite . . " "And well you should be, dear Albertine. " He tipped his bowler, which was the color of green tree moss. " Bowing again, he then went hurrying and clanging down the stairs. The uniformed conductor helped him to the sidewalk and handed him his plump portmanteau.

Six miles outside of . . " The middle-aged countess rolled over on her ample back. " Swinging free of the wide fourposter, he hurried to the purple ottoman on which he'd neatly stacked his clothes the night before. "Schamgefuhl . . I see a sign bearing that melodious name. " "Well, yes, Lolo, but no one goes there anymore," she answered. " "A good three hundred miles to the south, Lolo, not far from the border. " "To call someone in Schamgefuhl? " He was nearly dressed, struggling with his final shirt stud.

Pennoyer let his monocle pop free and caught it in his palm. "Simple, old thing. Visited Maurice Allegre yesterday and he—" "That nitwit wasn't supposed to tell anyone about—" "But, I say, Challenge. " He began polishing the lens on his silk pocket handkerchief. "I mean to say, I'm a highly esteemed amateur archaeologist. I did, afterall, finance the whole bloody, you'll forgive my coarse lingo, expedition to the Valley of Jackals. Continually doing that sort of thing, don't you know. Entire Pennoyer clan filthy rich.

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The Curse of the Obelisk by Ron Goulart, Swarhole
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