Hell Hath No Fury (like a woman scorned)

Reknowned amongst many a knowledge-seeker was once a vast and amazing resource that existed in a quaint farm-town. The 'library', as it was called, was a place less-frequented than one might imagine of something with such potential to enlighten. In fact—one might go as far as to say that some sections of its labrynth of shelves had not been visited in ages. Among these was the Comedy section. You see; the demographics of the town left a black rift in the area of humor, and it was also at the far reaches of the facility. The shadows were all that kept the Comedy section books company, and they learned to thrive in their darkness and with their peace. The Book of Truth would oft become part of the noonday scatter of in-house readings. It had a bold, valiant title that did all but scream "READ ME" and so it was, read and read and read. Each day it would pass the Comedy section as the Librarian, Clisha, carted it back to its position among the 'Popular' shelf, and each day it would shout to the Comedy section books in its own regal heralding "Why, hello comedy section! I've just been read by hundreds of good citizens, as have my popular shelf comrades. Fear not though, for I will share with you the happenings of my day and brighten yours." With an underlying emotion that was unreadable to The Book of Truth—the Comedy Section would timidly accept, and each day the Book of Truth would boisterously inform them of all the brilliant and majestic clients that would come in and read the fortunate books of the popular section. To the Shallow, a thick novel on a River Murderer would often remain aloof from the moving cart. Day after day passed and the Comedy Section became used to the adjustment of hearing the magnificent tales of The Book of Truth. One fateful day there was a shelf cleaning; and the Comedy Section regarded strange happenings that were now visible from their bleak corner-shelf.

There were no citizens, there were no library regulars. The books of the Popular section were strewn across a rainbow table for the resident mongoloid, "Eg Olover" (Ed Oliver. He had a strange manner of speaking). The retard would touch the books with saliva-soaked hands until his heart's content, treating them all as if they were his own children. There was no wave of amusement from the comedy section.
The Book of Truth, majestic and glorious as ever, looked upon the books of the comedy section and he read their humble titles for the first time; and they were all of a volume titled 'Facade'.

At this very moment, the Library retard witnessed Clisha, the librarian, spill the contents of the cart and he screamed. Clisha turned to him with a sullen smile, "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt them." He responded in his own peculiar lisp, "Cleeshay? Onwy To the Shallow minded."



-- F.W, I.R