Wesley Tickle's 20th Century Bookstore

Wesley arrived to find the lock jammed with glue again.  Third time this month he had to stand outside waiting for the locksmith while passers-by eyed him with contempt, some unable to hide their glee at the circumstance he found himself in.  The literature he sold was not as tolerated as it had been in the past.  Each day brought a new spell of paranoia and fear. 

Finally the locksmith came and let Wesley into his store. 

--It’s a bad business you’re in these days, the locksmith told him.  Go digital.  It’s safer in the long run.

Inside, the books were just as nervous as Wesley.  On a display of classic novels at the front, two books that by sheer coincidence both began with the letter L, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Last Exit to Brooklyn, had been bemoaning the shop’s ill-fated predicament ever since Wesley placed them next to each other about a week before.

--I really thought we’d fixed things, but evidently not, said Last Exit to Brooklyn.  This new century really has it in for us.

--Which one of us do you think they’ll come for first? asked Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

--You, for sure, said Last Exit to Brooklyn.  You are much smuttier than me.

--Far from it.  I have eroticism on my side.  You are notoriously violent, not to mention all that misogyny.  They’ll have your guts for garters.

On a shelf nearby, Ulysses overheard their conversation, and sniffed confidently.  Ulysses was older now, gathering dust quietly, considerably dirtier than it ever let on to be.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover, who was just as old, shouted over to Ulysses: Don’t you get all high and mighty over there.  They’re coming for you too.

 As Wesley boxed up the last six copies of The Story of O for return, there was a loud crashing noise at the front, and he rushed to find the carpet on fire.  An improvised fire bomb of bottle and cloth had been hurled through the window.  Before he could think, another device had been thrown and the bestsellers on the shop wall were all lit up.

--Get the fuck out of here, Wesley, you stupid fucking fuck, yelled Tropic of Cancer in the back.

Wesley didn’t have time for tears.  Without even saying goodbye to his beloved books, he darted out the front door and ran and ran as far away as he could from the business he’d established and nurtured for more than thirty years.

They can burn every last one of us, said Last Exit to Brooklyn.  But they’ll never silence us.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover took a deep breath and said, submissively: Take me in your arms, Brooklyn, my dear, and let us burn together as one in the flame.

On the day Wesley Tickle’s 20^th Century Bookstore went up in a fiery blaze, digital companies the world over made huge profits with the release of a self-help book full of timeworn wisdom, edited significantly and re-cycled as a low-risk property.