"I AM TELLING THE TRUTH," the man said, folding his arms across his heavy chest.
He glanced up at the book with a thick red paperback and shook his hairless head. "You won't read that now, will you?"
The seventy-something or more similar books were neatly stacked away on a private shelf. It was a large hall boasting the collection of unholy gore of books. Usually, on a gloomy day, especially on a Tuesday morning, literate gents would have zero interest in satiating their minds with tales and myths of demons and their vanquishing. Fewer men would be more drawn to reading books that centred on the world's politics, economic resource state stratification, & C & C. Fewer still would starve the visitor of their undivided attention. Thirty-year-old Rochester D. Blenntmort, peering contentedly at the pages in front of him, pulled out his eyes to look at his private investigator, hoping for some better information.
