How to Power Your Life-Support With a Lemon

Arthur Smith lives in Kent, London. He is not talented or smart or even handsome. But what Arthur does have going for him is stupidity. And it is this, and a curiously titled manual that spirals him into an adventure with a partner in Crime who couldn't be more of his opposite.

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3. Chapter Two

Arthur Smith walked slowly and proudly into the unnamed book store. Walking because he did not own a car nor did he know how to drive one; proudly because though the small derelict shanty house of a building was unnamed, Arthur very well knew it was a book store because of a cardboard sign he spied that hung in the windowpane. Arthur was perceptive like that.

 The sign had said in big, bold, misspelt letters “Bookstare!”

Through the old door, that was painted blue and seemed to unfairly scream at Arthur as it turned to open on its hinges, came a small man with stout legs who must have been about 5ft 4Inches and 20 years old. And who seemed to be wearing no shoes. He had small brown pants (with grey duct tape at the knees) and a leather jacket littered in small metal spikes. Any other man might have just jumped in sheer mortal terror at the bloke who sported a pair of bright pink sunglasses and a cinderblock jaw dappled with stray stubble! Arthur Smith did not. Arthur Smith was not any other man.

Arthur, being as he was though, idly let the strange looking block of muscle and cheap beer waddle by, ignoring the large highlighter green Mohawk that draped across the man’s otherwise relatively shiny head. Like a Native American Headdress mixed with mint chocolate ice-cream, he thought.

Arthur had of course by this point evidently become far too invested in looking at the blue door’s white frame, analysing it from top to bottom. But eventually chose to stop this task as he had ended up resisting a seething temptation to walk back home and retrieve his trusty oil can - the one he kept next to his umbrella stand just for the occasion when a door did decide to screech at him - because it was raining and Arthur was in slippers.

The book store was a quaint little item on the corner of nowhere in particular. It sat (not that it could move) next to a coffee shop.  That coffee shop decorated its windows with opening times, menus and occasionally the reflection of an old lady in a pink scarf. The coffee shop used to have an oversized cup on its roof, but this was removed due to an unfortunate accident involving a fat lady, a hyperactive raccoon and a small latte.

The Store Arthur was in was to his surprise relatively large on the inside. And, walking in, past the door and then by an old lady who was only just alive and who curiously beneath and between each of her many wrinkles, smelt vaguely of birthday cake, Arthur noticed something.

 

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