Home > Royer's Madcap Experiences > Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Very Small Lion Statue

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Very Small Lion Statue

By Ric Royer
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“And Mama was saying just last night,” said Myrna while filing her nails, “that she didn’t think this office was a proper place for a young girl wearing sweaters to work.  What with these undesirable people coming and going all day and you swearing at me all the time.”

“Shut up,” I said, thoughtlessly.

“No, sir.  She just didn’t think this was suitable at all.”  She put down the emery board.

“Shut up,” I said again.

She stared at me.

“Shut up,” I repeated.  I went into my office but came back out shortly thereafter and told her to shut up again even though she wasn’t talking.

Moments later, a man wearing a tiny tie burst in.  I had been pouring water on my typewriter for reasons unclear to me.

“You’ve got to help me Mr. Roysticks!  A man in a green mask just broke into my apartment and made off with an exceedingly valuable but very small statue of a lion.”

In unison, we huffed it down the three flights of stairs to the street.  Within moments, we pulled up outside the building.  It was a curious structure of indeterminate age.  Several of the lower floor windows had been boarded over with oddly-stained wood.  Yet, there was a doorman.  He held the elevator for us.

“I was just lying in bed reading the latest Dean T. Pibbs* novel, when suddenly I heard a loud clatter in the kitchen,” explained the little man, as the lift began its ascent.  “At first, I thought it might be the island maid who comes in every once in awhile.  But then the green-masked man appeared.  I screamed, I admit, in a girlish way but the man ignored me and made a beeline for the bureau where I keep the very small lion statue.  I can’t impart to you its value Mr. Roysticks, it’s priceless really.”

“We’ll settle it all out,” I assured him.  I knew we wouldn’t though.  I could feel it.  Plus, I had no idea what the hell was going on.

He opened the apartment door.  It was a comfortable but ascetic little place, three rooms painted in pale yellow with orange molding.  There was a framed poster of a cat on one wall.

“Well, perhaps you can find some clues, Mr. Roysters.”

I nosed around a bit and the little man didn’t follow me.  In the kitchen, I found a tin of saltines and began eating noisily.  When I thought enough time had passed, I came back out into the living room.  The little man was straightening the cat poster for reasons unclear.

“Nope.  Nothing.”  He looked disappointed.  “No question, this was a professional job.”

He began crying.  I was worried I might have to smack him around a bit but he got a handle on it.

“Well, OK,” he said.

“Oh, OK.”

“So, the little lion is…”

“It’s gone, right.  Forever.”


I left by the back stairs.

*Editor’s Note: Popular Lankville author of terrorist attack novels.

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